Choices

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Yesterday I learned a valuable lesson: When you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders you’re not helping anyone, least of all yourself.

Bad things happen in the world – terrible, unforgivable things. It would be inhuman to never feel affected by them. But if you let your defences down too much they will burrow into your skin like maggots and take root in your soul.

Hate breeds hate like a cancer, and it’s precisely this type of disease that the terrorists and white supremacists have. Their disease is terminal; they’re too far gone to see the errors of their ways and the flaws in their thinking.

But the rest of us have a choice. We can let the hate seep into our consciousness and destroy us, or we can fight against it and tell ourselves life isn’t hopeless and that there’s much more goodness in the world than bad.

Internalising the world’s problems is, ultimately, pointless. If you want to make positive change then go ahead and make it, there’s nothing stopping you. But accept the boundaries within which that change is attainable. In this life we get back what we put in, so there’s little point in being negative. It’s bad for our hearts and bad for our health – and without our health how can we expect to achieve anything positive?

In the wake of this realisation I’ve decided not to read the papers or watch the news today, to step away from the perpetual misery and propaganda and just enjoy my own life; my work, my family, my book, my writing. Sometimes it gets too much to bear, the constant onslaught of negative reporting on the world’s plethora of problems (though this, of course, is a first world problem. I have the luxury of turning my back on them, whereas millions don’t; they live those problems every single day with no respite. Those problems are their lives, there is nothing else. This, too, is worth remembering).

My new mantra is this:

Focus on the things you can change, rather than worrying about the things you can’t.

Despite the bad things that happen in it and the ignorant people we share it with, the world is still a beautiful place. And for the short time we’re on this planet, we should at least try to enjoy it.

Hate for hate’s sake

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I know I shouldn’t jump on the bandwagon after yesterday’s shocking attack on a soldier near his army barracks in Woolwich, but I’ve been so shocked and appalled by the outpouring of anti-Muslim sentiment on social media in its wake that I feel compelled to write about it.

What happened was both vile and unforgivable. But whilst the true nature and circumstance of the crime has yet to be revealed, let’s get one thing straight. Whether this was truly an ‘act of terrorism’ – as the media so gleefully report – or the act of two delusional individuals with extremist beliefs, it is beyond wrong to lay the blame for this incident at the door of the Muslim community.

For the English Defence League – whose website claims they are “are an inclusive movement dedicated to peacefully protesting against Islamic extremism” – to arm themselves with bottles and attack police and mosques in the wake of the incident is despicable.

Why do some people in this country – and the world at large – have such a strong propensity for hate? They claim to be fighting a cause but in reality it’s simply violence for violence’s sake. An eye for an eye is what they misguidedly believe, but do they even understand what they’re allegedly fighting for?

Yes, times are hard, and many people are looking for someone to blame. But for God’s (and by this I must be clear that I mean any god) sake let’s not lose the one thing that makes our species great: Our humanity. Because without that what are we but animals? And savage ones at that.

Beauty Queen

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Blankly she stares through mascaraed eyes, a soulless being with a painted face. For hours a tumultuous swarm of activity has ebbed and flowed around her. It is only now, with moments to spare, that the hurricane winds gather pace. Faceless fingers tug her hair into a style that defies both gravity and reason. Yet more tend to her nails, pinch her cheeks, tweeze her brows. Quietly she sits in the eye of the storm; watching, waiting.

From behind the chair upon which she is borne aloft a camera clicks. She smells the cloying odour of stale alcohol before she sees the photographer’s face in the mirror. Sweat oozes from his forehead like ectoplasm, sticky and wet. His lips purse, he blows a kiss at her then laughs, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. She does not respond, merely looks away.

Her rosebud lips are painted pink, a final wash of blusher applied to the apples of her cheeks. She steps down from the chair. Her vantage point lost, she feels her diminutive stature acutely. The layers of cream and pink tulle on her princess cut dress are adjusted. Her feet are prised into crystal slippers; replicas of Cinderella’s, or so they told her. A cloud of perfume and hairspray shrouds her, stinging her eyes and throat like nettles. Now she is unrecognisable even to herself, she is ready.

The curtains pull back and she steps onto the runway, drawing collective gasps. “Isn’t she beautiful?” “What a darling little thing.” “Only five years old, you say? Well I never.” “Adorable.”

In the glare of the studio lights nobody notices the single tear that slides unbidden down her painted face, dropping from her chin into obscurity.

This gorgeous little girl was at a centre for disabled children that I visited in southern India. She’s quite the opposite of the girl in my story – naturally beautiful and enjoying her childhood, just as she should be.

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?