Creativity

Strangely, I have been silent on this blog since my 4 wonderful days on an Arvon course, in the wilds of Shropshire. I think all 16 of us would agree, that creativity is incredibly exhausting, though also exhilirating, exciting and frustrating.



What I learnt....!



That there are a lot of unbelievably (scarily) talented writers who are not writing for money, but for pleasure. It seems a shame they can't share their skill with the world, but then, I mustn't assume that, just because that's what I want to do, it means everyone else does too.



Our tutors, one of whom had left three very young children at a busy time of year, the other who had chronic insomnia the entire time, were supremely talented people, who 'held' us, coaxed us and bullied us into doing things we didn't necessarily want to do (or even contemplated we COULD do). There was a lot of soul searching, tears and revelations. I felt this a compliment to them, that we would allow ourselves to show some of our inner feelings, perhaps repressed for years, because we felt safe in their hands, and in the hands of the group. I was pleased when they said we were one of the most together groups, that egos were left at the front door and we gelled well.



Since then, I have been writing like a demon, cracking on with my second book and now knowing what to do with my first to make it more publishable. So, not only was it rewarding as a writing experience, but I got some really practical help.



Christmas has inevitably got in the way of this gush of creativity, but I now feel far more optimistic that 2010 might just be my year (whatever that means).



Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to anyone who reads this. And thanks for putting up with my rants and often drivel for this last year.

Job applications

Ben is trying to apply for a job. He doesn’t care what job, anything will do, so you may think this should be easy. But, gone are the days when you saw an ad in a shop window, went in and introduced yourself, had a quick chat and the next day you were back in, working there.

Nowadays you have a hundred hurdles to jump, including seemingly endless application forms to fill out and on-line‘tests’ to pass, examples of which I am about to give you. These tests, it seems to me, are totally idiotic and unnecessary, as well as giving you a completely false impression of the applicant, because they allow no room for intelligent questions. I’m a bit baffled as to what they hope to achieve.

This is a ‘scenario’ test for a job in a petrol station shop.

‘A customer comes in and wants to buy a sandwich. Identify the best and worst course of action’:

Sell them a sandwich and say ‘Have a pleasant day’.
Refer them to a meal deal
Ask if they need anything else
Ask if they’d like to buy a chocolate bar as well.

It seems to me all four are fairly reasonable.

Next scenario:

‘You’ll be closing the store for the night in ten minutes and the last three donuts will have gone over their sell by date by tomorrow. What do you do (best & worst)?’
(This is a deeply serious situation, obviously)

Dispose of the donuts in the stores bin
Give the donuts to staff members
Offer the donuts at a discounted price to customers
Take the donuts home

Well I think the best answer (for the company) would be number 3 because they stand to make some money out of their half stale donuts. Only a moron would think that 2 and 4 were the best answers, but which would be the worst? And aren’t there policies for this sort of thing?

Last one:

‘You’re working the late shift and the store is locked to customers (which means you take cover behind a hatch, but can still remain selling to customers). A seemingly quite drunk person asks to buy a bottle of whisky. Best & worse’:

Sell the whisky
Refuse to sell the whisky
Refuse to acknowledge the person
Tell the person you’ve run out of whisky

Quite frankly, unless you enjoy being physically abused, options 2 and 3 are out of the question, and option 4 might be a little dodgy, so the right option is obvious. And which is the worst option? But again, surely you would get some training in how to deal with drunk people?

So that’s what you’re likely to have to expect (and there are many more questions) to get a job as a shop assistant in a petrol station.

Obviously, to work in a petrol station shop you also need to wear a uniform, so the application form asks you to tick your size. Have you ever seen XXXXL before? That’s one big mama!


Next up is the local Sports Centre.

Here, you are given a list of 20 questions, each of which describes four characteristics (all of them positive). You have to choose two; the one most and the one least like you.

Here is an example:

- punctual
- a good team player
- polite
- well motivated

Now, I may just be stupid, but it strikes me that if you are all of these things, but have to choose one which is least like you, you’re in a lose/lose situation. Is it better to be impolite, or habitually late? It all seems so ridiculous. Why can’t they just talk to you? Or devise a simpler, more useful test?

Job descriptions, too, have changed dramatically. The other day the local Subway shop was advertising for ‘sandwich artists’??????

It’s a mad mad world.

swimming news

I've just come back from a rather satisfying swim. The pool was relatively empty, and I was able to avoid any encounter with other swimmers. Always a relief. I still can't get over the combination of chlorine and the incredibly strong aftershave the lifeguards seem to douse themselves in, which always makes me want to wretch.

Anyway, I realised this swimming thing is beginning to get to me. I wrote a blog a while back about the etiquette of swimming; the main point of which was that, without cordoned off lanes, one has to invent ones own; and then stick with the precision of a nucleur missile to your chosen path.

Well, the other day, I experienced my first bout of real 'lane rage'.

This is what happened. I did a quick eagle like scan of any gaps in the lane situation. I spotted one and placed myself over the black line painted on the bottom of the pool, and began my forty lengths. I was just getting into my stride (around length 14, before then I just want to kill myself so that I never have to swim again), when I spied a potential interloper, eyeing my black line from the edge of the pool, assessing her chances of a takeover.

I sent her evil voodoo vibes, but she obviously didn't get it, because in she jumped and off she went. I was horrified. This was MY lane. To make matters worse, she made no attempt to veer off to avoid mowing me down, her powerful crawl creating a wake to rival a cross channel ferry. I got a large gulpful of disgusting pool water, which only increased my blood pressure further. As I coughed and sputtered, she made no attempt to apologise, just carried on careening down MY black line. God, I hate her. I actually wanted to kill her.

She was wearing a pair of goggles which must lead a double life on a ski slope. They were huge. And a dark blue swimming hat. The swimming look is not a good one. And it makes identification in the changing room difficult, if not impossible. I did a quick sweep when I had finished, but couldn't tell if the offender was the pretty young woman drying her hair with a red towel round her, or the older woman having a conversation with the cleaner about Venice (this conversation stemmed from the fact she was cleaning out the gutters which run across the floor - don't ask me what that has to do with Venice, but there must have been some subconscious connection for her). Or perhaps she was hiding in the showers, knowing the danger she was in. For 'lane rage' is not pretty.

Of course, I had no weapon, though a lashing with my goggles would sting. But I am not an overtly violent person (not because I'm kind, but because I'm too much of a coward) preferring to harbour evil thoughts inside. Instead of walking away with the smugness I usually feel after my swim (40 lengths, WOW, I'm impressed) I actually left with high blood pressure.

I really must stop caring quite so much.

Minger cards

For his 23rd birthday, Ben received a most entertaining gift. A set of 'minger cards'.

Now I know it's not very kind or very PC to laugh at people, but these were entertaining.

You may have heard of Top Trump cards, the cause of very many heated arguments in playgrounds across Britain, as swapping deals go tragically wrong and irate mothers complain bitterly that some nasty bully has conned their dear little innocent child into handing over his very best Top Trump to Connor, or Wayne, or whoever.

These cards feature items ranging from cars and airplanes, to footballers. They come with sets of statistics and you win them by beating your opponents statistic. I'm not actually sure of the rules, but do know I had several packs of confiscated Top Trump cards in my teacher's drawer when I cleared it out to start my new non teaching life.

'Minger cards' are cousins to these Top Trumps. As well as a photo of someone who is facially challenged (and sometimes bodily challenged as well) they have five ratings on each card in the following categories: Special Skill, Style, Odour, Ugly-o-meter and Minger power. Each category has a number after it. The rules state that 'the first player looks at the top card in his hand and chooses a rating to play. You call out the rating you want to use as you lay the card face up on the table. Your opponent looks at his corresponding first card and lays it down whilst disclosing his score. The highest rating wins and the winner takes the two cards that were played. The winner is the person who wins all the cards.' Not exactly rocket science.

What I want to know is how do you get the job of thinking of the descriptions for each category? What a great job! I want to do it.

Here are some examples. You'll have to imagine the photo.

There's Emma Biggits, whose special skill is 'uncertain blinking' and whose odour is 'cake'; and Cath 'Freaky Cath' Brown whose special skill is 'weasel hunting', her style is roadwork warnings and her odour is 'gin'. Other odours are badger bait, drip tray, wet mittens and train tickets. Lucy Plug's special skill is 'counting to ten'.

The categories 'ugly-o-meter' and 'minger power' do not have a description, just a rating number.

There's one thing that puzzles me. Who agrees to pose for the photos? And would it be possible to be flicking through them and find your own face peering back at you with a caption for special skills such as 'benefit defrauding'.

Anyway, the joke was on me because Ben found an old passport photo of yours truly, and made me my very own minger card. My special skill was 'fat finger typing'; my style was 'expert in writing Inglish' and my odour was 'old red wine'. My name was 'Sandra Winer Stopit'.

I suppose I deserved it really.

fat fingers

Until recently, I had no idea I had fat fingers. No one had ever mentioned that they were unnaturally fat, I never felt the need to have a complex about them, indeed, it never occurred to me that fatness of fingers was something which might become a problem to me.

Not until my dear generous husband bought me a mini laptop on which to write my best selling novels (and free up space for him on the ordinary computer). From the start, I found my fat fingers a handicap. It took me twice as long to type anything (and as a trained typist, I do it 'properly' ie using all my fingers) because I kept hitting two keys at once, or hitting the wrong keys. I tried to pretend it wasn't a problem, so as not to upset Rob, but in the end, the swearing and stress my fat fingers were causing became apparent even to him. Fatfingeritis became a recognised disability in our house.

My children can be cruel, and they spent quite a lot of time laughing about my unfortunate affliction. Luckily, they are also brilliantly inventive and Ben came up with a novel solution. He sellotaped pin tacks onto my fingers. This means that only the sharp bit of the pin tack is hitting the keys, instantly transforming my fingers into something akin to anorexia fingers. I can type away, producing text which actually makes sense and does not turn me into some sort of typing retard. Okay, I may look a bit stupid, but I can live with that.

Obviously, some refinement may need to take place before he does a powerpoint presentation to the 'Dragon's Den', but I think he could be onto a winner. Surely I am not the only one in the world to have found that, cute as they are, and practical in terms of fitting into one's handbag, mini laptops are not suitable for everyone, especially those with Fat Finger syndrome?

I wonder if he could now work on something to rid me of my bushy and somewhat uneven eyebrows. Something which does not involve a daily painful plucking expedition. They were another thing I had never really worried about until my sister in law asked me if I ever worried about them. Now, of course, all I see when I look in the mirror are two rather mishapen and increasingly bristly slugs sliming their way across the top of my eyes.

Animal psychosis

Is it possible to have a psychotic animal? If it is, then we do.



Our cat, commonly known as 'Puff' (real name: Puff Daddy Pimp Master Flash, but, as our son pointed out, you can't name a tiny fluffy ginger kitten after a large black rapper, hence the nickname) has serious mental health issues.



He goes from suckling Rob's jumpers - which we refer to as his 'bitty' jumpers (he has his two favourites) to attacking anything that moves. He terrorises the dogs by leaping at their faces, at their tails, at any part of their body which happens to tempt him at the time. Even Bonzo, greedy lab that he is, used to scuttle away from his food to allow room for Puff to have a sniff. Unheard of in Bonzo's world, where food is on his mind about 100% of the time.



Puff seems to have a mysoginistic streak, as well as his psychosis; for he regularly attacks me and goes at it with the determination of a terrier. 'Attacking' involves biting and scratching me quite viciously, mainly on my hands and arms, but he also loves feet. He has drawn blood from Zoe's feet before. The screams coming from the kitchen still make my blood run cold. But then, Zoe can be a bit of a drama queen.



I think one of this problems stems from the fact he actually wishes he was a dog. When he hears the clanking of leads (causing a certain amount of hysteria in the doggy population) he runs and stands by us (ignoring the scrum; he really has no fear of our dogs at all) and meows hopefully. WE have to literally lock him in a room to prevent him running out the door and following us.



When 'treats' are being doled out, for supposedly 'good' behaviour, he waits, expectantly, for his reward. He is extremely put out when he doesn't get one - I'm not sure if cat treats exist? Then immediately runs to Rob for the comfort of 'bitty' and then back on the attack.

He comes when you call (actually, this is more than the dogs do); lies in the dog's basket and plays ball with them. He would much rather have their nasty dried cheap food than his nice expensive Felix pouches.

I've heard of gender issues, so perhaps this is the animal equivalant. A sort of 'I'm a dog trapped in a cat's body' dilemma. I'm sure in the States there would be a counsellor who could help. In the meantime, he will continue to terrorise our entire household.

Sticky situations

I recently phoned my son, who was visiting a 'new woman'. He asked me if he could phone me back as he was, as he told me, "trying to get my car out of a difficult place".



When he phoned back, a few minutes later, I asked him if he was now out of his 'tight, sticky spot'.



"An unfortunate choice of words, Mother," he declared, roaring with laughter.



Honestly, I hadn't meant anything rude, but it just shows, one has to be careful how one phrases things these days.



It reminded me of long ago (1979?), when my brother had come from his boarding school to stay with me (he was about fourteen, I was about nineteen) and he told me about a man who had asked if he was 'gay'. He was clearly coming onto him, but in his innocence, my brother had no idea, though he did think it was a stange question.



"Yeah, sometimes I'm gay," he had responded.



Nowadays, the word 'gay' has been almost entirely taken over by its new meaning. You would never hear anyone under the age of about seventy proclaiming they 'were feeling gay'. Not without bringing on the sort of immature tittering such misuse of words generates.

A lady who works with me in the pub, (who is from Essex, which is important, only because she plays on this) comes out with some priceless observations, things she has heard which she declares with the earnestness of a Missionary, as if there is nothing bizarre or wrong in them.

For instance, when I told her that my son, who was dating a Guatamalan girl, told me her family wanted him dead, her response was: "Well, they're like that over there, ain't they. I mean, they're into the blood sacrifice type thing. They can't 'elp it, it's cos they're Aztecs."

Yesterday, she was talking about a residential course she had gone on once, "It was on the recession." I remarked that that sounded like rather a dull and pointless waste of a good weekend. Realising her mistake, she laughed and said, "Oh no, I meant regression. That's it. You know, going back to previous lives and stuff."

Whether it was recession or regression, they both sound fairly odd to me.

But, she's not stupid. I'm sure she made this mistake deliberately, to play up to the 'blond and thick' reputation Essex women have. In fact, she's not blond. And she's definitely not thick. Dipsy, but not thick. And she makes a slow day at the 'office' far more entertaining!

Scambug/Scumbag

I recently had an email asking if I'd like to make money from my blog. Of course, the thought of doing so was appealling and, after all, it was why I had given up teaching, to make money from my writing, so why not from my blog. It all seemed quite simple as well.

All I would have to do was pore over a list of products, choose any I fancied and write no more than 150 words about it. I needn't even be particularly effusive, so long as the product was included somewhere in my blog. If it was used by the company who made the product, I'd get paid extra, but even if it wasn't, so long as I kept it posted, I would earn something.

It never occurred to me to wonder why I had been chosen, when, so far as I know, only about 3 people in the whole world actually look at my blog (thank you, loyal followers). Surely not the captive audience they might require?

I was flattered to learn that the company offering this generous deal 'choose blogs which are well written and with no spelling errors'. In my case, clearly, flattery gets you everywhere. I'm a sucker for a compliment and my ego got the better of me.
'Hmm, so they think my blog is well written and my spelling is excellent? I must be good.'
No alarm bells rung at this point. No metaphorical speech bubbles with 'BEWARE' entered my head.

I emailed to check I had understood the brief - 'and you don't even have to like the product, just write about it?' The reply was immediate. 'Yes, that's correct, and you get paid no matter what.'

This was money for old rope!

Amusing anecdotes about anti wrinkle cream came flooding into my head. Oh yes, I could do this, I could make it amusing and poignant and clever and original.

It was my level headed husband who brought me back down to earth. "Find out how they pay you, and don't, under any circumstances, give out any bank details."

I emailed again, asking that question, and pointing out that, because of all the scams around, I would not be giving out any bank details. The reply this time was not forthcoming. In fact, I've never heard from the scambugs again.

Next time I will remember the old adage: 'Flattery gets you nowhere'.

Wise words.

Disappointment

I am still somewhat reeling from the rejection letter, which arrived yesterday from Bath Uni. Rob brought it down to the pub where I was working and I opened it in a quiet corner, without my glasses on, but could still make out the words 'We are sorry....', so knew instantly it wasn't the news I'd been hoping for.

Funnily enough, although I am generally a doom and gloom monger, always assuming the worst, I had a good feeling about this. I felt the interview went well. For a start, I was uncharacteristically assertive when it was hinted that I might be applying for the wrong course; that my writing was more directed at the Young Adult market. I insisted that I did not wish to be pigeon holed and I still needed to discover what kind of a writer I am.

I was equally emphatic about my chances of surviving the stress of it all, explaining that I knew what I was in for and was ready and willing to take it on the chin. This is not the usual answer I would give. That would typically be more along the lines of 'You're right, it does sound quite hard and I probably wouldn't be very good.' But I resisted the almost urgent need to put myself down and remained positive.

As you can imagine, I have gone over and over every last word I said, wondering which were the ones that took away my chance of a place.

I asked for feedback, thinking that if I am to apply again, I would know what to avoid saying next time. Sadly, they don't give personal feedback, but they did say encouraging things and recommended I just keep improving my writing.

So, I have booked myself onto a residential writing course. I will have to be very very brave to spend five days in a Gothic looking house in the depths of Shropshire, sharing a room with some stranger (I already know I won't sleep the entire time) and facing the prospect of having to read my work out to people, all of whom, of course, will be much better than me. A terrifying thought, but perhaps a good dress rehearsal for the MA course. Assuming I get on next time round. I think this time I will revert to my usual Eeyore philosophy and think the worst. Then maybe it will turn out better.

Painting and decorating

I knew there was a reason Rob advised me never to contemplate becoming a professional painter and decorator. I am reminded now because I rashly decided to paint our downstairs hallway, which has always been a bright orange colour. This is fine, it goes with the floor tiles, and should be an uplifting colour, but as our hallway gets no natural sunlight, it actually makes the house seem gloomy and dark. So, as we are about to have a big party to celebrate all our anniversaries and birthdays rolled up, I suddenly panicked and decided the entire house needed a makeover. Since my earnings of £6 an hour do not allow me to employ someone to do this, it has to be me.

I bought the 'hint of peach' thinking perhaps I could get away with one layer because the orange coming through underneath would compliment it. I banished the dogs and cat outside (where they sit glowering at me through the kitchen window) and set to work early this morning.

I had promised Rob that this time I would do all the preparation very carefully. I covered the orange spattered light switches with masking tape; I hoovered generations of spiders' webs from all the corners, behind the pipes, radiators etc. I got some dust sheets and put them on the floor so as not to wreck the tiles referred to above. I put on my old stripy nightie and started to paint (not roll) in all the corners and edges. I felt very positive and even Rob looked a little bit impressed with my efforts.

Then I got down to the nitty gritty; the rolling part. I felt a bit smug, this was going to be easy, a mornings job and I could still get on with filling the receding well hole in the middle of the veg patch, which I had lost my right leg in back at the beginning of the summer, and down which most of our onion crop had vanished.

What an achieving day.

Well, perhaps not. Here I am, having finished layer number one, realising that there is no way on earth I won't get away with another one, unless I want to go for the very rustic sponged look. As well, I am covered from head to toe in paint, which makes me look as if I have some rare dermitological condition. My hair is also speckled, resembling an extremely bad case of dandruff. The sodding paint won't dry quickly, which means the dogs have actually cast an evil spell on me and Puff is driving me crazy scratching at the window and meowing pathetically. There's no point clearing myself or the mess up until I get the second layer done and it has now been officially confirmed that watching paint dry is not a fulfilling occupation.

As well as all this, the contrast between the peachy coloured walls, and the skirting board, picture rail and all the wooden bits of the downstairs corridor, is now shockingly obvious (the bright orange used to detract from the terrible state of the woodwork) which means that I shall have to invest in several pots of gloss, and somehow get that on without attracting any remaining spiderwebs or dog hair or general dust. I know from past experience that this is almost impossible. The gloss has a special magnetic effect when it comes to any filth. It also means another day traumatising all the animals.

Frankly, I've lost the will to live.

Babe

This is not a blog about a certain pig. It is about men calling 'women of a certain age' babe, and the appropriateness (or not) of such an address.

Luckily, I rarely get called it, because it's the kind of expression which makes me wince and say in an embarrassingly matronly way, 'What did you just call me young man?' There tends to be a certain type who call women this, presumably thinking it will flatter them. Believe me, it does not. They tend to be of the flashy, medalliony, hairy chest poking out of black shirt variety.

At least, that is what I thought, until, on a bar shift the other evening, our very soft, and rather well spoken, head barman suddenly said, in response to a plea for help whilst pulling a pint of Becks (I am just not definite enough with the pully thing and it ends up with a whopping great head on it, which customers, understandably, don't like) and he said, 'Yeah, sure Babe'.

Well, his babe elicited a little flutter from within. I thought to myself, in a desperately adolescent sort of a way, 'Hmmm, so, he thinks I'm a bit of a babe, does he?' and I found myself running into the kitchen to tell all the youth that I had become one of Justin's 'babes'. To boast, in fact.

I think I was flattered, rather than insulted, because, being that 'woman of a certain age', I had not expected Justin to think of me as a babe; being one of the only ones not under the age of thirty, not wearing thongs and with a certain sagging quality about me, which they haven't yet achieved.

Postcards

For some reason, when on holiday, I always feel obliged to send at least two postcards; one to work and one to the only friends whose address I can actually remember.

Just choosing a postcard requires endless hours rotating a stand, incapable of making a decision on which one to pick, as if anyone gives a shit. And neither do I. Since I am clearly not really a tourist, and don't wish to be singled out as one, the whole activity is done in a furtive way, causing the eager postcard seller (how do they ever make any money from them?) to hover anxiously, rendering the decision making even more difficult. I avoid postcards which feature a flag, or a little message such as 'I love....' or 'Greetings from....'

The scenes are the same wherever one happens to be. A wonder of nature or some building or landmark, which I have normally never visited (on account of not being a tourist).

I don't know what it is, but postcards kill all creativity in me. I panic when faced with that tiny blank area in which to precis my entire holiday activities (which, to be honest, generally involve me lying on a beach for 8 hours solid reading a good book, followed by a heavy session drinking the local wine and sampling the local food. Not exactly interesting reading).

So I mention some banal feature of the weather ('It's very hot') or something about the food ('Had delicious calamari last night'). In the most dire circumstances, when I really can think of nothing else, I refer to the picture/photo for inspiration.

I then revert to a sort of mini historical lecture, along the lines 'This is the Eiffel Tower'. Really? Then I might add, 'It was built in...., by......' I blush at my patronising tone.

Usually, having been through the whole agonising process, I simply can't be bothered to queue up in some foreign post office, with hostile looking officials, to actually send the bloody thing. I end up taking it home (tattered and crumpled) and delivering it myself.

By that time, I have told everyone all about my holiday (in a jolly and amusing way, of course), so they don't even need to read it. It is consigned to postcard heaven, which is my idea of hell. Imagine having nothing to read but banal postcard messages for the rest of eternity.

The strange politics of lane swimming

If this were a thesis title, I expect the manuscript would end up in some vault, never to be opened, but I had this little glimmer of inspiration, in between obsessive counting of number of lengths I had done. I have to count, because I find the whole process of indoor lane swimming absolutely stultifyingly, yawningly boring, and I do not wish to do one more length than the target I have set myself (35).

There are lots of reasons I hate indoor swimming. The chlorine, for one. I'm sure it's more poisonous than just letting everyone spit and wee randomly. The whole cloying atmosphere. The noise. The wet floors. The fact I almost always forget to bring my underwear, so have to humiliate myself on the way home by walking around braless and knickerless. The wrinkled skin on hands and feet. The coarse, dry hair. The ineffectual swimming hat which make me look like I've just had intensive chemotherapy (I knew white was a bad colour, as soon as I bought it). The miserable looking lifeguards (though no wonder, who would want to work there?).

As I got kicked for at least the fifth time by a strident, overly keen swimmer on my 7th length, I realised that there is more to swimming than just the above. There is an element of politics (or is it etiquette?) It dawned on me that she was actually kicking me on purpose (or 'accidentally on purpose' as we used to say as kids). For I had committed the cardinal sin, I had encroached upon her lane.

Needless to say, there are not enough lanes to go round, so it is inevitable that someone will be 'sharing' yours, but if you are the first person there, you become strangely possessive and expect the interloper to be the one to veer off to one side or the other whilst you go in a straight line, never once diverging from your course. Since the next lane (which was the edge of the pool) had some elderly lady who seemed to be running on the spot in the water, with the occassional spurt of crawl, it was difficult to veer anywhere, so I had to slow down, switch from breast stroke to side stroke (which takes up less room) and try to make myself as thin and flat as possible. Still, despite attempting to be accommodating, I could feel the resentment coming out of her pores.

I sort of sympathise, because the same thing happened to me last week. I spotted a spare lane and went for it with the vengeance of a seasoned jumble saler for the household items table. I vowed to metaphorically pee on it, like a dog claiming its patch. But I'm obviously too polite, or too pathetic, to do this, and made my eyes even redder and sorer by having to open them every time I came up for air to ensure I didn't kick or wound anyone. My face is not designed for goggles. I did, once, manage to swim over a woman, who was not amused, though I apologised profusely.

The lifeguard, a female, appeared to be asleep on her podium for almost the entire time. I sympathised. I wished I were asleep. However, I now have that glow of those who know they have 'done good' for themselves, so I suppose it is all worth it. And I even did three more lengths than my target. A million brownie points to keep fit heaven, and closer to that toned, fit body. Well done, Sandra!

Negative bullying?

Caroline Flint, a now ex member of the cabinet, has apparently accused Gordon Brown of the 'negative bullying' of women. What I want to know is, when was the last time you heard of 'positive bullying'?

Translations

We have recently returned from a week in Sicily - the largest island in Europe and home to so many ancient civilisations. Given that it suffers from both a volcano and earthquakes, it is amazing that its ancient history survives.



Landing in Catania, with the dramatic backdrop of Mount Etna dominating the skyline, we drove through the inevitable land of warehousing and dereliction, which seems to be the universal surround of all airports and onto an extremely bumpy motorway, which apparently was funded by the EC, but most of the cash found its way into Mafia pockets (allegedly) and hence the poor quality of the road.



Despite a monstrous oil refinery which resembled a futuristic space station, spewing out fumes and smoke, lighting up the sky, obliterating the plethora of stars, the landscape was remarkably beautiful and green, with a backdrop of rugged hills. The fields along the coast housed row upon row of orange and lemon trees, and heading inland, olive and almond groves, and, of course, vineyards. Five litres of very drinkable wine costs 10 euros from the local winery. They fill up your plastic container from huge tanks. Far too drinkable. There is still plenty of evidence of a once thriving tuna business; as well as carob trees peppering the landscape. Polytunnels house artichokes, aubergines, fennel (on steroids - they were HUGE) and all manner of vegetables.



Sicily, despite the monstrous structures indicating some manufacturing capacity, is very largely rural, and the people confirmed this. Straight talking, friendly, to the point types, with a good sense of humour. The men seemed to be short, and positively embraced the Don Corlioni look, black attire, smart shoes and Easy Rider style sun glasses. I was sad to see that Italy has finally succumbed to obesity. There were numerous examples of obese people, mainly women and young children. But the quality of the food in the supermarkets and markets is still wonderful.



Whilst on holiday, Rob ended up doing various jobs for his sister, who has just built a house there, creating endless DIY possibilities. We went to the local hardware shop and bought a piece of equipment we needed.

These were the instructions. Can you guess what it is? I'll give you a clue. It's not a nucleur weapon.

Spelification

This product can be send up laser beam. And it will be formed a beeline when used in the in door condition.

Warning: please use the product according to the process, or may caused some imperilments as the radiation leak out.

Precision: never preponderate over 0.5mm

Be applicable temperature: 30-104 degree in Fahrenheit and 1-40 in centigrade

Install batteries: circumrotate the wheel which at the rearward of the product, open the battery room, the put two AAA batteries according to the mark which on the laser level.

Mintain:

1. Must be careful when use the laser level as it's exact utensil;

2. Avoid shock it;

3. Put the laser level back the case when after use it;

4. Keep distence from dust and water;

5. Keep the product dry and clean;

6. Check the batteries frequently in order to avoid its degenerative.

Got it?

How we screw up children!

I watched a child on the Beacon, where I walk the dogs, trying to skip a stone in the small lake up there. His mother was making the kind of encouraging noises mother's do, showing him how to hold it and throw. His first attempt was clearly a failure, it plopped into the pond more or less at his feet.

"Well done Freddy, you did it. That was lots of skips!!!"
(high pitched condascending voice).

"I did not. It didn't skip at all."
The boy was indignant. Understandably.

"It definitely had one skip."
His mother continued to enthuse, trying to cover up her previous 'exaggeration'.



The point of this observation is that it made me think about the lies we tell our children. Our motives are no doubt sound - we want them to feel good about themselves. But it is also very patronising and possibly damaging, to tell a child they have done well when they clearly haven't.

This kind of false, 'oh you're so good at that' flattery, might be well meaning, but it is also misguided. It teaches children some damaging lessons:

1. not to try (what's the point if everything you do gets a thumbs up)
2. lying is okay if you're saying nice things
3. not to trust people when they say you are good at something

There are, of course, ways round the 'lie'.

Teachers, especially, are extremely adept at coming up with phrases which, whilst not actually saying, 'Look, that was shit', don't actively tell a lie.

So they use phrases such as:
"It looks like you tried really hard on that."
"Nevermind, next time it'll be easier."
Or, throw it back to them:
"What do you think of it?"
That lets you off the hook entirely, because if they say, "I think it's brilliant," you can just say "Well done."
And if they say, "I think that was crap," you can say the "nevermind...." spiel.

The long term damage is obvious. Constant praise denies ever letting children feel failures. So, when it inevitably happens, it comes as a huge shock.

Look at all those wanna be singers who are clearly tone deaf, who are so outraged, humiliated and horrified when Simon Cowell tells them they're 'rubbish'.

"But my mum says I'm brilliant."

Oh dear.

So, mothers, don't be fooled into thinking that bigging up your children is necessarily good for them.

We all survived, and we're doing okay. Aren't we?

Sucker

The other day I was the victim of a con. I knew I was being conned, as soon as the ebullient woman bounced up to me in Debenhams, brandishing a cheap purple plastic goodie bag. Rather like those ones on airplanes, which I always feel compelled to steal.

I was in a hurry, but something rooted me to the spot. Perhaps the desperation in her voice, masked as enthusiasm. She was foreign and the sign behind her read 'Dead Sea Nail Products'. Alarm bells were ringing, but I foolishly chose to ignore them.

Once she started talking, that was it. She never paused for breath once in the next five minutes, making me wonder how many hours a day she spent swimming underwater to enlarge her lung capacity. Or perhaps she had been trained in the Dead Sea itself, struggling against the buoyancy of the salt?

"Excuse me Madam, could you spare just two minutes? Put out your hand for me please (I obeyed, hypnotised). Now tell me which do you think is your worst nail?"

"Ummm, well, they're all pretty disgusting," was my shamed response, as I pointed to my filth encrusted thumb nail, regretting the fact that my morning gardening attempts were clearly visible under it. I was about to launch into an explanation for said dirt when,

"Okay, see, would you like to transform them in just two minutes, I'm not kidding, using this magic buffer?" (Basically an emery board, but glued to a cuboid). "It's really amazing, you'll see. Look, I rub the nail like this. It's really easy, you just follow the steps. See, like this:
Step 1, just rub it and this extracts all the toxins from your nails, you know, the brown stains and batterings from life;
Step 2 impregnates your nail with magical Dead Sea properties and can help your nails grow and strengthen and your cuticles disappear and the last step;
Step 3, you really won't believe this" (practically orgasmic now) "your nails will look so different, everyone is amazed when they see this. Are you ready? 1,2,3..."(her face glowed with messianic fervour). "Okay now. LOOK!"

"Oh my God, that is incredible." I was genuinely amazed. My scruffy nail was positively sparkling, as if it had undergone some intensive makeover.

She looked triumphant, with an 'I told you so' smugness that, frankly, started to put me off.

Cynically, I asked, "Yeah, but how much does it cost?"

She was ready for this, almost jumping up and down in her excitement.

"Ah, today, and only today, is special offer. You see, you can have all this" (she dangled the purple bag temptingly in front of my nose) "with all these wonderful Dead Sea Products."
This beautiful hand cream" (she opened it and more or less shoved it up my nostril. It smelled initially of vanilla, but then I got a sickening whiff of sulphorous rotten eggs). "Beautiful, yes?
"This handy cuticle remover" (which looked more like an olive skewer); "cuticle cream and an ordinary emery board, for putting in your purse. All this is £10 off today. And" (clutching my arm) "the buffer is guaranteed for two years. Keep the receipt and when it wears out, we will replace it for NOTHING. As many times as you want. Incredible! Yes?"

"And for you," (turning to Zoe) "if your mum buys one, you get one half price. Unbelievable!"

I felt this was a cheap trick. Undue pressure. She could see that Zoe was clearly impressed.

"Oh, go on Mum, buy one."

"Yeah, but how much will that be?" I tried again.

"It's incredible, because you can buy this for only £20.00 and then the second one is only £15.00."

I tried to do a quick calculation in my head. It sounded a huge amount, but, by then, I was totally confused, my thumb nail glowed with a radioactive sheen and I didn't know how to get away.

"Oh alright." I agreed, rather bitterly.

She shook my hand profusely, grabbed two packs and led me swiftly to the cash desk, where she signed the receipt. No doubt thinking of the vast commission she'd made from my folly.

"Are you from round here?" We lingered near the till Cocktail party chat now.

I told her and asked where she was from.

"Where do you think?"

"Israel?" I replied, not really knowing why. She just had that look about her. I had lived in Golders Green for years.

"How did you know?!" She was amazed. "Most people think I'm Spanish."

I laughed, secretly quite pleased with myself, but didn't want to go into the whole Golders Green thing, or the fact that Israelis have a reputation for being pushy, and this young woman was the definition of pushy. No doubt about it.

"Oh, I just had a feeling." I said, elusively.

I paid the astronomical total, working out later it would take a nine hour shift to earn that amount again.

I hated myself, my stupid weakness.

To make matters worse, when I told someone about it the next day, they laughed and said, "Oh, I know those things. You can buy them at Boots for £2.50."

"But you don't get the cream and all the other stuff. And the nice purple bag," I said, somewhat defensively.

To add insult to injury, Rob said, "Next time, go to Homebase. Sandpaper's only about £1.00 a sheet there."

What I want to know is, do I actually have 'SUCKER' tattoed on my forehead in ink invisible only to me?

Life

I am in contemplative mood. Thinking about life and how precious it is, following the sudden death of a man who worked in the pub - Simon. He was 43 years old, a father of two children, and yesterday, he keeled over and died of a massive heart attack (at least that's what they think, not that it matters, because he is dead).

My immediate reaction to this sort of thing is to grab a drink (Simon would have approved, he was not averse to alcohol) and toast to Simon's life, delaying the resolution to give up alcohol immediately. If that happened to Simon, it could happen to me, ergo, live life to the full. Enjoy every moment.

Toast to the fact he was one of those 'salt of the earth' types.

I was just getting to know him, having quite disliked him initially. My dislike was based on hearsay mainly, village gossip and a few racist remarks he had made. Of course, he was not perfect.

But when I got to know him as a work colleague, my opinion changed entirely. (Ah, the danger of making hasty judgements about people).

We are all devastated, those who worked with him, who chatted to him as he smoked outside, who sat with him in comfortable silence. He was a man of few words, happy with his own company, but also happy to be amongst others. I expect he was listening carefully, taking it all in. A friend of mine, who loved Simon very much, summed him up in one word: 'tender'. I believe she was right.

He was an extremely clever man. Not in the 'traditional' way - rumour had it he was illiterate. But in matters practical, he was a frigging genuis, the handiest person you could meet, with the mind of an engineer. In the pub, he was always the Mr Fix It.

Garbage disposal clogged up. "Simon, can you sort this out?" And he did, no fuss, just got on with it.
"Simon, how do I change this barrel?" He showed you, patiently.

We sat around like zombies yesterday, thinking of this man, who had lived in the village all his relatively short life, whom some might regard as a 'nobody' (whatever that means?) and we missed him. His sister came to arrange the wake. She reckoned three hundred people would turn up. If only Simon could know how many people cared about him, respected him, want to pay homage to him.

Maybe he does.

authonomaholism

This is the latest disease, as I think I mentioned before, the Harper Collins run website 'authonomy' can take over your life. I am serious. I now get up at 7am and read, comment, go onto the forum, trawl through the ratings, for at least 3 hours, before going to work, coming home and doing the same again. If that isn't an addiction, I don't know what is.

To make matters worse, someone has infiltrated the site and is not playing 'by the rules'. By using Facebook, youtube and every other such site, he managed to persuade thousands of people to back his book (which, to add insult to injury, wasn't even finished). It then shot to the number one slot, so HC will take a look at it, while the rest of us have slogged away, reading and commenting on hundreds of books, watching our rankings very gradually creep up. I suppose, if I had the will, or the technological knowledge, I could do the same, but I just know it wouldn't work for me.

The problem is that, not only have I neglected my husband, the housework, the dogs, the children, and the garden, I have begun to alienate good friends. I can see their eyes glazing over as I start every sentence with 'On authonomy today I read....' I can see their thought bubbles popping out of their brains, 'Oh shit, not another bloody authonomy story. Here we go'.



So, I am checking into rehab, feeling about as enthusiastic as Amy Winehouse, but realise that my life has reached rock bottom, my book has peaked and troughed, and I may as well go out before it sinks back into the 1000's. At the moment, it's a respectable 100. See, I can't quite let go, even now.

But wait, if I give it up, it means I HAVE to resume my writing, there are no more excuses not to face it. And I'm not sure I'm quite ready for that, being totally devoid of any sort of inspiration. So, what the hell, pass us the bottle of Chardonnay and the lap top, and I'll just have one last little look at where I am in the ratings, and perhaps take a look at just one more book. It looks quite good, and they might like mine and might put it on their shelf, even if just for a day. Then I might hit the 95th rank - and then only 90 more to go before I get on the Harper Collins desk and someone who might actually have some influence will read my book. And then..... the 'Waterstones book signing' fantasy again.

Addicted to authonomy

Well, I have now been on 'authonomy' for several months, though it seems like forever. It is definitely an addiction.

For those who don't know (though since I talk about nothing else these days, you all should) authonomy is the Harper Collins run website where authors post their books and critique each others. Your book (hopefully) goes up in the ranking as more people 'shelve' it and you end up (hopefully) in the top five, at which point HC will read your book and (hopefully) publish it! DaDa.

Now, you might think that sounds quite easy, but you're wrong. It's actually as demanding as suckling a voracious infant.

For a start, you have to spend at least five, headache inducing hours a day, reading endless books, some of which you might not choose to read, but have to, in hopes of getting shelved by the author.

Then you have to think of positive things to say, rather than the (sometimes) truth, which is, 'This book is crap. You have no future in writing whatsoever.' I have only actually felt this about 3 times. There is an awful lot of good stuff on here, some of it, very very good. (buggar)

Nice comments, sooth ones ego; negative ones destroy it. Luckily, most people are quite nice.

So, on my 'holiday' in Dubai, I spent a large portion of my time, logging onto authonomy, in hopes of keeping my book going up, which it has been doing, (though slower than watching paint dry).

Then, this morning, after only ONE day when I was unable to get onto it due to a long flight/bus ride home, panic set in.

The usual green arrow which indicates that it is still climbing, was replaced by an ominous yellow bar, which tells everyone that it is now staying put. This will shortly be followed by: the dreaded red (down) arrow.

This spells the end, because people tend to stop backing books which are going down, since it doesn't do their kudos as a 'critique' any good to back unpopular books. You are, officially, a 'loser'.

Since I only had very faint fantasies about ending up in the top five, I am not overly disappointed, though having only reached 150, I feel a bit deflated.

So, I am looking for the positives (most unlike me).

1. I have come out with a much better, tighter book. I have taken most of the editing advice and changed much of the narrative into dialogue and really tried to 'show', rather than 'tell' - a concept I found very difficult to get my head round, and don't think I have, entirely.
2. I have also made some 'friends', people I have clicked with, and seen some of them reach the top, which is very gratifying. Even though I do feel just a tiny pin prick of jealousy.
3. I have seen some stuff which makes my book look like the work of a genuis (though I know I shouldn't need to compare myself to anybody, because I should just have belief in my book for its own merits. But, I don't, and I can't help comparing it).

By the way, if you want to see my book (or others) you can look on www.authonomy.com and register to read. If you want to comment, I think you have to sign up and pay a small amount.

I'm tempted to pay people to comment on mine, but think that may be cheating.

Am I mad?

Can someone please help me? I need my dream interpreted so I can figure out what is going on in my crazy head.

The dream:
There were a lot of people staying at our house, including someone in our bedroom (though not sharing our bed). Children were milling around (it was evening) with their parents, many of whom I didn't know, but they all seemed very friendly - and excited.

Suddenly, one of my children asked where their stockings were, and it dawned on me with an indescribable panic, that it was actually Christmas Eve. And I was totally unprepared. No one seemed to have pointed out the lack of a tree; but when I confessed that there would be no stockings this year, because I had forgotten to organise them, there was much sulkiness and distress. The main distress was felt by myself. How could I do this?

Not only had I forgotten stocking presents, but there would be no presents under the tree either (not that there was a tree, but had I got presents, we could have pretended). I sobbed around the place, and word quickly spread of our family crisis. Lots of the children (who I didn't recognise) came up and kindly offered to sacrifice one of their presents so that my children would have, at least something, to open. I was overwhelmed by their kindness, yet found myself having to accept things like a quite hideous floral jump suit, which, aside from its obvious fashion reject qualifications, would be far too small for Zoe. With a smile on my face, I gratefully accepted, knowing Zoe would be horrified (and would not be able to hide this fact).

I discovered a craft market which was operating late on Christmas Eve, and wandered round it aimlessly, trying to find suitable things to fill a stocking. I did buy a couple of necklaces, which had glass giraffes on them, but the only other thing which I thought would appeal were some gorilla suits, which a group of children were modelling.

I was still dissatisfied, but had at least got something to ease the pain of 'no Christmas presents this year folks', and assuage my own guilt at forgetting. When I returned home, everyone was still milling around, although it was very late. I was getting quite annoyed, as I wanted to sleep. When I got into bed, I was horrified to find some dog shit lying between Rob and I.

The question is: do I need psychiatric help?

Pilates

I lied on my last blog when I said I hadn't achieved any of my New Year's resolutions. I forgot that I started a Pilates class on Friday. Pat on the back, Sandra, and a hearty 'well done!' The idea of Pilates appeals to me on several fronts. Firstly, I understood there was no jumping about, which always sets alarm bells ringing for me, on account of my little 'problem'. Jumping is not the only thing which sets it off, an unexpected cough, a choking fit, or a violent sneeze will also bring it on, but I can normally control those by crossing my legs in time. But nothing can stop it when doing star jumps.



Secondly, I like the idea of lying down for these sessions. Lying down is so much more relaxing than standing up, and it makes my stomach look quite flat.



Thirdly, I felt I should support the lovely lady who takes the class. She sorted out the trapped nerve in my neck,which had defied every other variety of medical expertise, from conventional medicine (they told me I had carpal tunnel syndrome) to Bowen (plain weird) and a chiropractor, who quite simply gave me the creeps. Everytime he 'manipulated' my neck, I thought he was going to kill me. Plus, he spent an inordinate amount of time analysing the sole of my trainers, which I thought a bit bizarre. He said they could tell the story of my posture. But he also told me that if I put frozen peas on my neck and then refroze them, I could die. He was South African.



Pilates's main message seems to be 'core stability', which involves lifting your pelvic floor muscle and pulling in your tummy from your belly button. Strengthening these muscles will apparently benefit your body in every way, by protecting your spine, and thus your nerve endings. Sounds good to me, plus, if I can ever actually locate my pelvic floor muscles, and therefore strengthen them, that will help with my little problem. Unfortunately, and rather dishearteningly, when the teacher said 'imagine the lift going up, now it's on the second, third, fourth..... all the way up to the eighth floor. Now hold it there', my lift had stopped at the first floor and plummeted back down to the ground floor before she had even mentioned the second, let alone the eighth floor.



Anne (my new found friend, who suffers a similar problem) and I commiserated with each other, but both of us left with the optimistic feeling that somehow this would be the miracle cure we had been searching for since the birth of our babies and the deterioration of our bodies. A shame there's nothing to be done about the stretch marks. At least we know that Greek men find them attractive.

A New Year

New year didn't seem complete this year, we didn't sing 'Auld Langs Ine', or whatever it's called and however you spell it, but you know what I mean. We stood outside watching an immensely expensive fireworks display (or at least that's what Richard, the pub landlord where we were, told us) which lasted all of 2 minutes, and I couldn'thelp thinking our wages for the next two months were now floating around in the sky. As I swigged on my third large glass of wine (which cost me over two hours work) I made my usual resolutions, which are beginning to sound a bit like a stuck record: 'get fit and drink less' (for my body) and 'be less judgemental' (for my spirit).

The former hasn't actually kicked in yet, but it's still only just the new year, so I'm not beating myself up about it (no point in being unrealistic or setting myself impossible goals), and the latter went out the window yesterday when I started an evening class again and immediately decided I hated this woman who I barely know (replacing my last target of hate, whom I also barely knew) because she never shuts up when our teacher is trying to teach us. I happen to know that she's a teacher and therefore should know better. Mind you, teachers are notoriously rowdy in these situations. I tried to counterbalance my lapse by telling myself to be tolerant, she's probably a really nice person and the fact she has to show off is just because she is insecure and I ought to pity her rather than finding myself wanting to hit her, but this all rang rather hollow as I continued to hate her.

Now, next year I am going to think of something I really can achieve. Perhaps it will be:
drink excessively, refrain from any physical exercise and make an instant judgement about someone (preferably negative) and stick by it. Then I can end up feeling really good about myself for having 'stickability'.

Happy New Year everybody.