Paving paradise

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When you’re young – and, for the purpose of this post let’s qualify that as being under twenty five – it’s easy to forget your mortality. Most people in this category (in the western world at least) are blessed with good health and supple joints, and find it relatively easy to exercise if they actually put their minds to it.

I was a late bloomer when it came to discovering the joy of regular exercise. It wasn’t until I reached the grand old age of 26 that I started to go to the gym frequently and took up running and triathlons. Fast forward five years and I like to think I’m in the best shape I’ve ever been. Or at least I would think that if it hadn’t been for my recent spate of injuries.

First I put my back out two days before Glastonbury-an affliction that was fortunately managed with the help of slow release Ibuprofen, heat patches and an osteopath treatment in the healing fields on the second day.

Then today came the one I’ve been dreading: my first running injury. I was six kilometres into an eight kilometre run when it happened-a sudden acute pain in the muscle at the back of my knee. I carried on running for a while, but when it became apparent the pain was not going away I was forced to walk the remaining two kilometres.

This was displeasing, and has completely burst my bubble of invincibility when it came to running. I am suddenly both physically and mentally pained by the realisation that my body isn’t as strong as it once was. I may be looking after it now, but when it was in prime condition I was systematically abusing it with crap food, fags and litres of Bacardi Breezer and Jagerbombs in the student union.

Wasn’t it Joni Mitchell who sang about not knowing what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone? They paved paradise and put up a parking lot, apparently. Now I know how she feels.

Living below the line – for real

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Last night I caught the tail end of a TV programme about people in this country who have to feed their families on less than £2 each a day. According to the programme, recent research estimates that nearly five million people in the UK are struggling to feed themselves properly and eat nutritiously.

Watching the families’ struggle had a sobering effect on me, and made me realise just how fortunate I am. It also got me thinking about the poverty divide, and how so many people wrongly claim to be on the wrong side of it when really they’re nowhere near.

So often people – myself included – say they have no money, and yet no sooner has the breath escaped their lips than they are buying their daily speciality coffee and Pret a Manger salad. Admittedly such purchases are often the difference between being in the red and being in the black, but real poverty is about far more than having a few hundred pounds to pay off on your overdraft and/or credit card.

Real poverty is parents going without food to ensure their children don’t, or families having to swallow their pride and visit food banks so they have enough to survive. Real poverty is scouring the marked down section in the supermarket out of necessity every single day rather than to secure the odd bargain now and again. Real poverty is having to choose between heating and eating.

So next time I’m about to complain about not being able to afford a night out (when I’ve only just had a night out), not having savings (when, even after my recent pay cut I’m still able to afford £150 each month to pay off my credit card) or not being able to afford holidays and clothes (when I go on plenty of the former and have more than enough of the latter as it is) I’m going to stop and think about the families on that programme. I’ll put myself in their position and imagine what it’s like to struggle every single day just to put food on the table and keep the house heated. And I’ll keep my mouth shut.

Change

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The following fictional post was inspired by the certificate ceremony I attended today with work at a youth centre in Islington, where teenagers from four of the schools my charity works with were commended for their participation in the Teens and Toddlers programme:

Change

I never thought I’d amount to much. Why would I? My parents told me every day that I was useless. Then even my teachers started giving up on me. It’s like a downward spiral, see. You start acting up to get attention, but all too late you realise it’s not the right kind of attention you’re getting. You wanted to be popular, not the class clown – the one the other kids laugh at and the teachers label as a troublemaker.

Things at home weren’t great. Dad’s drinking was getting worse and Mum, well, she was so doped up on depression pills she hardly knew what day it was. I pretty much did everything; cooking, cleaning, looking after my baby brother. If I hadn’t been there I don’t know what would have happened to him. He’d probably have been taken into care. Sometimes I wondered if that would’ve been best for the both of us.

When my teachers told me about this mentoring programme that paired teenagers with toddlers in a nursery I wasn’t interested at all; I had enough experience of looking after children with my baby brother, why would I want more? I only agreed to do it ’cause it got me out of school one afternoon a week, and gave me something to do apart from hanging around the recreation ground and causing trouble with my mates because I was bored.

But when I started the programme things started to change. My toddler was a challenge, mainly because he was like me; hyperactive and angry. We even looked alike, with wild hair, dark skin and brown eyes. He didn’t trust me at first, but after a few weeks he started coming up to me when I walked in and holding my hand. It made me feel special, and in those moments the big ball of anger I carried around inside me would get a bit smaller.

I’ve learned a lot about myself through the programme. I realise now the consequences of my actions on others, and I’m not so hell bent on trying to hurt people, mentally and physically. I feel more responsible, more in control. I want to achieve in life. I want to be a success. But above all else I want people to look at me and, instead of seeing the clown, the troublemaker or the joker, I want them to see the responsible man I can and will become.

The beautiful sunset on the last night of my recent trip to Italy.

Midsummer dreaming

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With a name like Hamlet I was always going to stick out from the crowd. Dad claims he chose the name because it was a dark and stormy night when I was born, and because he knew I’d be a leader. Mum says she went along with it because she’d always liked studying Shakespeare at school and had a fondness for Ophelia (which I think is frankly ridiculous). So anyway, for various stupid reasons I was lumbered with this name, and it’s haunted me ever since. Didn’t they realise schools would still be teaching Shakespeare when they had children of their own? Honestly.

Still, I shouldn’t complain. At least I’m better off than my poor brother. At three years old he’s too young to realise what he has in store for him, but something tells me it’s not going to be pretty. What on earth would possess someone to name their son Puck? Not only does it rhyme with a rude word that means the act of coitus (or copulation – we’re doing sex education at the moment and it’s funny as), it’s also the name of the Fairy King. Mum says it’s romantic, but I can’t see it being romantic when my brother’s friends are old enough to realise the joke.

Parents can be so stupid sometimes.

Back to work

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No matter how much you love your job, you always have a degree of back to work dread when the alarm goes off on your first morning back in the office post-holiday. And so it was at 7am this morning, when I groggily opened my eyes and pulled back the curtains to see yet another delightful day in the making. After a twenty minute armpit-in-face commute I was even less enamoured with the idea of a day spent in an airless office (the window open is sealed shut – far from ideal in these sweltering conditions). And by 11am – by which time I was less than a third of the way through my emails – I was about ready to face plant onto my desk.

Fortunately the afternoon part of the day proved far more fruitful than its morning predecessor. After a brief stint in the sunshine I returned, fortified, to tackle the To Do list head on. But, though a welcome development it wasn’t my increased productivity that proved to be the ultimate redeemer. What rescued the day from the jaws of defeat was the time I spent with one of our young people helping her to prepare for this evening’s exciting Backing Youth event, hosted by HRH The Duke of York at Buckingham Palace. Hearing the passion in her voice when she spoke about how much the charity has helped her was inspiring, and reminded me of why I do what I do.

Here’s a sneak preview of some professional shots we had taken recently on one of our projects. Definitely a good reminder of how important my role is as PR Manager for the charity.

Glory days

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Whoever has stolen the weather from some far flung tropical clime and brought it here to the UK deserves a medal. No, more than that, a knighthood. There’s simply nothing better than returning from holiday to find the weather at home equally as good as the place you left behind (apart from going on another holiday immediately afterwards, that is, but that would just be greedy). It softens the blow somewhat, that’s for sure. As does freelance Monday which, I’m afraid to say, I slightly shortened today with the insertion of a lazy middle of the day picnic in Brockwell Park with some friends and their baby. But sometimes you have to go with the flow and make the most of good fortune when it smiles upon you(r country). And as any Londoner who’s spent any length of time in this fine city will know, spells of good weather like this don’t come around too often.

The only down side of this fabulous weather (if one could really classify it as a down side) is that it makes running even harder, not just because it’s physically hotter but also because it’s harder to motivate oneself to exercise when the sun is shining and one would really, let’s face it, much rather be lying on the grass than stomping all over it. That said, I’m pleased to report my first 5k in almost a fortnight was completed in a rather respectable 27 minutes (had I not had my running club friend as a pacemaker I’m certain I’d have been considerably slower). And whilst at the time I felt I might be about to meet my maker, as soon as it was over and the familiar warm glow of satisfaction washed over me I felt much better. Which is just as well, because it’s less than nine weeks until my half marathon, and if I really want to avoid an early brush with Heaven I’d better get training…

Ciao for now

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Yesterday, our last day in Italy, we left the city of Florence and headed out into the countryside for a night of four star luxury at the Hotel Mulino di Firenze. 

A five kilometre drive out of the centre, the hotel felt just far enough away from the hustle and bustle of city life to allow us to completely unwind, yet also near enough to be convenient for today’s departure (sob) to the airport for our flight back to London.
 
The Mulino couldn’t be much better situated, with many of its 35 bedrooms – ours included, thanks to an upgrade due to a mix up with our hotel shuttle booking – directly overlooking the beautiful River Arno. The hotel is built around a restored water mill, with the mill itself integrated into the glorious swimming pool. 
 
We spent the afternoon lazing by the pool, and in the evening played cards on the upstairs veranda looking out over the traditional Tuscan landscape, before eating dinner on the hotel restaurant’s frankly stunning terrace, where we had an unrestricted view of one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever witnessed.
 
When the time came to leave this morning my heart felt heavy; after an eight year absence Italy had worked its magic on me and seeped back into the very core of my existence. But instead of being sad to be back I’m determined to remember every sight, sound and smell I’ve encountered in the last week, and to make sure next time I don’t leave it so long to return to the country that I love so much.

Firenze, Ti amo

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Yesterday began in somewhat of a rush, after a miscommunication regarding the start time of our visit to the Medici tombs (which I can’t deny may have had something to do with the slightly excessive alcohol consumption the previous night). Nonetheless, after the initial panic things were swiftly back on track, and after a salad lunch on the terrace and an afternoon rest and market browse (where some scumbag vendor tried to fleece us out of 15 Euros-not so fast sunshine) we were ready to enjoy our final evening in central Florence.

 
A tip for anyone visiting Florence is to pre-book tickets for the famous Uffizi art gallery one or even two days before you plan to visit, as this will mean avoiding the huge queues on the day. The gallery is well worth a look around, being full of treasures such as Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. It’s well organised, air conditioned and has some of the best vantage points along its numerous corridors and terraces to enjoy unrestricted views of the Arno river, Duomo and town hall.
 
After two hours spent wandering around the Uffizi-the only mild irritation being the hordes of tourists and tour guides passing through the halls-we went back to the restaurant where we’d dined on our first night for one last plate of mixed grilled meats, which we followed up with one last gelato at Vivoli  ice cream parlour (when we walked past it earlier in the day the queue was right down the street, but by 10pm it was virtually empty) – if you ever get a chance to sample its delights the coconut ice cream comes highly recommended.
 
As we strolled back past the hugely impressive Pizza del Duomo I took one last look around at the city I first fell in love with as a six year old, and it felt as magical in that moment as it felt all those years ago.

Touristic endeavours

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Yesterday we had a day of tourist endeavours, visiting the famous Medici family’s palace and a Dominican monastery in the morning and the church of Santa Croce in the afternoon. 
 
I’ve always been particularly fascinated by the story of a monk called Savonorola, who lived in Florence in the time of the Medici family and who urged the citizens of Florence to cast off their frippery and trappings of wealth in favour of a more humble lifestyle. He ruled for four years before eventually being burned at the stake for being a heretic, which I suppose goes to show how quickly a person’s fortunes can turn for the worse!
 
After completing our cultural pursuits for the day we took a stroll around the leather market and made a few purchases before heading back to the apartment. In the evening we went back to my favourite restaurant, Il Borgo Antico, in Piazza San Spirito before catching the end of a stunning performance of a huge brass band in the main square over a bottle of chilled Pinot Grigio.
 
I can’t believe our time in Florence is nearly at an end, when it feels as though it’s only just begun. But one thing is for sure: This time I won’t be leaving it another eight years until I return.

Lazy days

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I can’t believe it’s Thursday already-it’s true what they say about time passing quickly when you’re having fun. Holidays are such an important opportunity to unwind and recuperate from the stressors of “real” life. They give the body and mind a much needed break and a chance to more fully live in and appreciate the present moment. 

 
Holidays are also often a time when we throw caution to the wind and overindulge ourselves, and nowhere is that easier to do than Italy, where there’s gelato, wine and pizza at virtually every turn.
 
Yesterday we had a lazy morning before visiting one of my favourite places in Florence-the covered market. Under its vast roof lie a multitude of delicious foodstuffs. But what I love even more than the food are the cheerful vendors. It always helps to bring my Italian flooding back when I attempt to engage in pigeon Italian conversation with them, selecting cured meats and cheeses. 
 
After buying ingredients for dinner we walked over the famous Ponte Vecchio bridge to Santo Spirito square, where my favourite restaurant in all of Florence is located-Il Borgo Antico. After dreaming of their legendary white pizza for 8 years I’m happy to say it didn’t disappoint, and afterwards we took a traditional Italian gelato to accompany a post-lunch laze in the stunning Boboli Gardens in the grounds of the Pitti Palace.
 
In the evening we prepared a four course feast and dined on the roof of our gorgeous apartment, which is so centrally located the Duomo is virtually within touching distance. There’s something magical about being located so high up above this bustling city, being able to look out across the tops of the buildings and have a bird’s eye view. Being back here after so many years is more than just a pleasure-it’s a thrill.