Hot tubs and naughtiness

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Tonight I’m most excited to be going to the Hot Tub Cinema to see one of my favourite eighties films, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. If you haven’t seen it and are a fan of silly coming of age comedies then I would strongly recommend you do (I would suggest heading down to your local Blockbuster to rent it this very eve, but given the state that particular company’s in at the moment perhaps not. Though come to think of it they might be doing it on sale for a good price…?)

I used to love watching films about naughty school children, not least because I considered myself to be one and delighted in any opportunity to prove it. At primary school my finest (or least fine, depending on which side of the fence you sit in the morality stakes) moment was when my best friend and I managed to flood the toilets by sneaking out of morning assembly, putting plugs in all the sinks, turning the water on full and then slipping back into the room again before anyone noticed. Hours later, when the headmistress hauled the entire school back into the hall and demanded a confession – threatening everyone with punishment should the guilty parties not step forward – we merely sat with serene expressions as a murmur of discontent ran through the crowd.

But getting back to hot tub cinema; what a concept! If only I’d thought of it myself! Find a roof top or deserted warehouse, hire a big screen projector and a handful of hot tubs and market your event as a time-limited opportunity for groups of hip Londoners to watch classic films whilst wearing wigs and other ridiculous theme-related paraphernalia. Add to the (already not cheap at £28 a head) mix a licensed bar and you have got a money spinning scheme of which your parents (or at the very least your peers) would be proud.

I shall report back.

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If tonight’s half as cool as this I’ll be delighted!

Desiderata

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Three weeks ago I was informed my role at work was being made redundant. Well, the official line was that there was a business case for it to cease to exist and that I would therefore be entering a period of consultation, during which I would be quite welcome to put forward a counter proposal should I feel disinclined to agree with the reasoning for terminating my employment.

I felt no desire whatsoever to oppose the business case, in part because I knew I could never continue working for an employer that valued my contribution to the workplace so little they had held the metaphorical axe over my head in the first place. In the main, however, I didn’t wish to oppose it simply because I felt my time there was up.

It’s never nice to feel you’re not wanted, especially when you feel you have worked hard and delivered everything that was expected of you – if not more. But it’s vital for your sanity not to take it personally and to try and move on. You know your value even if they can’t see it, so instead of waiting around for your turn in the hangman’s noose find a new opportunity and avoid it.

It’s this attitude that’s helped me to see my impending redundancy in an entirely new light. I’d been looking (albeit casually) for other jobs for several weeks before the news came, and whilst it was a bolt out of the blue it’s a plain fact I wouldn’t have stayed for that much longer anyway. Being faced with redundancy was exactly the catalyst I needed to make the change I’d been craving, and fortunately my employers have at least been accommodating when it’s come to needing time off for interviews.

Speaking of interviews, I’d forgotten just how much I hate them. It’s horrible having every aspect of you put under the microscope and scrutinised; I’ve often wondered how introverts cope. A good interviewer can put you at ease in a moment – to some extent at least – but a bad one can leave you traumatised for years. And it’s not just down to how skilful the interviewer is, it’s as much about how well you ‘fit’ with the organisation itself.

Take the interview I had this morning as an example. On the face of it there was nothing wrong with either the organisation or the people. In fact, as my preparation had progressed I felt increasingly excited by it. But as soon as I walked through the door something felt amiss. There must have been nearly forty people in the room yet you could have heard a pin drop. Then, when I sat down in the interview room and reeled off my ‘pitch,’ I felt I had impressed them to some extent, but simply didn’t feel any rapport with them. We were all smiling, but to me those smiles felt empty. Something wasn’t right, and I knew in that instant I could never be happy there.

In stark contrast last week I had a second interview at another, smaller, organisation, where I felt I had clicked instantly with both the CEO and the lady who would be my boss were I to be offered the role. The atmosphere was relaxed and even though the interview itself was rigorous I didn’t feel at any point I was being deliberately caught out or put on the spot. Afterwards the PR assistant took me for a coffee to find out more about me. I knew they had seen ten people at first interview and were seeing me and one other people at the second stage, and I was told at the end of the day they were going to take the weekend to decide and come back to me on Monday.

After this morning’s interview I must admit I felt despondent. I knew if they asked me back for a second interview I wouldn’t want to go, but I also knew if the place I really wanted to work came back with a no I’d be back at the drawing board; not a drawing I was keen to start from scratch.

I walked along the river thinking about all I’ve learned over the past few weeks; how much of a difference it makes to at least try to be positive (even though it’s sometimes hard) and how important it is to make the most of every second, and not take people for granted. By the time I got to the train station I was feeling a lot better, and ready to rationalise whatever eventuality came my way.

Fortunately it was exactly the eventuality I’d been wishing for. And I’m now not only going to work for an organisation I think I could really, truly love, I’m also going to have time to pursue my dream of becoming a freelance writer.

To conclude I’m going to use the final verse of my favourite poem, Desiderata, by Max Ehrmann:

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Past Post: Volunteering abroad (published on Guardian Online, 2007)

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Another Monday morning in the office and you’re distractedly staring out of the window, thinking that there must be more to life and wondering how you can feasibly escape the daily grind, if only for a while. And then it comes to you: why not spend a few months volunteering abroad? A great idea, you think, as you sneakily open up an internet browser window and begin to do some research. Within minutes, however, you are staring dumbfounded at the website of a well-known ‘ethical travel organisation’ and thinking your only chance of affording to do a placement would be to take out a second mortgage on your flat – and possibly sell your car to boot.

It would be naïve to assume that living and working in a developing world community for any length of time would be without its costs, but in my own experience the vast majority of companies that come up on a basic ‘volunteering abroad’ Google search charge extortionate prices for what amounts to several weeks or months of living in the most basic conditions imaginable, and furthermore give you very little idea as to exactly where your money is going.

Before my own African adventure I obtained quotes from several of the largest and best-known volunteer placement agencies and was stunned to find, at the top end of the spectrum, programme fees in excess of £1,000 for a two-week placement! Admittedly the more expensive options are touted as ‘all-inclusive’ packages offering such extras as in-country support, transport to and from your place of work and possibly language training, criminal bureau checks and medical insurance for the duration of your trip, but the question is: are these things you could arrange yourself for a little more effort and at a fraction of the cost?

Don’t be fooled by the phrasing when it comes to money – whether you are asked for a programme fee outright or a ‘donation’ towards the cause, it amounts to the same thing. You have to pay for your placement. End of. And if you feel the company you have chosen is worthy and honourable, go for it. I did with Volunteer Africa and I don’t regret my decision. Of my £1,950 programme fee (for a twelve week placement) I was assured that nearly half would go directly to the project itself – in this case two orphanages in Mwanza, northern Tanzania – with the remainder covering my accommodation, language training week in Dar es Salaam and the company’s own costs to keep the programme running. During my stay VA sent a health advisor to talk to us about avoiding malaria as well as two trustees to purchase essential items for the volunteer compound, so I felt my money was in responsible hands. And, importantly, as a lone female traveller with worried parents sitting at home biting their nails down to the stubs over my safety, it certainly seemed wise to go with a reputable company who could provide such a service.

But after spending a few months in Africa I have come to realise you don’t have to pay the earth for your placement. If money is no issue and you are happy to use a reputable company that charges a fortune but promises a first-rate service then that is, of course, up to you. But if money is a real sticking point and you are prepared to put in a little more effort and take a chance, waiting until you are in your country of choice before searching for a placement may well mean you spend significantly less and find something just as rewarding.

On my travels through both Tanzania and Kenya I have heard, through word-of-mouth, of many small institutions – both schools and orphanages – that are desperate for volunteers but lack the means to advertise for them. Often, they are more than happy to offer free accommodation in exchange for whatever service can be offered, meaning volunteers don’t need to spend a penny other than to cover their own living costs. Admittedly they cannot provide the ‘support’ that is offered by the larger agencies (though if you have fully comprehensive travel and health insurance you shouldn’t really need it) but you do get to hang on to your money and spend it when you see an urgent need, at the source and on your own terms.

Beware those companies who charge a fee to find you a placement but don’t actually give any of your money to the projects in question. Rarely do they throw up anything that you couldn’t have found yourself through more extensive research, so whilst for cash-rich, time poor people they can offer a viable solution, they can also make those less financially blessed souls feel frustrated and, to some extent, conned out of their money. When I reached the Imani Agape orphanage in Kisii, western Kenya – a placement found for me by 2Way Development which charges a fee of £850 – I was sad to realise just how much difference my £850 would have made to the project itself, but after paying the fee to the organisation I had comparitively little to spare. Had I contacted the orphanage directly, I later found out, I would have been offered accommodation entirely free of charge.

The bottom line is this. Everyone is different, with different requirements and expectations of volunteering abroad. But before you commit yourself to a volunteer placement make sure you do two things. Firstly, read the small print to see exactly where your money is going, and secondly, set your budget and stick to it. Don’t be shoe-horned into paying more than you can afford as you will only regret it later. The important thing to remember is that whether your budget is big or small, there is an option out there to suit you.

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This photo was taken on my first volunteering placement in Mwanza, Tanzania, in 2007. I have such happy memories of these children and their happy, smiling faces. I often wonder where they are now, and hope that they’re happy.

The things that really matter

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Yesterday I heard some tragic news about an old friend, and it’s put everything into sharp perspective. So many people (myself sadly included) go through life worrying about things that might not even happen, taking the people they love for granted – taking life itself for granted. But what they are failing to appreciate, or perhaps refusing to acknowledge, is that life is precious, and it’s fragile. So fragile that it can be snuffed out in an instant, without warning.

I’ve always been a big believer in things happening for a reason, but when tragic accidents happen and rob beautiful, young and vibrant people of their lives and futures, I find it hard to fathom what possible reason there could be.

If nothing else perhaps such awful tragedies can help us to appreciate the importance of living life to the full, appreciating every second and taking nothing and no one for granted.

Last night I went to Birmingham for a reunion with some of my closest friends from my university days. I couldn’t have been amongst a more supportive group of people when I found out the sad news. Today three of us went back to our halls of residence and walked around the Vale, literally retracing our steps from all those years ago. It was a stunning day, warm and sunny without a cloud in the sky.

As I stood beside the lake with the sun on my face, watching the swans gracefully float past, I felt acutely aware of every detail of my environment. It felt somehow vital to process everything, log it and consign it to my memory bank lest it be forgotten, lest it be the last time I should ever see it.

If you, like me, take too many things – and people – for granted, why not take a few minutes today to tell those closest to you how much they mean to you. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can say today, because you never know what tomorrow will bring.

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Where our university days began..

This is me

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Today I feel I’m standing at a crossroad, or perhaps on the edge of a precipice. All roads in my life so far have led me here, for whatever reason, and the outcome of today’s events will take me in a new direction, for better or worse.

I’ve spent too long comparing myself to other people and worrying that I’m not ambitious enough, rich enough or clever enough. I can only be who I am, and the journey I am on, whilst far from over, is one that’s full of twists and turns and moments of self-doubt. This is something I must accept.

I’m probably putting too much emphasis on today as being so pivotal in my life. After all, when one door closes another opens, I have found that to be true many a time.

Though sometimes self-doubt washes over me like a tidal wave, the fact is it never drowns me, but rather propels me forward to some new and exciting state of being. And it’s for this reason I’m no longer scared of it.

I cannot be anyone else, only the best version of myself.

And whatever the outcome of today, I know things will work out as they should.

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Taken in the gardens in Sydney Harbour.

Phantom

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After giving birth to my son the nurse told me he didn’t exist.

Can you imagine? The child I’d carried to full term, whose heartbeat I’d heard with my own ears, whose little legs I’d felt kicking inside me, whose features I’d seen at every scan.

At first I struggled to take in the meaning of those seemingly nonsensical words. But, as her tone of voice became more insistent and her manner shifted from one of consolation to frustration, it dawned on me that, for some unknown and utterly incredible reason, she believed it to be true.

I myself was incredulous, as I’m sure you can imagine, and when Michael arrived I begged him to explain, to tell them they were wrong and that there was a baby – our baby – somewhere. There had clearly been a mix up and our son, our Max – or James or Saul, we hadn’t yet decided – was in someone else’s incubator, mislabelled like an erroneous tin of soup in a warehouse.

Once the truth had been uncovered there would be a full investigation, of course. Heads would roll, and we would sue them and set up a trust fund for our son with the payout. In years to come we would laugh about the ridiculousness of the situation, and it would go down in family folklore and be told at annual gatherings for generations to come.

At first Michael agreed it was ludicrous. In fact, he was outraged. How could a woman carry a baby to full term only for it to disappear?

And yet, slowly but surely, they turned him against me, poisoned his mind with vicious lies about my state of mind.

This is my last attempt at freedom, a final bid to unshackle myself from the false accusations that have led to my incarceration, that have stripped me of sanity as I knew it.

I beg you to read my story and decide for yourself who is mad; them, me, or every one of us?

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I came across this charming little fellow whilst exploring a temple in Chiang Mai, Thailand. He was certainly very wary of me!

Letting go

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This afternoon I did a presentation to a group of volunteer fundraisers about ‘Don’t wait until you’re certain,’ the campaign I helped to manage to promote the organisation’s adult helpline service. The first burst of the campaign was handed to me to manage by my outgoing manager three months after I joined the charity, in March last year. To say it was a stressful experience to devise and execute a PR plan for a national media campaign in under a month would be an understatement, but when the launch turned out to be a huge success and contacts to the charity about serious cases of child abuse increased by 16% I was delighted that the blood, sweat and tears had paid off.

Fast forward ten months to January this year and it was time to do it all over again. With a bigger budget to play with we were able to pay for TV advertising as well as digital, which gave a much bigger reach. As before my role was to manage the PR for the campaign, which included the development of a content plan across the charity’s website and social media channels to drive engagement with the campaign messaging. I even wrote my first film script – for a message of support recorded by the rather lovely actor, Dominic West (though sadly I didn’t get to meet him in person).

This time around, with the benefit of TV advertising and a sponsored trend on Twitter, we’ve seen a 46% increase in referrals to the helpline – an uplift that has stayed constant for the duration of the campaign. Social media engagement has also been through the roof as a result of the campaign, which has been exciting to see.

In truth it choked me up delivering a presentation on something that I’ve been so close to for the past year but which I will soon have to walk away from. Yet despite my impending redundancy, this campaign is something I will always feel enormously proud to have been involved with. I know that wherever I go next I will always feel a glow of satisfaction that its success was in no small part down to my contribution.

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A Chocolatey Affair

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Today, rather than write a fictional story or bore you with the woes of job hunting, I want to talk about chocolate; how it makes me feel, how it tastes in my mouth and generally the myriad ways in which I believe it improves my existence – because I really do.

Take this afternoon for instance. I returned from a gruelling TEN MILE (impressed? Please be impressed) run and dragged my weary limbs into the shower, before dressing and resuming work at my desk. But something was missing. Ah, I thought, a cup of tea! For truly no afternoon of work can be complete without one (doesn’t it say that in the Bible or something? “And on the seventh day, God kicked back with a cup of PG Tips and observed all he had done.” No? Well it should do).  

No sooner had I made my tea than the feeling of something being amiss returned. Then it occurred to me how nice it would be to have a little post-workout treat as an accompaniment. I duly delved into my bag of Christmas treats and was distressed to find the box of Lindor chocolates which I had been systematically working my way through was – shock horror– empty. Fearing the worst I ran my hand around the inside of the bag. My hand settled on a small square box. As I pulled it out a wave of happiness washed over me, for it was not just any chocolatey treat, it was the Holy Grail of chocolatey treats: A Chocolate Orange.

I know from an unpleasant previous experience that the Chocolate Orange should be savoured and not gorged upon. If you ate it whole in one sitting you would have consumed most of your day’s calories, and would most likely feel rather nauseous to boot. But dipping a few segments into a mug of steaming tea and letting them melt onto your tongue is an experience I defy anyone – other than those who are allergic to chocolate, don’t like chocolate, or who are allergic to or don’t like orange – not to enjoy.

My adoration of chocolate doesn’t stop at Lindor and Chocolate Orange; far from it. I’m currently having a love affair with salted caramel in all its scrumptious chocolatey forms, and dark Lindt chocolate with sea salt is so divine it’s almost worth killing for (not that I endorse killing in any form, you understand). Dark chocolate with chilli is definitely worth a punt for the more adventurous aficionados. And don’t even get me started on Reese’s Cups – chocolate and peanut butter together? Dribble.

I suppose in light of this obsession it’s easy to see why I was a chubby child. My grandmother used to cut up Mars bars in a bowl for me to eat, and mum would often bring chocolate éclairs (the fresh cream variety – NOM) when she came to collect me from school. Being the product of a broken home, I think she used such treats to assuage her guilt at my sibling-less, father-less, state, though in reality I was as happy as a sand boy stuffing my face and playing with my Polly Pockets.

Fortunately after shedding the puppy fat and discovering exercise I managed to regulate my weight, whilst still occasionally indulging in my favourite treat. Over the years my habit has waxed and waned depending on my mood and situation. I wouldn’t say I use chocolate as a crutch, exactly, but I do find it comforting to eat every now and again – particularly after a bad day or a vigorous exercise session, when I can eat it guilt-free knowing I deserve it.

“Everything in moderation” is a phrase I’ve used many a time, and never has it been more appropriate than when it comes to chocolate. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a disgustingly chocolatey dessert after a meal in a nice restaurant, but if I ate it morning, noon and night the pleasure would evaporate and it would no longer be a treat but rather something commonplace.

We have a great relationship, Chocolate and I. But it’s a good job I’ve a half marathon to train for whilst I’m facing unemployment because, between you, me and the Mars bar, I think my consumption may just be on the rise.

Now, where did I put that Chocolate Orange again?

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Restoration

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Apologies to anyone who is hoping for the next instalment of the story I’ve been writing over the past few days, but today I thought I’d mix things up a little and return to blogging. I am, after all, sitting in an ex-brothel in the centre of historic Prague, and it seems wrong not to acknowledge the effect this place has had on me over the past few days.

I’ve written a full feature on my experience of Prague which I will be posting tomorrow on the Bea blog, but what I would just like to say in this post is that coming here has reminded me how wonderful it is to step out of your life from time to time and experience another culture. As an aspiring writer I always feel particularly moved when I explore another part of the world, as it reminds me how much more there is to know and understand.

I defy anyone who is suffering from writer’s block not to find inspiration here, where every twist and turn in the maze of back streets brings a new surprise – whether architectural delights, performance artists, odd little museums or delightfully quaint restaurants serving traditional Czech fare such as goulash and dumplings (just like grandma used to make – yum).

Breaking out of normal life for a couple of days can be really beneficial – not least when ‘normal life’ is proving troublesome, as in my case with recent redundancy news and subsequent job searching and interviews. I arrived here feeling drained and stressed, but after three nights in my (free upgrade!) palatial suite in the Mamaison Pachtuv Palace hotel and time spent wandering by the river, drinking local beer and eating hearty traditional fare I’m leaving feeling inspired, rested and ready to resume my job search with renewed enthusiasm.

God bless Prague and all who sail in her.

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I took this last night whilst strolling around the old town square. It sums up just how wonderfully atmospheric this city is. I don’t want to leave!

You had me at first click – Part Seven

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“Daddy?” Amy tugged at her father’s hand. “Who’s that lady?”

His trance broken, John looked down at his daughter and attempted a smile. “Just an old friend darling,” he said with as much reassurance in his voice as he could muster. “Right you two, it’s about time you got to class. Do you know where you’re going?”

Jasper, who knew exactly where his new classroom was, shot off like a rocket. As Amy hesitated, John could feel Jen’s eyes on him from across the room. He felt her presence viscerally, and it unnerved him.

“Can I help?” she said, in front of them now. John caught a scent of flowers, noticed a set of delicate beads around her neck. She looked, he thought – though even thinking it felt like a betrayal – radiant. She was still slim, but her face was fuller somehow, her skin pink and plump. A light smear of balm on her lips reflected the light, appearing to sparkle. Apart from that her makeup was minimal, her curly blonde hair tamed with her trademark red bow. John’s stomach clenched.

“My daughter, Amy, she’s, um…” He stopped, unable to find the words.

Fortunately his daughter was less shy in Jen’s presence, unaware as she was of the history and gravitas behind this chance encounter. “It’s my first day in Year One,” she announced. “Do you know which class room I need to go to?”

Jen smiled and knelt down beside Amy. As she did so the material of her wrap dress fell to reveal part of her upper thigh. She quickly rectified the problem, but not before a shock of lust had jolted in John’s groin. “Well guess what Amy? My name is Mrs Marsh and I’m your new teacher.”

As John struggled to register his childhood friend’s marital status, she stood up and rested a hand upon her stomach, where, he now noticed, there was an unmistakeable bump.

His heart sank.

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Writing about school made me think of this little chap, who I spent some time teaching in Taliwas, Borneo, last year. Our ‘classroom’ was a covered table and seating area surrounded by lush forest – beats a sterile concrete building!