Monthly Archives: May 2013

Ding ding! Round two

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After only recently extolling the virtues of good health following a week of lurgy, today I fell victim to another bout. Without going into too much unnecessary detail, it’s some sort of gastric bug that had rendered me in so much pain by the time I arrived at work this morning that I fairly promptly had to turn around and go home again. After a few hours’ sleep the pain has now subsided and whilst I’m feeling far from 100% I’m hopeful that after a good night’s sleep tomorrow I will at least be back on some sort of reasonable form.

But despite two bouts of illness in a week I still feel lucky, because I know this phase shall pass-unlike the situation faced by thousands of people across the country (and indeed the world) who suffer with chronic pain. Can you imagine how horrendous it must be to exist in a permanent state of discomfort or, worse still, excruciating agony? Those of us who are fortunate to be in good health most of the time would do well to count our blessings, because that’s exactly what health is: A blessing. Though it’s easy to do, we should at least try not to take it for granted, because we never know how long it will last.

This photo taken on Maliangan island in Borneo on my Raleigh expedition always makes me laugh. Those of us on the left had all caught a stomach bug, and those on the right were at that point still healthy. By the end of the week only one person had escaped it. At least we kept our sense of humour!

Great Britain? There’s nothing great about this weather..

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With the exception of the usual glorious solitary week in April, so far it’s been a pretty average spring. There’s been much cloud, much rain, much grumbling. Snatched snippets of conversation on the commute to work bear testament to the disaffection of the masses; everyone agrees that they feel cheated. But what, exactly, have they been cheated of?

Anyone who has spent any length of time in this country will know the weather systems are at best erratic, at worst downright awful. Granted, they are becoming increasingly harder to predict with each year that passes, but that doesn’t change the fact the weather in Britain has never, in fact, been Great (apologies for the awful pun). And yet, hearing people whinge on about the substandard weather day in, day out, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the climate in the United Kingdom is usually on a par with the Seychelles, and that the current weather systems are playing havoc with the ‘norm.’

One can hardly blame the steady stream of Pac-a-mac clad tourists for feeling deflated as they traipse from one London monument to the next, rain pouring off their visors. But those of us who’ve lived here our whole lives have no excuse. We were born into this soupy greyness, punctuated only occasionally by phases of clear blue. We are familiar with the short-lived summers, the breezy autumns, the freezing winters and the dreary springs. We know the drill, so why do we persist in complaining? Because complaining is what we, as a nation, do best.

When you think about it, it’s probably just as well the weather never quite lives up to expectations in this country. Why? Because if we did have an unbroken summer of tropical heat, what would the commuters have to complain about then? The heat and lack of air conditioning on the trains, that’s what. When it comes to complaining we Brits are nothing if not consistent; and not even a change in weather front can alter that.

No wonder inspiration’s thin on the ground today..

‘W’ is for ‘Well’

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It’s funny the effect being under the weather can have on the mind and body. I use the term ‘under the weather’ because I’m referring not to a state of full-blown illness, but rather one in which you exist in a perpetual state of feeling just below par, as one feels when afflicted with the common cold. You’re not too ill to work, or do the weekly shop, or even to socialise with friends. But all the while you’re acutely aware of not being the best version of yourself; hardly surprising given that your body’s putting all its effort into fighting off the bug that’s threatening your immune system, leaving little energy for anything else.

It’s often not until you’re fully recovered that you realise quite how below par you’ve been feeling. I found this out today, when I donned my trainers and went for my first post-cold run. This time last week I attempted a run despite having a scratchy throat, and was forced to turn back after ten minutes through sheer exhaustion. Since then I’ve laid off exercise entirely, feeling uncharacteristically unbothered by my lack of exertion. But today, for the first time, I woke up full of energy. And I just knew I was better.

When I set off on my run and settled into a comfortable pace I felt as if I could run for miles – which I did; five of them to be precise. Each one was as glorious as the last, and as I ran from Clapham to Battersea, around the park, along the river and back in bright sunshine with new music playing on my iPod, the world felt as if it had righted itself once more. I returned with a smile on my face and a song in my heart: It’s just so wonderful to be well, and better still to have those occasional moments when you actually appreciate it.

2nd time lucky; making peace with the sky

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Six years ago, the day before my 25th birthday (sob), I ventured to an airfield outside Oxford to do my first tandem sky dive. I should explain before I go any further that up to that point in my life I had been anything but a daredevil. Furthermore, I had a rather stubborn and borderline morbid fear of heights – in particular of falling. Which is why, when it came to thinking of what would encourage people to donate towards my impending volunteering trip to Tanzania, this came immediately to mind. Surely facing my most serious of fears would raise lots of cash? And you know what? It did.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. As I’d got confused over timings and had pitched up after everyone else I was relegated to the last slot of the day, which meant a whole day for my nerves to build into a terrifying crescendo. By the time we boarded the plane I felt physically sick, not that you’d know from watching the video as I grin inanely like a halfwit from start to finish (if you want to know what fear looks like, check it out – and don’t be fooled by the smile. Note that it doesn’t reach my eyes).

When we reached 12,000 feet I was rigid with terror, but by some miracle the instructor convinced me to inch towards the open door, close my eyes and leap into the unknown. For the first few seconds, as we flew through the air, I had no idea what was happening. But once we stabilised and I realised I was still alive I relaxed a little and tried to enjoy the experience. The problem came when the instructor moved my arm so he could pull the parachute cord and we began rocking wildly back and forth.

Now, anyone who has ever suffered from travel sickness will know a rocking movement whilst already in motion does not a nausea-free journey make. And sure enough, within seconds my mouth was watering and I began to realise there was a very real chance I would throw up – in mid air, on my instructor. After he pulled the parachute I became even more certain this would be our fate, and so when he asked if I was okay and I vigorously shook my head he cottoned on and sped up our descent as best he could. Fortunately I managed not to cover us both with my own vomit mid-air, but when we landed I lay face down in the grass for half an hour, my face entirely devoid of colour (the photographer had to physically lift me to film the final scene in the film, after which I lay back down, groaning).

Needless to say it was a rather unpleasant and somewhat scarring experience, which was a shame. And given that everyone I’ve subsequently met who has done a sky dive has said it was the best thing they’d ever done, I’ve always felt a bit short changed.

So you can imagine my delight when the opportunity presented itself to go back to the very same airfield – this time for a trial flight in a glider. A friend who is part of the Oxford Gliding Club (who are, incidentally, keen to get more members, so if you live in the vicinity and fancy giving it a try do pop down there and find out more – they’re a very friendly and hospitable bunch and they cook a mean post-flight BBQ) invited a few of us down last night and I jumped at the chance to have a go.

Before we arrived I hadn’t given much thought to whether my fear of heights was still alive and well all these years later, which I think was probably a good thing. By the time I was kitted out with parachute and having my safety briefing it was too late to back out, and within minutes we were being towed up into the sky on our breathtaking ascent. The first few seconds after the tow line is unclipped are just incredible; everything is silent and you feel a sense of weightlessness that’s hard to describe. Then you gently twist and turn through the air as you make your descent back to the ground – it’s probably the closest feeling to being a bird you could have, and it’s really, really special. I can’t deny the descent made me feel a touch on the fragile side, but it was worth every second of discomfort to have experienced that initial high.

It might not have been another sky dive, but I still feel in those few minutes in the sky I made peace with the air space that robbed me of what should have been an enjoyable experience all those years ago. And you know what? I might even be tempted to go back and do it again.

Interactive dining at its best

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Last night I went to Inamo restaurant in St. James near Piccadilly. Having been to its sister branch in Soho some time ago I knew what to expect in terms of its trademark interactive dining experience, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the beautiful décor and excellent service. As we entered we noticed a sign in the window proclaiming the restaurant to be ‘the best first date experience – as voted by Match.com’ – high praise indeed.

Upon arrival at Inamo one waiter takes your coat as another leads you past the swanky bar to your table. Different areas of the restaurant are sectioned off by tall bamboo poles, and at the far end is a feature wall with water trickling down in a waterfall effect, which adds to the exotic atmosphere. Once seated the waiter talks you through the ordering process – all food and drink is ordered through your table, which is effectively a giant computer screen. Each person has their own controls, and in addition to food and drink there are ‘added extras’ including a choice of virtual tablecloth, various games and a ‘chef cam’ giving you a view into the kitchen as your food is prepared. If you fancy going to a play after you’ve dined or need a cab home this can also be arranged at the touch of a button.

The interactive element of Inamo is what makes it so unique, but it could also be seen as somewhat of a gimmick. Fortunately the owners have pitched it just right; there are enough interactive elements to keep you occupied and entertained but they are very much a nice ‘add-on’ to the dining experience rather than a full-on assault of the senses. Which is as it should be, because the real star of the show is not the table but the food.

Inamo serves a delicious array of Japanese fusion food, with last night’s culinary treats including sushi and chicken satay starters, red Thai curry and miso salmon as mains and vanilla crème brulee for dessert. All agreed the stand out dish of the night was the pork belly with chocolate and chilli sauce, which defies description and must be tasted to be believed (but trust me, you won’t regret ordering it, it’s simply divine).

The cherry on the top of our meal was discovering the ‘three course for £20’ deal they currently have on included a glass of wine – that, and the delicious cocktail menu. As we rolled ourselves out of the door and were reminded of the award from Match.com, we could quite see why Inamo would be such a great first date venue. After all, if you didn’t like the company you could always busy yourself with choosing the tablecloth or playing a game – or just order a cab home…

Interactive dining at its best..

Why walking is the new running

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A recent news report claimed two thirds of Britons spend at least 20 hours each day sitting or lying down. For many this won’t come as a surprise, particularly not if you’re a stressed city worker use to shoehorning in lunchtime spin or circuits sessions to counteract your otherwise sedentary lifestyle. But what few perhaps consider where keeping active is concerned is that the options are not confined to either doing nothing or doing frantic short bursts of exercise. There is, in fact, a third way; and that way is walking.

If you read yesterday’s (somewhat’ self-indulgent) blog you’ll be aware I’m currently suffering from the Lurgy (aka the common cold). The worst thing about being poorly, to my mind, is the inability to exercise, and it was as I was mulling this over yesterday afternoon – feeling grumpy after having to cancel my attendance at Wednesday night running club – that it hit me. I may not be well enough to run, but what’s to stop me walking?

And so, instead of taking public transport to the charity networking event I was attending near Waterloo, I walked. It took half an hour and it was lovely. The fresh air cleared my head and I saw a vast array of interesting sights and sounds. I even witnessed four seasons in one day, as the song goes, with alternate sunshine, showers and blustery winds.

When I arrived at the event one of the girls expressed surprise when I said I’d walked. Despite living in London she claimed never to walk anywhere and always to take the tube. My initial reaction to this comment was a feeling of mild disdain-until it dawned on me that I was exactly the same. Whenever I have to get from A to B in London I check the tube map first, with the over ground train line a close second and the bus route a distant third. It rarely occurs to me to leave more time for my journey and walk instead. Why should it? As a Londoner my time is scarce enough.

But then I remembered a date I went on a couple of years ago with a boy who suggested meeting at the South Bank. When I arrived, rather than go for a drink he suggested we go for a walk. At first I found this suggestion somewhat odd – everyone knows a bit of alcohol in the system helps calm first date nerves – but as we walked I began to relax and enjoy the experience. We walked for a long time, sharing observations and chatting about our favourite things. It was both a charming and eye opening experience (and yes, we did have a drink – or three – at the end of the epic walk). The relationship never developed beyond that date, and my pledge to walk more also fell by the wayside – until, that is, yesterday.

Whilst vigorous cardiovascular exercise is if course important – and I say this with the authority of someone who will be doing their second half marathon in September – exercise doesn’t always have to be vigorous. In fact, as I discovered yesterday, it’s far better to walk if you’re feeling under the weather than to do nothing at all.

Often neglected in favour of its more popular sibling, running, walking is a more gentle form of exercise that’s good for the soul. Not only does it provide an opportunity to explore the place in which you live and observe the people in it (people watching has long been a favourite pastime of mine – a trait I get from my mum), it also offers space for quiet self-reflection and – for the more creative types amongst us – a prime opportunity for inspiration to strike.

In short, walking rocks – so why not get off the bus or tube a stop early on your way home this evening and give it a try?

The plight of Rhinopharyngitis

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The Common Cold (also known as nasopharyngitis, acute coryza and, my personal favourite, rhinopharyngitis).

Symptoms: Frequent sneezing; throat like sandpaper; obscene amount of snot flowing indiscriminately from nasal region; general fatigue and listlessness, decreased appetite for everything other than tomato soup and chocolate-based foodstuffs.

Incompatible with: Sleeping soundly; going about your daily life, exercising, being cheerful.

Cure: INCURABLE (to put this in context, there’s recently been talk of finding a cure for AIDS, yet the most common illness of them all cannot be conquered? Who are these scientists? And are they serious?).

Did you know that the average adult contracts two to three colds a year, with the average child contracting between six and twelve? Whilst not debilitating, colds have the ability to zap us of our joie de vivre, making even the simplest of tasks seem suddenly unbearably difficult.

It starts with a general feeling of malaise and exhaustion. You’re too tired to go for a run, to cook dinner, to meet friends for a drink. Even the thought of hanging up the washing leaves you drained beyond all reasonable measure.

Then comes the sneezing; huge howlers that catch you unawares on buses and tube trains, prompting all those in the immediate vicinity to turn away in disgust. You wander the streets like a leper, residing in the shadows with mouth covered and a grotty tissue clasped in your sweaty hand.

Your throat is scratchy and no amount of water, wine or hot Ribena (just me?) can quench your thirst. You catch sight of yourself in the mirror and feel certain Caspar the friendly ghost would envy your complexion. Even your hair is lacklustre.

You go about your tasks like an automaton; without enthusiasm. You begin to avoid people, conversation dries up. Your single waking thought revolves around your need to be in bed – alone, and with a box set of your favourite TV programme. You have, in the space of a few short days, become a virtual recluse.

If armies used the common cold virus against their enemies in war it would surely help them secure victory. Imagine a whole squadron of trained killers feeling a bit below par, having to stop every now and then to blow their nose or take some cold and flu tablets. Imagine the gains the opposition could make!

Put simply (and crudely-from the mouth of someone in the throes of one right now), the common cold sucks balls – big, hairy, snot-filled ones.

So there.

I’m going slightly against my picture rule today but thought I’d spare you a picture of my ghostly face and eye bags, and instead post a picture of the common cold itself. Pretty little blighter ain’t it?

Wormhole

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According to the weekend’s Argus newspaper, a concerned member of the public made a report to Brighton and Hove City Council after seeing a wormhole to another dimension in the middle of a residential street. Yes, you read that right: A wormhole. To another dimension. Whoa.

The anonymous person made an online report in which they stated: “I was recently walking my affenpinscher (a toy breed of dog) around the Hanover area of Brighton when I noticed that a wormhole or vortex has opened up on Montreal Road.

“On closer inspection it seems to be some kind of portal to other times, places and dimensions.

“I would have investigated further but I was concerned my little dog would be sucked into it.

“Is this meant to be there? At first I believed it might be part of the Brighton Festival but I believe it could be a hazard to the general public. I look forward to your response.”

It’s hard to say which bit of this report I like the best. Perhaps the bit where the mystery reporter sees fit to explain his/her breed of dog – given that a portal to another realm had just revealed itself to them, you’d think such specifics were irrelevant. Or maybe the bit where they thought it was part of the Brighton Festival – if the organisers could summon up a wormhole as part of the entertainment my guess is they’d have more important things to be getting on with than organising exhibitions.

But the adventure didn’t end there, oh no. Despite the potential risk to both (wo)man and dog, the mystery reporter bravely ventured back to the scene of the aforementioned wormhole and filed a further report claiming: “It seems to have got worse – it is now emitting an unsettling yellow light and a large snake appears to be emerging from the wall.

“I am concerned this is a passage to another time or dimension, and if this snake is anything to go by, I’m worried what else may emerge from the wormhole. Can anyone suggest a course of action to take?”

To clarify, a giant snake emerges from a wormhole in a residential street in the south of England, and the only witness present decides that, rather than call the emergency services, they will write a letter to the Council for advice?

Imagine if they’d done that in Ghostbusters when Zool, the Gatekeeper and the Keymaster were running around causing havoc. Something tells me things would have turned out very differently.

…I hope they’d contain creatures like this one, spotted in Trafalgar Square on Queens Day a couple of years ago.

Fresh start

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The alarm went off at six, but before it could even reach its shrill crescendo Graham was in the shower, singing loudly as he soaped himself. Brenda reached a hand out of the depths of her warm cocoon and smacked the clock hard to make the noise stop. In doing so she managed to hit her hand on the bedside table, which caused her to swear. She was still swearing when Graham returned from the shower, his face flushed from the heat of the water, or excitement, or a combination of both.

“Morning my flower,” Graham grinned as he towel-dried his thinning grey hair. Brenda looked her husband up and down, noticing with faint disgust the wedge of fat that sat atop the towel around his waist. His belly button and its immediate vicinity were so thick with hair one might, Brenda thought, fairly assert they bore more resemblance to a wild animal than a human. No wonder he enjoyed camping so much, she thought crossly.

“Hmph,” was all Brenda could manage as she extricated herself from the covers, throwing them off and braving the exterior climate – which was several degrees cooler due to Graham’s borderline obsessive dislike of central heating. Despite being a bank holiday weekend in May, the weather was stubbornly – and perhaps predictably – refusing to play ball. Gale force winds had hit during the night, and if the weather reports were to be believed there was yet worse to come.

“Are you excited about our trip, my flower?” Graham asked as Brenda circumnavigated her way around his bulbous form, grasping for a towel on the hook on the back of the door whilst simultaneously trying to avoid physical contact with her slimy-skinned spouse.

“Ecstatic,” Brenda replied, slipping out of the door and padding grumpily down the hallway to the bathroom.

Thirty minutes later and they were on the open road, camping paraphernalia packed into the boot along with Sadie, their pet golden retriever. It was raining so hard that the windscreen wipers were rendered ineffective, not that Graham seemed to have noticed. With every swoosh of the wipers Brenda’s fury increased, yet Graham merely hummed along to his Van Morrison tape and shovelled handfuls of boiled sweets into his cavernous mouth.

They reached the campsite by late morning, and whilst the rain had fortunately stopped by then, the field was more liquid than solid. Brenda, white-knuckled with ill-concealed rage, pulled on her wellington boots and dutifully assisted with the carrying of multiple loads of she-knew-not-what to the location Graham had identified as being the best for their stay. It had not escaped her attention there were no other campers to be seen.

As the winds buffeted them this way and that, Graham stoically erected the tent with minimal assistance from his frigid wife, who had taken to retreating to the car every twenty minutes or so for the comfort of a few blasts of hot air. Eventually the tent was up, and Graham moved onto blowing up the mattress. He’d even thought to bring pillows this time, he informed his wife with glee, seeming not to register the look of incredulity on her face that spoke of wanting to be anywhere but exactly where they were in that moment.

Brenda sat in one of their decrepit camping chairs and watched, arms folded stiffly across her chest. In spite of herself she had to admire her husband’s sheer belligerence in the face of such adverse weather conditions. Less hardy souls would have beaten a hasty retreat by now. Not so Graham, for defeat was not a word in his vocabulary. Once, Brenda supposed, she would have found such qualities endearing, but as she sat knee-deep in mud in this wet field she was at a loss to work out how she’d ended up here.

For dinner they ate sausages, cooked to a cinder atop a rickety gas fire. The weather gods at least gave them some peace for the duration of their meal, but not long after the heavens opened and rain lashed down upon them once more. There was nothing for it; they would have to go inside the tent.

“Shall we play cards my flower?” asked Graham in his usual stiflingly optimistic tone. “It’ll be like old times, do you remember? When we used to play rummy by candlelight after the kids went up to bed.” Brenda did remember, and for a fleeting moment felt her heart soften towards this silly old fool whom she had married. She consented to a game before bed, for old times’ sake like he said.

After what seemed like an interminably long day it was time for bed. Brenda and Graham clumsily took off their outer clothes and climbed onto the mattress in their long johns, pulling the sleeping bag on top of them. “Well hasn’t this been nice?” Graham said as he flicked off the torch.

“Nice?” came his wife’s voice from the darkness beside him.

“Yes, my flower, don’t you think?”

There was a brief scuffle as Brenda fumbled for the torch and the light blinked back into life. She glared at her husband and raised herself up on one elbow. “Do you really want to know what I think?”

“Of-of course, my flower” Graham stuttered.

“Okay, then I’ll tell you. In twenty years of marriage I have never liked camping. Not even for a second. I humoured you at first, because I was in love, and because I wanted to please you. And then, when the boys were born I did it to please them. But there is nothing about sleeping in such cloyingly close proximity to you without a single luxury in sight that appeals to me. Nothing – got it?”

Graham nodded, his mouth hanging open in bewilderment. “But I thought…”

“You thought what, Graham? That I enjoyed it? What have I ever said or done to give you that impression?”

“You never said you didn’t.”

Brenda stopped mid-flow to consider this point, and for a moment they stared at one another in quiet contemplation. “You mean, if I’d said I didn’t like it you’d have stopped – just like that?”

“Of course, my flower.”

Brenda opened her mouth to chastise her husband further, but the words dried up in her throat. “Oh,” was all she could manage. “I see.” She flicked the torch back off and lay down on her back, feeling the counter balance of her husband’s pose beside her. Was it she who all along had been the fool not to say how she really felt? Could all those years of bitterness have been avoided if she’d simply admitted that Graham’s choice of holiday wasn’t her cup of tea? This was a revelation that both frightened and excited her.

As they lay in the darkness with their private thoughts a tiny hissing noise started up. Soon the noise was louder, more urgent. Within moments the air bed had deflated, and as her bottom touched the floor Brenda laughed. She laughed so hard her sides hurt, and soon her husband’s laugh had joined her own. When they eventually recovered themselves Graham flicked on the light and grinned.

“There was a B&B a couple of miles back. Shall we spend the night there?”

Brenda grinned back. “Yes please.”

“Fresh start?” Graham asked as he pulled his wife to her feet.

“Fresh start,” she agreed. “Oh, and if we’re having a fresh start can I ask one more thing?”

“Of course, my flower,” said Graham.

“Don’t call me your flower. If there’s one thing I’ve hated even more than camping all of these years it’s that.” She laughed again and took his hand, guiding him out of the tent into the night.

Fancy Dresser

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After years of staunch opposition I’ve not only succumbed but actively begun to embrace fancy dress. And if yesterday’s rugby sevens tournament at Twickenham is anything to go by, I’m not alone. It seems the older people get the more inclined they are to behave like they’re young, even though ironically when they were young they probably thought fancy dress was deeply uncool just as I did.

But why shouldn’t adults be silly from time to time? It’s true that with age comes responsibility, but all responsibility and no play makes for a very dull existence. Sometimes it’s just great to just step off the treadmill, put responsibilities to one side and remember the simple pleasure of dressing up and pretending to be someone – or something – entirely different, even if it’s just for one day.

So if you’ve ever harboured dreams of being Superman, or wondered what it would be like to be a monkey, why not seize the day and get a costume, throw a party and indulge your inner child? Because it’s only in throwing off the shackles of adulthood once in a while that we can truly stay young at heart – and staying young at heart is the key to a long and happy life.