Duvet Day

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Whilst slobbing around for a whole day in pyjamas isn’t normally my style, from time to time it’s great to give in to temptation and settle down in front of the TV with a fry up and a box set of DVDs (or, in these technologically advanced times, a laptop streaming a series directly from the internet). It’s especially rewarding when the weather outside is foul (tick) and there’s just enough food in the fridge to get you through the day without having to leave the flat or order a takeaway (double tick). Also, given that NaNoWriMo month is fast approaching and this may be the last lazy Sunday this flat sees for some weeks, I feel all the more vindicated for having made this decision.

Duvet days are (I believe I’m correct in asserting) a primary feature of most people’s university experience. Later in life, therefore, it’s rather enjoyable, on the odd occasion, to cast off the shackles of civilised society and revert to eighteen year old type. Characterised by an outright refusal to get dressed and a tendency to eat vast quantities of food whilst watching back to back episodes of the same television programme, Duvet Days are the perfect tonic for the modern overworked and overstimulated mind. Want to eat ice cream in your pants and stare into space for a few hours, troubling your mind with nothing more taxing than what channel to watch and whether to opt for coffee or tea? Go ahead my friend, because a Duvet Day is YOUR opportunity to do just that without experiencing a single iota of guilt. Now, will somebody pass the remote?

The Magic

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I’ve just awoken from a lucid dream about one of the characters in the novel I’m planning to write for next month’s NaNoWriMo. The details I’ve been struggling to come up with when fully conscious presented themselves, as if by magic, when I was semi-conscious. Not only that, when I fully woke up and jumped out of bed to write those details down, the ‘twist’ in the plot I’ve been scratching around for over the past few days popped into my head, just like that. All of a sudden I am no longer ill at ease with my plot, but positively in love with it. There may still be (many) details to work out before I’m ready to start writing it in thirteen days, but instead of dreading it I now can’t wait to get cracking.

THIS feeling is what the writing process is all about, and it’s a feeling I haven’t had for a long time. Sometimes it’s such a battle just coming up with a plot, let alone developing the characters to bring that plot alive. And my inner critic doesn’t help, making constant digs about not being good enough. That’s why I love NaNoWriMo; because for one month every year I can commit to a writing programme so intense there is no time for introspection and self-criticism. It’s pedal to the metal all the way to the finish line, and whilst it’s not easy it is exhilarating. And that’s what makes it worth every minute.

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The seventh circle of (shopping) hell

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Oxford Circus on a Friday night is, one imagines, akin to being in the seventh circle of Hell. Just making it out of the tube station is a fight for survival, but once you hit the main concourse that’s when the struggle really begins. As you navigate the constant stream of dazed shoppers and excited tourists you find yourself sympathising for salmon in their battle to make it upstream. Everyone seems to be going in the opposite direction to you. In this no man’s land they are your enemies, yet when you scan their hostile faces you see your own plight reflected back at you as if in a mirror. Your bags become lead in your hands, your feet heavier still.

When the need to escape this throng of lemmings becomes overwhelming you duck into a department store, but after wandering amongst the over-painted perfume ladies their cloying scents make you heady and nauseous. You are losing focus and you know it. Panic bubbles furiously in the cauldron of your stomach. Beads of sweat nudge down your temples like a landslide. “Can I help you, Madam?” says a perfume lady. ‘Yes,’ you want to scream, ‘please help me! I’ve no idea what I’m doing here and I want so desperately to go home! And, while you’re at it, can you tell me why it’s so interminably hot in here?’ But of course you don’t say that. You just give her a strained smile, and beat as hasty a retreat to the exit as you can whilst maintaining the shred of dignity you still have left.

Gasping in the air outside the shop you scan the pavement for a break in the plasma flow of fellow humankind. When that break comes you run as fast as your heavy feet will carry you back to the tube, eschewing the advances of the Evening Standard seller as he tries to thrust a paper into your clammy hands. And within minutes you are cocooned in the carriage of the tube train, speeding away from the place that has tormented you, empty-handed but immeasurably relieved.

Defining Potential

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Reading this article on the BBC News website today really struck a chord. Rumination is something I have always excelled in (shame I couldn’t have excelled in something more useful, like academia for example). Not to the point of falling into a depression, you understand, but often to the point of being paralysed by feelings of disappointment in myself – for not working harder, not being more assertive etc. (trust me, the list goes on and on).

In recent months and years, however, I have begun to develop a coping strategy in response to this. It’s gradually becoming easier to recognise when those familiar feelings of self-doubt are creeping up and to nip them in the bud. Perhaps this is a positive result of the ageing process (there have to be some, right?), whereby we come to know ourselves that little bit better as each year passes, so that over time we realise it’s not worth beating ourselves up for our failures, and is far better to just accept them and move on.

Instead of wallowing when we feel we have failed, we should celebrate when we have succeeded, because only then will we start to positively re-affirm who we are and what we can achieve. It makes me sad to see so many people failing to realise their potential in life – myself included. But what is ‘potential’ really? Maybe part of the problem is our definition of that word, and our perception of how much we are really capable of. If we were kinder to ourselves and other people perhaps it would be easier to put our failures behind us and stride into the future unencumbered?

Tips on Resolving Workplace Tension

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Given that most of us spend the majority of our week in the workplace, it’s inevitable that sometimes tensions will run high. The more pragmatic people in the office might find it easy to keep things professional rather than personal but, for many, keeping emotion out of the equation isn’t always easy.

The real danger lies not in feeling – or even expressing – that emotion, but in consigning it to record by writing it down in an email-and copying in every man and his dog to boot. What may start out as a small difference of opinion can rapidly escalate into a war of increasingly unpleasant words-at the end of which it could be your own head on the chopping block instead of the person with whom you are arguing your well considered (at least to your mind) point.

In a cyber war of attrition it’s easy to forget the person on the receiving end of your diatribe is actually just that-a person. In the heat of the moment it’s also easy to forget that as soon as you’ve hit send you’re rather likely to have to face that person on your way to the kitchen when you want to make a cuppa, which can make for an awkward encounter.

With the above in mind, here are some tips on avoiding unecessary escalation of arguments in the work place:

1. Speak face to face as soon as an issue arises
2. Don’t succumb to the temptation to copy in your boss, your boss’s boss and the boss’s daughter to try and accumulate allies-if it backfires the only one with egg on their face will be you
3. If someone is winding you up via email sit back (or better still, get up and walk away from your computer), take a deep breath and think long and hard before firing off a retaliatory message that you will regret
4. Be professional – even if someone else is being anything but. That, rather than getting overcome by emotion, is the best way to earn the respect and alliance of your colleagues.

I wish I could say I always practice what I preach, but in this case I’ve still got a long way to go…

The Power of Touch

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Everyone has a ‘thing’ that helps them to achieve ultimate relaxation. For some it might be listening to music, for others reading a book or meditating. Whilst I do love all those past times, my ‘thing’ would have to be, absolutely and unequivocally, massage. Why? Because not only does the feeling of another person’s fingers connecting with your skin feel toe-curlingly sensual, it’s also recognition that you need – and more importantly deserve – time out from your normal routine. It’s decadent, extravagant and too expensive (for most of us mere mortals) to be a regular occurrence, which makes it all the more enjoyable. As an ardent traveller it also takes me back to exotic places I’ve visited like Bali, conjuring up the many sights, sounds and smells I experienced there.

Today I had my first massage in a depressingly long time at the Tantalizing Spa in Pimlico. I’d bought it as a Wowcher deal last month for a paltry £14, so in truth I didn’t have the highest of hopes for its quality. How wrong I was. The spa doesn’t look much from the outside but the room I was led into was cosy and beautifully decorated. The massage table was so comfortable it felt like lying on a cloud. And the massage itself was just…Wow. This lady clearly knew her stuff, as an hour later her finger tips had melted my rubbish day away and left me feeling fantastic. I floated out of the salon and down the road to the tube station without once feeling the need to check my phone or my watch. I also noticed that my walking pace had slowed compared to normal, which for me is a sure sign relaxation has set in.

But the real treat came as I was heading for the door and my masseuse offered me a second massage for half the normal price if I came back within a month. With such positive benefits to both mind and body, it would have been rude to turn her down…

Sisters

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With National Novel Writing Month less than three weeks away, planning for this year’s NaNo novel is finally underway. After playing around with different protagonists I think I’ve settled on Scarlett. Here’s a sneak preview of the story:

“What?” Scarlett lowered the phone from her ear and stared at it without comprehension. Several moments later she raised it back to her cheek. “Are you sure?” Her blood was pumping like a river in her ears now, torrents of emotion surged through her like thick tar, drowning her in sticky disbelief. She knew the words being spoken on the other end of the telephone line were in her native tongue and yet they may as well have been in Martian, for all she was processing of them. A memory popped into her head then, so clear it was like watching a television screen. She and Ruby were children, sitting on the front lawn of the White House that sloped down towards the sea. It was a warm summer’s day with an unusually gentle breeze and yet their mother had dressed them in warm tights and corduroy pinafore dresses. Scarlett remembered the scratchiness of the tights, her longing to remove them and feel the coolness of the grass against her legs, to stretch out and close her eyes; to dream. Her sister, however, seemed not to care, so engrossed was she in the flora and fauna, not to mention the iced bun clasped between her chubby fingers. They were so different even then, but for all their differences they loved each other. They were sisters after all. “Hello?” The woman’s voice at the end of the crackly phone line sounded impatient now. She had delivered her news and that, it seemed, was where her sympathy ended. “I’m sorry,” said Scarlett, her voice hoarse. “It’s just a lot to take in.” “Of course,” said the woman, her tone flat. “Now I go, okay?” Scarlett hung up the call and let the phone slip from her grasp. It landed on the floor with a thud that matched the thudding of her heart. Ruby, her beautiful, inquisitive, infuriating little sister, was dead.

The Stag

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It’s 10am and the Easyjet flight to Berlin is preparing for take off. “Ladies and gentlemen,” says the female cabin crew member with the unfortunate monotone voice, “as we are currently refuelling please refrain from doing up your seat belts until further notice.” A passenger in row 12 stops a passing male cabin crew member and brandishes a pair of newly acquired headphones. “Got anything I can open these with mate? Scissors or a knife?” The cabin crew member shakes his head. “I’m afraid due to safety regulations we’re not permitted to carry either on board Sir.” Another announcement comes over the PA: “Ladies and gentlemen, as there is a passenger travelling on the plane today with a serious nut allergy, we will be unable to sell any items containing nuts for the duration of the flight.” A member of the stag party in row 14 pipes up: “Let me get this straight. We’ve been asked not to do up our seat belts, someone’s just asked for a knife and now we’ve been told we can’t order anything with nuts in it because someone on board has a serious nut allergy. Are we on candid camera?”

Twenty minutes into the flight and a female cabin crew member stops next to row 14. She sniffs the air. “Is that…alcohol I can smell?” From the depths of his bag the best man from the stag party produces a bottle of bourbon. His friends try to hide the plastic cups in their hands but it’s too late, they have been foiled. “I’m afraid you can’t drink your own alcohol on board,” the cabin crew lady says with  a tone that might be more appropriate for admonishing a two year old who has stolen a toy in nursery than a grown man who has smuggled a bottle of spirits onto a commercial flight. She confiscates the bourbon and the stag party promptly commence purchasing rounds of gin and tonics-both for themselves and the two female passengers who happen to be lucky-or unlucky-enough to be sitting beside them.
 
Three quarters of the way through the flight and the gin-fuelled stag party are getting rowdy. “It’s Michael’s birthday tomorrow,” says one of them. “We can celebrate the stag do tonight and the birthday tomorrow,” says another, pausing before adding, “we can get a cake!” “A cake?” says the best man. “Shut up you wanker. You sound like my mum.” “So what are we going to do this weekend then?” “Well, [the stag] wants to get a beer bike but sod that, I reckon we just get leathered and stay out all night both nights, then go straight to the airport on Sunday morning.”
 
Oh to be a fly on the wall for the return journey…

 

A weekend in Berlin

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Slight technical hitch uploading yesterday’s blog, so here it is now:

And so to Berlin, a city so steeped in history as to ooze it at every turn. I remember learning about the Cold War and the Holocaust at school, but actually being in what was the epicentre of such enormously significant historical events is powerful in the extreme. The Holocaust memorial and museum moved me to tears-it’s just so hard to comprehend that such evil can exist in the world. 

 On a less serious note, the Germans may be famed for their efficiency, but one thing that is woefully lacking in efficiency is the system of pay as you go bicycles. It took five grown adults four attempts to successfully register using the terrible touch screen ‘technology,’ but in the end we did manage to liberate some bikes and cycle around the city for an hour, before stumbling across an Oktoberfest bar and settling in for a few steins of beer.
 
Berlin is such a fun and vibrant city with a huge amount to see and do. One weekend just isn’t enough to fully appreciate all it has to offer. Which just means I’ll have to come back-no great hardship 🙂

The Awakening

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Lottie blinked at the alarm and it blinked back. Slowly but surely its neon green numbers came into focus. “Shit!” She shouted, throwing off the covers and leaping out of bed. “I’m late!” She scrabbled around for her clothes and tossed an assortment of random items into the hold all her mum had left out for her, then tumbled down the stairs into the kitchen where her family were having breakfast. “Why didn’t you wake me?” She demanded. From behind his newspaper her dad raised an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly you told us in no uncertain terms the other night that you were-and I quote-‘perfectly capable’ of waking yourself up in the mornings.” Lottie stuck her tongue out and chucked a piece of toast into the toaster. “So,” said her mother, “are you looking forward to the trip?” Lottie shrugged and tossed her mass of frizzy hair over her shoulder. “I s’pose.” Her parents exchanged one of their unfathomable-and therefore infuriating-looks. “Isn’t it the first time your school and the boys’ school have done a joint trip?” Lottie rolled her eyes. “And?” Her mother smiled. “And nothing darling. You have a lovely time.”

 
When she reached the school car park the final few students from St.Anne’s were boarding. Lottie knew the boys from St.Swithans would already have been picked up. The thought of it made her stomach do an involuntary flip, though she wasn’t sure why. The last thing she wanted was a boyfriend. If her brother Tom was anything to go by boys were not only stupid but also gross in the extreme. Nonetheless, she hasn’t had much experience of them to date, which explained her nervousness at being about to spend two whole days with some.
 
She climbed up the steps into the coach. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness so her heart sank into her new boots-the only available seat was at the back of the bus in the boys’ section. As she trudged past them her best friends Ali and Sabrina shrugged apologetically. She scowled back at them. As she approached the back of the bus the boys whooped and cheered. Feeling faint with apprehension she sat down in the empty seat, casting a cursory glance at the boy beside her. He was slim but not lanky, with closely cropped brown hair and the longest eyelashes she had ever seen-even Ali’s weren’t that long with mascara on, she thought. The boy caught her looking at him and she felt her face flush red. His lips parted into a lopsided smile, and Lottie noticed that he had dimples in his cheeks. “I’m Dan,” he said, extending a hand.” “Lottie,” she said, holding out her own. From behind them there came a series of disgusting slurping noises as the boys took the mickey out o their exchange. But because Dan seemed so unphased by it, Lottie found she didn’t mind at all.
 
When they reached the ferry port everyone was told to get off the coach. Most of the boys sprinted off to get the best seats at the front, the girls in hot (but doing their best not to look it) pursuit. Dan, however, held back, choosing instead to saunter towards the back of the boat by himself. Lottie hesitated, torn between following her friends and seeing where this new acquaintance might lead to. As if reading her mind Dan stopped and half-turned towards her. “Coming?” He asked. She nodded and followed him. There were no other people at the back of the boat so they had their pick of the white plastic seats. Dan sat down and busied himself untangling a knot in his headphones. Lottie walked to the railing and leaned over, feeling the sea’s salty breath against her cheek. “You an only child?” Dan’s voice beside her made her jump. “No,” she said. “Are you?” He nodded and pulled the hood of his coat up over his head. “How old are you?” “Fourteen,” said Lottie. “You?” “Fifteen.” They stood in silence for a few moments until, emboldened by the bracing sea air, Lottie asked, “Why didn’t you go with the others just then?” Dan shrugged. “Dunno. Sometimes they just get a bit much, with all the stupid jokes and messing about.” Lottie smiled. “I feel that way with my friends sometimes. All they talk about is makeup and clothes. Sometimes it’s just easier to be by myself.” Dan nodded. “I know the feeling.” “Not in a sad way or anything. I like reading books and stuff like that.” Dan’s eyes widened. “Yeah? What books do you like?” “Fantasy mainly. I’m reading the Hobbit at the moment.” Lottie reached into her bag and pulled the corner of her battered copy out of her bag so he could see it. “Cool. Can I borrow it when you’ve finished?” “Don’t see why not.” Dan smiled his lopsided smile again. “And maybe we can hang out sometime after this trip. You know, be by ourselves, but together. Only if you want to though…” Lottie’s stomach did another flip. “I think I’d like that,” she said, feeling the redness creeping back up her neck. She looked at her watch. “We’d better get back to the bus.” As they both made to move their hands brushed together, and Dan’s fingers tightened around hers. Perhaps, she thought as they walked back to the bus, boys weren’t so gross after all.