Author Archives: Belle365

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About Belle365

Hi, I’m Belle. Thanks for stopping by. Here's a list of ten things about me: 1. I want to write, but rarely do it. This tortures me daily, and, unless I seek to remedy it by writing more often, will continue to torture me until my dying day. 2. I worry: about hate, about greed, about selfishness, about the state of the world my (God willing) children will inherit. I worry about what people think of me. I worry that this makes me shallow. I worry about things happening to my loved ones. I worry how I would cope. I worry that this makes me selfish. I worry that worrying will send me to an early grave. But I'm so good at worrying that I also wonder what I would do if I wasn't worrying. Probably more writing (see point 1)....Oh. 3. I see myself as two people (though, as far as I am aware, I am not technically schizophrenic): a) the fancy dress loving party girl, who loves nothing more than having fun with her friends, because she has seen through her own experiences that life is short, so why not enjoy the ride? b) the more serious and reflective person who wants to learn and to help people and to find her higher purpose (I suspect it is also she who really, really wants to write). Sometimes these sides are conflicting. Fortunately they are in total agreement when it comes to chocolate, red wine and travel. 4. I don't see myself as an ardent feminist, but the older I get the more frustrated I feel by the societal view of women and ageing. Having just hit the metabolically displeasing age of 35 (now officially past it according to the massive wankflap that is Donald Trump, as well as virtually every media outlet on the planet, whether they overtly state it or not) I hate the fact I am made (and have let myself be manipulated) to feel that my fertility is now teetering on the edge of a clifftop free fall, and that even if I do negotiate this rocky march towards infertility and manage a miracle procreation, my usefulness as a financially solvent career woman will be over, seeing as having a baby in your mid to late thirties is pretty much akin to career suicide. It's enough to make you want to drown yourself in a vat of wine (hence why I often don a wig and do just that - see point 3a). 5. The older I get, the more I realise that you are never too old to love drum and bass (whether you are ever too old to publicly dance to drum and bass is an issue I am currently grappling with). Ditto UK garage. I will never be ashamed of these two great loves. Never. 6. Speaking of great loves, I have two: my husband, who (sickening as it is) completes me, and Leonardo DiCaprio, whom I have loved since I first laid eyes on him as Romeo to Kate Winslet's Juliet, and will love until my dying day (likewise the husband, all being well). As much as I like Kate Winslet, I will never forgive her for leaving him on that door. There was definitely room for two. 7. I am riddled with self doubt, and have a serious case of imposter syndrome, particularly in relation to my fourteen year communications career. I have never understood how anyone could deem me capable of running their campaigns. The lack of complaints would suggest I haven't made a total balls up of it so far. But there's still time. 8. Infinity and death frighten me senseless. I can't even talk about the universe without breaking into a sweat. I need to believe in life after death because death CANNOT be the end. I should probably have some (more) counselling to address these issues. 9. If procrastination were an Olympic sport, I would win Gold, Silver and Bronze (to give an example, I sat down an hour ago to work on my new novel, and instead have been updating this bio. I refer you to point 1. Sigh). 10. I make more lists than Buzzfeed. When I die, besides having Oasis's Champagne Supernova played at my funeral (deep breaths - see point 8), I should probably have a To Do list inscribed on my headstone for when I reach the other side...

Il Palio 2013

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Sometimes in life there are days almost too comical to recount. But, for the sake of brevity and duty I intend to try. 
 
Yesterday began with a quick breakfast before we headed to the train station in central Florence to catch out train to Siena. An hour and a half and some beautiful countryside later we arrived at our destination. A short while (and many escalators-Siena train station feels, from a geographical perspective, like it has been located in the core of the earth) later and we were sipping beer in a delicatessen whilst waiting for our dinner rolls to be prepared (the owner apologised for his gruffness but said it was one of the most important days of the year and nerves were understandably frayed).
 
After wandering through the streets and soaking up the carnival atmosphere that is pre-Palio (Siena’s twice yearly  famous bare back horse race) we arrived at the restaurant my stepfather had booked for lunch and took our seats outside on the terrace. Which is where the fun really began, as my mother saw fit not only to inform us olives turned into grapes somewhere along the manufacturing line (and I wondered where I got my gullibility-not wondering any more), but also that she had always rather liked the idea of being a nudist (“unencumbered by clothes”) – just what you want your boyfriend to hear during a family meal.
 
After lunch we made our way through the back streets to the cathedral where we visited some relics and watched the various parishes who would be taking part in the race parade with their flag bearers and other accoutrements. 
 
At 5pm we began the queue into the central square to find a spot from which we could observe the race. Fortunately the area we picked was mostly in shade-whilst it was delightful to have sun at Glasto nothing could prepare our pasty skin for the onslaught of true Tuscan sun-so we sat out the next three hours in relative comfort (save for the thousands of people all around, and one particularly nauseating couple in front of us who seemed incapable of not being attached by the lips at all times).
 
After much waiting around and several false starts the horses were off, and in three short laps it was all over, with three of the ten jockeys being unseated. Then came the real fun (were I speaking to you at this point you’d be hard pressed not to notice the sarcasm in my voice), as we tried to scale a four foot wall to beat the crowd out of the enclosure. The sight of my 66 year old mother revealing her knickers to the world and screaming “I can’t do it!” as she clambered over, followed by my boyfriend’s whispered comment of “II totally just groped your mum by the way” were matched in the bizarre stakes only by mum’s enjoyment of my drum and bass music as we slightly tipsily shared my headphones on the train home afterwards. In short, an odd but supremely enjoyable day out a la famiglia.

Glasto 2013

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We returned from Glastonbury early on the4pm National Express coach yesterday, in order to get a good night’s rest before embarking on our trip to Florence on Monday. It turned out to be an excellent plan, as not only were we exhausted after three days of hard partying and sleeping in a tent, it was also much less busy leaving than it would have been at the very end.

As ever, the festival didn’t disappoint. I’m always surprised when I hear people bad mouthing Glastonbury; how anyone can argue against it being the original, the biggest and the best festival the UK has to offer is beyond me. There’s so much to do there-something for everyone-and it’s so well planned and thought out that you could never want for anything (except perhaps some more sleep!)

This year’s musical highlights included Bondax, Hospitality, Rudimental, The Stones, Fatboy Slim (on the phenomenal Arcadia stage, which almost defies description but is essentially a giant mechanical spider with a dj booth in the head, and moving pincers that acrobats spiral up and down from-oh, and also fire jets), Chase & Status, Toddla T & Mal Webb (an Aussie who’s not only a great entertainer but also a bit of a comedian to boot-look him up) in the Hippy Fields.

Lowlights included nearly being crushed to death whilst attempting to exit the Stones gig, the most horrendous hayfever I’ve ever had, a touch of sunburn (but we had sun-so yay!) and an ill advised fake tattoo saying “I Love Cock”, which seemed hilarious after a few ciders but which took a great deal of effort to scratch off-particularly unpleasant given the aforementioned sunburn).

I also loved the Boudior tent where you could get your face painted by the very lovely “Glitter Girls”, and have group passport photos in the dress up photo booth. There’s something so liberating about embracing your inner child and dressing up, and Glastonbury sure is the place to do it.

All in all I had a thoroughly enjoyable weekend with my friends, and despite initially thinking at the ripe old age of 31 this might be my third and final Glasto, I’m glad to report I’ve got a few years in me yet 🙂 Because this weekend’s reinforced how inclusive Glastonbury is of all age groups. Young or old, everyone’s welcome, and that’s perhaps the best thing of all. Michael Eavis, I salute you. And I WILL be back.

The fading of the light

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She wasn’t ready when the darkness came, but the darkness didn’t care. It rode rough-shod right through her dreams, obliterating all that lay in its path. From that day forth there would be no violin concertos, no marathons, no travelling alone. For how could these things possibly be done in the absence of sight?

Nobody could believe how suddenly her vision ceased to be. At family gatherings the more superstitious members of her clan would posit in hushed tones over the buffet table that the gods had accidentally gifted her with vision before realising their mistake and taking it back.

Whatever the reason for her misfortune she had little choice but to bear it, though to her life without vision seemed devoid of hope and joy. She wouldn’t take her life, though in the early days she had certainly considered it. Her parents wouldn’t bear the strain, nor did they deserve it. Instead she merely existed from day to day, counting the seconds of the clock as they ticked by, wishing things were different.

Then one day a stranger came upon the house. He claimed to be in need of water and a bite to eat. Her parents tried to turn him away but she said no, what harm would it do to take him in, feed and water him and send him on his way?

But the stranger didn’t leave, not that night or the night that followed. He sat and read to her long after her parents were asleep, and told her stories of his travels and the world. When, a whole month after he arrived he asked her to go with him when he left, she didn’t hesitate. What else did she have?

And so they left, with her parents’ guarded blessing leaving a hundred gossiping mouths in their wake. And he kept his promise of showing her the world through his vivid descriptions. On her birthday he bought her a violin and encouraged her to play. A year later they ran a marathon together, him acting as her eyes.

Through him she realised sight was not everything, but rather love. For the first time in her life she realised she was not alone. And she felt blessed.

Renovation

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When I was a little girl I used to love it when my dad took me to car boot sales. We’d spend hours perusing the various wares on sale, haggling over items until I felt satisfied I’d got a good deal. My favourite items were china cats, which I sought out with ferocious enthusiasm. I rarely left empty-handed, and over the years amassed a large collection of paraphernalia.

As the years wore on my china cat obsession abated, but I sated my continued passion for bric-a-brac by watching with interest programmes such as The Antiques Roadshow, Bargain Hunt and Cash in the Attic. The idea of finding something old lurking in the corner of an attic, dusting it off and finding out it’s actually worth a fortune is almost fairytale-like. Even if it’s not worth a lot of money, there’s something so appealing about restoring old antiques to their former glory.

This rationale may also explain my love of home improvement programmes. I’ve always liked the idea of buying a ramshackle old building somewhere in the country and lovingly renovating it into a gorgeous home. I suppose you could call me a bit of a romantic in that respect, but hopefully one day someone will indulge this girlish dream of mine and help to make it a reality…

…Borobadur in Indonesia was a rather impressive example.

Andiamo il Palio!

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I remember the first time I went to the famous Palio horse race in Siena in Italy. I must have been about six years old, and was on holiday with my mum, my stepdad and my best friend and her family. Siena itself is a lovely place to behold, but when this race comes to town – as it does twice every year, once in July and once in August – it’s something else. Thousands of people line the streets, many waving flags in support of their horse –each of which represents a parish of Siena. The supporters walk through the city towards the central square (in reality more of a concave ‘shell’), filling it up to capacity before the race begins – which it does amidst much pomp and ceremony.

The race is over in seconds – it really is a blink and you’ll miss it affair – but whilst it’s a fantastic spectacle the thing that’s always captivated me has not been the race itself but the flurry of activity afterwards. For if you look up at the balconies – which pre-race are lined with mafia-types in suits and dark glasses – you’ll see them suddenly empty, as they go in search of the jockeys that have failed to bring their money in. Apparently some years the jockeys have been pulled off their horses and even killed (so the legend goes) after losing the race, which is why you’d be hard pressed to find any of the losers in the vicinity once the final whistle is blown.

It’s been a few years since my last trip to Siena, so I’m more than a little excited about attending this year’s first Palio on Tuesday. Dark glasses at the ready…

Don’t panic! It’s just a holiday

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On the topic of holidays, as has been the theme of my last two posts, when I think back to childhood breaks en famille I can’t help but be reminded of Mum’s phobia about packing. I’ve always wound her up about it but it must be so distressing to feel that level of anxiety in the run up to a holiday. Instead of feeling that delicious sense of anticipation about their time away, people like my mum with packing phobias actually experience dread, because the planning that’s required induces panic that can lead to both physical and mental paralysis.

Mum’s a list-maker like me, and you’d think that would help to keep things ordered and under control, but in reality (as I myself have experienced on the odd occasion, like when I’m overloaded at work and find myself surrounded by so many lists my brain ends up in a state of panic-induced inertia) that doesn’t always help. Lists can go so far to quell the panic of forgetting something, but what if you forget to put something on the list in the first place?

I don’t claim to understand this phobia, but I do sympathise with those who have it. I’m also very grateful I don’t have this particular affliction, because I’ve enough neuroses to cope with as it is…

Viva Italia!

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Thinking back to family holidays as a child evokes many happy memories. Having a half-Italian stepfather meant numerous trips to Italy, where we would visit art galleries then sit eating gelato in the sunshine and watching the world go by.

It must be getting on for ten years since I last visited Italy a la famiglia, which is why I’m extremely excited to be doing exactly that on Monday for six glorious days. Not only will it be a welcome holiday post-Glastonbury (we’ve wisely taken the decision to leave the festival a day early in order to get clean and get some rest), it will also be a great opportunity to spend time with my mum and stepdad.

The older I get the more I realise the importance of appreciating my parents. I’m ashamed to say I still turn into a grumpy teenager on occasion when I’m in in their presence, but I am gradually learning to put the adolescent in her place and enjoy interacting with them as an adult.

Roll on the art galleries and gelato – they’ve been a long time coming…

Festival fever

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It’s 6.09pm as I type this and I’ve officially finished work. All that stands between me and Glastonbury 2013 is an evening of last minute packing, a few brief hours’ rest and a three and a half hour coach ride to the site in Pilton, Somerset.

My first experience of the festival in 2005 was somewhat traumatic. A festival (and indeed camping) virgin I’d arrived fresh-faced with my pink two-man tent and solar-powered shower, completely oblivious to the reality of what I was about to endure. Which was, in short, four days of torrential rain (and by torrential I mean on the first night it rained so hard peoples’ tents were washed away and police divers were called in to retrieve their passports and valuables).

When I returned in 2008 the weather gods were marginally kinder. As I recall it only rained for half of the festival, but when you’re trying to negotiate a site that big even the smallest amount of rain can play havoc with your enjoyment of the general experience.

Although this year the forecast predicts some light rain showers, it’s looking like we may avoid a total wash out (she says, crossing fingers, toes and everything in between). But nonetheless I shall be packing my wellies and my mac – I know too well the British forecast should never be trusted…Wish me luck!

Incapacitated

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So, it turns out the satisfaction I felt after six hours spent cleaning out my bedroom on Saturday afternoon came at a price: Namely, acute back pain.

With hindsight lugging heavy bags of rubbish around with scant concern for my posture was foolish, but it’s too late to turn back the clock now. What started as a niggle is now a full blown injury (I won’t deny being a hypochondriac, but this time I’m not lying when I say I’m in agony) but with grit, determination and a LOT of painkillers I HAVE to get through it-because believe you me, there’s no way in God’s green earth I’ll be missing Glastonbury.

Once I’m at the festival I’m sure I’ll be fine-I can self-medicate with cider and sloe gin-it’s just the getting there that’s the problem. More specifically, it’s trekking across numerous fields carrying a rucksack bursting at the seams with mattresses, pumps, tents, tinned food and various other paraphernalia that’s the problem.

Still, I suppose as a seasoned festival-goer I should embrace the challenge, slap a heat patch on my back and give it my best shot-I may fall before I even reach the front gate, but at least I’ll fall knowing I tried, and with a can of gin and tonic in my hand…

 

 

Winning

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Thus far today’s been one of those rare and gorgeous days where everything runs exactly to plan. I was up at 8am, at my desk by 9am and by 10.30am had submitted two magazine pitches and was donning my running shoes for a quick jaunt to Argos in Victoria, where I collected a camping stool for my forthcoming trip to Glastonbury Festival. By the time I arrived back home (by tube, since the camping stool didn’t lend itself all that well to being a running aid) I’d even had a reply from one of the editors (the good news is they want the article, the bad news is they’ve no budget – but never mind, it all adds to the online portfolio).

It’s now 2.30pm and I’ve just finished writing this month’s guest post for Bea Magazine (which will be online on the 30th) and drafted ideas for my blog posts over the next week (WordPress assures me I will not fail in my task of posting something every day of 2013, thanks to its clever functionality to schedule blog posts – shhh). Before I start writing them, however, I need to pop out to do a spot of pre-festival shopping – it’s time to stock up on cereal bars, meal replacement shakes and enough wet wipes to keep the dirtiest of festival-goers clean from head to toe…Quite a tall order…Happy Monday everyone!

My friends will kill me for posting this but I love it – this pic pretty much sums up how much I love Glastonbury and how excited I am to be going there in three days!