Richard Bandler and Paul McKenna: Get the Life You Want, review
11 October, 2011
Wembley Great Hall, 1st and 2nd Oct 2011
You’ve probably heard of Paul McKenna (McK) right, but might not have heard of Richard Bandler. He’s something of a big guru in the world of NLP and hypnosis. A controversial character for many reasons, none of which I can be bothered to bitch on about here. His innovative techniques for phobias, metaphorical language and personal change, I’ve used with success. I’ve never seen him because his training seminars are way out of my price range. I have read some of his books one of which “A Guide to Trance-formation” I rate highly as a guide to learning hypnosis – if you ever want to. Overall, I didn’t really know what to think, other than he’s got quite a dedicated fan club who dangle on his every hypnotic syllable (eugh). So when the chance to see him for two days for £188 arrived in my inbox I took it, well I bought it from NLP Life actually. Most of his training seminars cost thousands of pounds to attend (hence I haven’t done any of them) and this seemed (comparatively) a good deal.
In terms of “getting the life I wanted”, well when I booked this seminar I have to admit I didn’t really think that was something I particularly needed. I’ve been feeling pretty happy with my life for a while now. I do struggle to understand the pseudo spiritual culture rife at the moment like “The Secret” where the goal of life is – getting what you want. If I was leading a seminar it would be called “Want the life you’ve already got” (and no one would come). The real “secret” of a lot of this bull is about giving people unattainable dreams and then convincing them they can have them. Then if they aren’t able to attain that dream (because it’s totally unrealistic and implausible and unachievable) then the problem is that they didn’t “believe” in it enough to make it happen. So it’s their own stupid fault they’ve failed again. I think there are kinder ways of seeing the world than this. To be honest, I think it’s probably better for people if you just cut out the middle bit and told them at the start that the “Secret” is it’s all their own fault. I think if you did it in a slightly mystical way with some soft music and a faraway look in your eye then it could be really effective. I’ll try it out on people over the next couple of weeks and let you know how it goes. Maybe in the playground, next time one of my mum chums comes to complain about her husband leaving dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, I can go into a slightly altered state and tell her that I “feel” (because a lot of this stuff runs on how we “feel” about things), yes, I feel that ultimately she is creating this situation and that only she can resolve it (because there is no longer any such thing as “fault” only incomplete solutions).
Ok, so you can see that I wasn’t the most ideal candidate for this seminar, but by the time it actually came round, I have to say I was feeling pretty uncertain about some of the decisions I was making about my future. I’d lost my mojo somewhere around early August and blamed it on six weeks of holidays with my three darlings at home (what to speak of two weeks in a tent with them). But it wasn’t really true, I had properly lost my mojo and didn’t know where or how to get it back. I was happy enough, but just not as sparkly as I normally feel. For example, I’d look at my blog and just not write it, even though I used to love it. So I was sort of curious by the time it came round to see if it would help me, or if it would fill me with impossible dreams and then leave me on Sunday evening, waiting for a tube in the rain with big fantasy umbrella keeping me dry – if you know what I mean.
The first thing about the seminar that made a real impression on me was that McK opened it alone. Yep, Bandler hadn’t bothered to get out of bed for 1,300 people (at an average price of £270 pp). Unbelievable. None of the “Hi, it’s like really lovely of you all to be here, this is gonna be so fabulous” etc etc ad nauseum. I had to admit I sort of liked it him for it. I mean how many of us sit through all sorts of shite just for the social nicety of it all. Bandler didn’t. I think I was envious as I was sitting through yet another McK enactment of his dream life as Sean Connery. (He obviously hasn’t seen Megamind yet).
McKenna smoking during the break
I think it went a bit like this the night before:
Bandler: “Fuck it, McKenna you do the fucking morning, I’m not getting out of bed and driving all the way to fucking Wembley till I’ve had my fucking brunch.”
McK: “Er, ok, I’ll warm them up using my rather fabulous James Bond persona. The natural charm and confidence I adopt will spread good feelings through the audience and……”
Bandler (interrupting) : “Do what the fuck you like, make them cluck like fucking chickens but don’t expect me there before 3pm”.
McKenna: “Ok M, leave it to me, ”.
Bandler: “What did you fucking call me?”
McK : “Nothing”
So McKenna did the morning.
Now I have to say I’ve seen McK a few times in the past. The first time I saw him he was in a really bad mood. I don’t know what was up with him – he was living the Bond life he wanted after all. Wearing a Bond suit, telling the time on a Bond watch, driving a Bond car, planning his career with a real life Money Penny; and dating Bond girls – who turn in psychos and stab him in the back – hey what more could a guy want? Anyway, I went to his I can make you thin event a few times, I bought tickets, I won tickets, I couldn’t get away. And I couldn’t get thin either.
Ok, so let’s get back to Bandler, when he eventually got up and had brunch (he’s American and I believe they all have brunch every day; then hot dogs with yellow mustard in the afternoon when they’re doing their police jobs; then they have dinner somewhere swanky in the evening. Trust me, I’ve seen it ont’elly). He managed to spur himself towards our event and arrive mid afternoon. No rush, no rush. Then he proceeded to tell outrageously funny (and seemingly embellished) stories of inventive therapy sessions he’d conducted. Couldn’t help but like his stories and his irreverential style. During all this he was spinning something called “nested loops”. It’s a hypnotic technique where you begin a story and then digress with another story, and another etc building different levels within each story. Then you do some subliminal work on the clients (us) and close the stories one by one in the right order. Well, that’s how Bandler teaches it, but it’s certainly not how he does it himself. I have to say many of the loops were not closed and I have no idea what the hell he was doing with them all over the place. But I sure felt good by the end of the day and felt like he actually gave a shit about people’s mental well being. This was also reflected in the imaginative and kind work he did with people on the stage. Humble he is not, but skilled he certainly is.
On the second day there was an interesting exercise with McK where we looked at our values and from there our goals (yes, yawn, is there anyone who hasn’t done that a thousand times before), but then we put them on a time line and played around with them on there. A timeline is an imaginary line depicting your life in chronological time. You can move stuff around on it, change things and do interesting stuff with it therapeutically. Anyway, eventually we went to the end of our lines (metaphorically our old age) and looked back over the part we’d been planning with our values etc and checked we were happy with it. McK, then asked a few people in the audience about theirs. Now a lot of the audience were NLPers (you can tell cos they look like estate agents. “Height phobia Madam? I want you to imagine yourself in a low lying bungalow in Southend, feel how big the rooms are, notice how small and grey the price appears, would you like a viewing?”). So, from the audience we got all the typical I want, I want, I wants. There were famous writers, famous musicians, famous filmmakers and famous photographers (notice a theme anyone?). Fine.
But as I looked down my own timeline there wasn’t anything famous on it. I saw myself responsibly bringing up three children on my own, who I love. I saw myself working as a hypnotherapist, which I love. And I saw myself spending an inordinate amount of time getting a science degree from the Open University, which I will love. Nothing sexy, glamorous, award winning, rich or famous along this line. But as I looked back from my old age perspective I felt an incredibly powerful sense of well being, I felt the reward of being responsible to my children, the joy of helping people with their problems and the challenge of study. And I felt an incredible sense of simple satisfaction that I’d spent those years of my life on those things. And to be honest, there’s something a bit priceless about feeling that good about the life you’re living; the one you’re already actually living, not an imaginary life that you wish you had. And right at that moment, I realized I’d found my mojo again.
Paul McKenna
Richard Bandler
The other good news is that I’ve picked up my blog and started writing (obviously) and begun to manically walk everywhere I go. I’ve stopped over-eating and one week after the seminar have lost 5lbs. I have also more strangely found myself doing stomach crunches at 5am in the living room before going back to bed (!!). I don’t know if it was Bandler or McK, but I have to say, I’m really glad I went along.
Bye xx
Winning with Words
30 July, 2010
I won a poetry writing competition today. I’ve been entering writing competitions to see if my writing rated as any good, outside of my little cyber blog-bubble. I figured if I could win competitions in the “real” world of writers, then I’d have a chance of becoming a “real” writer one day. So now I am pleased to announce that overnight success is finally mine, but I’m trying not to affect me too much – for now. I know you’re not interested in just how many competitions I’ve entered and lost prior to this unprecedented recognition of my talent, so I won’t bore you with the statistics, also, it’d take too long. Should I mention I wasn’t the only “winner” and tell you about the other entrants? Nah, you wouldn’t be interested.
The poem is a broody introspective offering a glimpse of the relationship between (wo)man and beast. The struggles we all face between our instinctive “wild” self, the constraints of 
domesticity, the shackles of our social conformity and the limited joy that it brings the individual. It challenges our perspectives of death and reality, torture and forgiveness.
My poetry can be best described by the words that describe the film Inception, “in the dangerous art of extraction, stealing valuable secrets from deep within the subconscious during the dream state, when the mind is at its most vulnerable.” However, the book which my poem will appear is actually themed around animals.
Humbly, I offer you my poem.
xxx
We Love Little Creatures
My lovely boy called Bugsy,
Now he’s a real top cat.
He bounces on the trampoline,
Not many cats do that.
His voice is like a humans
When he says “hello” to me.
He tolerates the children,
They’re rough with him you see.
The dogs next door, he winds them up,
He sits there like a tease.
They chase him up and down the lawn,
Then he runs off with ease
In the garden he’s a hunter,
Out there he stalks his prey.
My little friend the Robin,
Disappeared sometime today.
This evening before supper,
I found him lying dead.
His tiny tortured torso,
A gift left on my bed.
Oh Bugsy you’re a good boy,
Your instinct can’t be beaten.
But all the cute things in my garden,
You’ve caught and then you’ve eaten.
I guess we’ll stick together,
Yes, I want you to stay.
You share my love of little creatures,
Just in a different way.
Forward Press, Animal Antics Competition
Copies of the book are available for £15.99 (!)
Bugsy
High Fives
3 February, 2010
I got tagged by a Anna to share my “high fives”. It doesn’t mean posting pictures of my kids after a pint of cola. It’s a deep meaningful thang. About what inspires me in life……..
1. My first high five has to be (er, er thinking now) oh yeah, my kids? That’s right. Yes, to be totally honest, having 3 young children as a single parent has fulfilled me totally in life. They have transformed my life and my vision of the future in lots of ways. Financially, in terms of my freedom, independence, autonomy… to mention a few.
2. Second on the list of high fives is laughing. I love this. It’s totally free and it can happen anywhere you like at any time – even I’ve found it can happen at the most inappropriate times. I’ve had to find ways to make myself laugh over the years and one of the best ways to pick yourself up from a bit of self indulgent pity is to make yourself laugh till you’re crying. How to do this exactly? Easy, three simple steps:
1. Think of your most embarrassing or funny moments and laugh.
2. Think of other people’s embarrassing moments and laugh – a lot more.
3. Carry on repeating steps one and two till your sides hurt.
The other brilliant thing about this method is that you have to regularly ask people for their most embarrassing moments, which means you get to have a great laugh as you go along compiling research material for those low moments. I’ve pondered on why it is I love embarrassing moments just so much and it’s the vicarious nature of them. It’s as if you were really there, you share the cringing discomfort of them, but you dont have to own it. So I guess you’re expecting me to share one with you now, hmm. One of mine was before I learnt how to a park a car. I was trying to park my rusty shite ole car in a really posh narrow shopping street in Cheltenham. I’d envisaged – car parked tidily at side of road. Eventually, with a lot of effort, I managed to get three of its wheels up on the pavement and found that the front of the car was sticking out blocking the whole pavement, so no one could walk past. A lot of people had walked around me by this stage and I needed a solution. So, I decided it was a good time to abandon the car. So I got out (and instantly felt a lot better) then I went in the nearest pub and asked someone to park it for me. This was not the brightest move. I think you can imagine the response from a bunch of Cheltenham rugby blokes, I just stood there, going “oh, excuse me, er, could anyone help me park my car please?”. So after a lot of laughing one of the blokes came striding out to help. When he saw my brown Austin Allegro strewn across the pavement, he actually let out a scream. Then his friends followed him out. There was little point in him parking in, because as soon as he did, I had to get in and drive away because they were taking the piss so much.
3. So I think next would be writing. I love writing and talking is nearly as good, but writing is definitely better in important ways. I get to say everything I want and no one interrupts. I can go on and on for ever if I like- this will probably be the case. Whereas with talking, people tend to roll their eyes or run away etc (I’m sure these things happen to you too).
4. I love the sky, it’s my favourite thing. I’ve been looking at it all my life and it still fascinates and amazes me every day. It’s the most wonderful art I’ve ever seen. Last year Laura and I went to see an artist who paints these really wonderful skies. We drove for miles to get to her house and when we got there, they were shit. Not like the real sky at all, hers were all static. What a con.
5. People. I like people. I really do. (I lurve you all). Oh I can’t be bothered to go into all the stuff about people I like. But one of the top things, is that they are full of surprises. You find out something about them that you can’t believe, or they do the opposite of what you imagined. They are full of unexpectedness, and that’s what makes them so interesting.
There are other things I could have included, but these 5 are the things that make me smile in life. The deeper stuff keeps me going too, but in a different way.
love and good lives to y’all.
PS. If you want to share a little embarrassing story of your own on here, please feel free.
xxxxxxxx
Here's one I didn't park
Quality Street
15 December, 2009
One of my friends and I once agreed that we wouldn’t do birthday presents, our birthdays were close together. Anyway, when I showed up for her party that Friday, I was really surprised when she said, “Oh, my party is tomorrow night, but come in anyway.” I did. Then I went back the next night, and there were a lot more people there, much more party-like . But this time, she had a little gift for me – a necklace in a box. When I trotted out the clichéd line, “But I thought we’d agreed not to do presents?” She replied that she knew I wouldn’t come to her party without bringing her a present. How wrong she was. I’d actually come to her party twice without bringing her a present.
And that is the thing about buying presents. How many do we buy? When do we stop? I hear so much talk about cutting back and not doing the whole materialistic Christmas thang, but do I buy it? Well if you’re talking about a load of plastic crap made in China, then yes, I do buy quite a lot of it, truth be told. I do however get smug, moral superiority by buying most of my plastic crap at car boot sales, for a fraction of the original cost. The repercussions of this are positive and negative – why is it always like that?
So lets start with the positive. Firstly, it’s all cheap and you get the most wonderfully discounted stuff. Some of it brand new still boxed, for a fraction of the full price. For a tenner you can come home literally laden with plastic kiddie crap – er, how positive is that? On the negative, if you ever end up in a real shop, somewhere very similar to Toys R Us – like I did last week, you are in for the shock of your life. The real prices they ask are just mind blowing. I actually thought I was in an ITV wind up show until I remembered Jeremy Beedle is dead (god rest his soul). I had to face facts – this store was real. And, what’s even more unbelievable, is the number of people in there, heaving trolley loads around. I wonder if such stores have thought of putting a sales desk near the check out under a sign saying, “Re-mortgage now. Ask me how?” I bought, one football, 5 tubs of playdough, a Simpson’s pencil case and a Dr. Who lunch box. It came to £3,567.28 Now, if the facility to quickly re-mortgage had been available, I would have also been able get paints, Lego, a couple of bikes or one playstation game.
Another positive thing about buying at car boot sales, and in some of the cheaper charity shops (don’t get me started on that one), is that you give those presents much more freely, without expectation. When I first had kids, I had clear, exacting, visions of how my gifts would, and should, be received. This was largely based on the financial outlay I’d invested in them. Obviously, this hallucination was quickly shattered. The old adage of kids playing with the wrapping paper around the foot of a skyscraper of presents is universally experienced. The question is, how do we feel when these expensive presents are not warmly received? When they are cast adrift in overfilled bedrooms and not given a second thought? Kicked ungratefully under beds or jammed behind messy shelves. Do we give unconditionally?
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been given expensive presents that I just don’t want? I’ve passed an odd unwanted item on to raffle or a charity shop. Or kept it, forgotten, at the bottom of my wardrobe. But I’ve haven’t worn perfume I don’t like for six months – to show how I really appreciated the thought.
What are we really teaching our children about value? What do we really know about it? Ok, we do all know that the most expensive presents don’t bring the most joy. Perhaps some of us would like to experiment a bit more with the concept – just to clarify that. But, with our children do we insist that they recognize the expensive stuff we buy? Should we in fact be questioning our own purchasing decisions, at source.
This year, I have been forced to cut back. With the appalling weather we’ve had, the car boot sales have been cancelled for weeks and my Christmas shopping has drastically reduced as a result. I wrap the small piles, of small presents, that they’re getting this year. Amber has clothes – I’ve been picking up anything sequinned in Primark and at charity shops for the last few weeks. I know she’ll be thrilled. Asha has a train, some cars and a football. Christmas will blow his mind. Sami is still saving, I’ll donate. But I’ve also bought him a trophy – he’s never ever won one. We’re not a family with a hoards of trophies, cups and shields. But we have one now and I’m not ashamed to say I bought it. It’s a shiny bloke playing cricket, with an engraved plate below it which says: SAMI, Man of the Year 2009
SAMI, Man of the year 2009
It cost me £4 and you know what? I can’t think of anything I’d rather give him.
I’m learning about quality vs quantity this year.
Back to work
2 December, 2009
I was not alone as I walked hastily out of the playground. Dropping my second child off for her first day of school was an emotional experience, sort of like ecsatic – except happier. The departing mums, slowed by the narrowing of the school gate, politely squeezing through the chicane – many of us, just a little too eager to get out. I now only have one small child at home.
Distraught mums leave playground.
I feel the world is my oyster, a chance to think, to plan and to start working, albeit from home.
The problem with having three children is the amount of distraction they generate. They re-route synapses in the brain. Thoughts which previously left the brain on superhighways, headed to their destination in micro-seconds, now get diverted onto the back roads of the mind. Once mired in there, they continually take the wrong turns until, either they are lucky enough to happen upon a main route back to memory. Or they just wander around cerebral backwaters until they finally disappear without a trace. This is how I experience it. This is the only way I can understand how I, a mother of three children, had forgotten what having a lone toddler at home was like.
It didn’t take me long to remember. Almost as soon as I’d put my laptop on the kitchen table I remembered just how good toddlers are at climbing. Then I remembered just how much toddlers like buttons and lights. And as I picked up the phone, I remembered just how much toddlers like phones. Finally, I vividly re-experienced just how much toddlers dislike the word “no”. Work, was not working out. I Googled “childcare”.
The cost of nursery for a child under two is £50 a day in my locale. As Income Support is £60.50 a week, nursery might not be the best option. A childminder is cheaper at about £3 an hour, but unfortunately Ofstead’s, ever-exacting, inspectors have reduced the number available considerably. Shifts in Sainsburys has proven less stressful to them than Ofstead’s annual audits. I look for several weeks for a local childminder, but there are no vacancies. The other nail in the coffin of home-based childcare is the government’s introduction of “wrap-around” care. I love that title – like they wrap them up, all snuggly and cosy – as if. “Breakfast clubs” and “After-school clubs” outclass childminders by their convenience and facilities. Such a shame then, that they all shut down for the six week summer break. I meet a lot of parents who are sad about this.
But back to work for me. Eventually I find a way. The brilliant idea is to sell printed umbrellas to hairdressers and eventually maybe even to hotels. Flexible hours and I could do a lot of it from home, on the phone and internet, during kiddie naps and empty evenings – brilliant. It came about when one of my friends left the hairdressers with her new £100 hairdo, and low and behold, it was raining. 
By the time she got home, her £100 hair looked more like something the cat had dragged in. Would she have bought an overpriced umbrella promoting her overpriced salon? You bet. I excitedly take my idea to my Lone Parent Advisor at the job centre.
My Lone Parent Advisor is an expert in unemployment – amazing, considering that she has a job herself. I would have thought that disqualified her immediately. She is always full of new ideas that I would never have otherwise have considered. I see her every six months and each time is pretty revelatory to me. generally what happens is we discuss my current idea about returning to work, then she advises me to stay on benefits. This time is no exception. Sensing my disappointment, she eventually relents a bit and suggests I look for a part-time job in a school office. I had a job as a bursar at Oxford in a previous life, so there is some good logic in her anti-entrepreneurial approach. I respond with a compromise, that I look for a job as a school bursar. She smiles kindly and suggests I work as an assistant to the bursar, but part time. I’m not prepared to go any lower at this stage in the negotiations. I point out that in her scheme I’d be earning £12k a year pro-rata and I’d still be on benefits. In my version, I’d be on at least £22k, and if I add in my child support payments, I could be benefit-free . She shakes her head. With gentle patience she kindly tells me that I’m not going to get off benefits. She also advises me to make sure I work at least 16 hours a week to qualify for help with my childcare. Finally, she reminds me that no one is actually forcing me into work. Did I mention she’s an expert in unemployment?
Undeterred, I go back to the drawing board in my mind. Printed umbrellas are cheap on the internet and it will be hard for me to undercut the online providers. In the meantime, I make an appointment with Business Link to discuss some workshops that I’ve been planning and piloting with a few friends. These are nothing to do with bad hair days, they are bad birth-days. For a long time I’ve wanted to provide help for women who have had distressing births. I had one myself. When I was a student midwife, I saw a lot of women in the same situation I’d been in and there was no support or help getting over it. I decide to pursue this idea and I come off Income Support and change to self employed. What I realize is, that if you are setting up a business, you are not necessarily expected to make any money for the first year. That’s normal and that’s normally the hardest thing about a new business, surviving the first year. So I continue to receive pretty much the same level of benefits as before, except it comes from Tax Credits rather than Income Support. This also means I am able to claim back 80% of my childcare. I put my youngest child in the best nursery in the area and get to work. The older children are overjoyed, it is the end of their free school dinners, they celebrate a return to sandwiches and break-aways.
My business link adviser is brilliant. He’s intelligent and enthusiastic and helpful. He is very positive and interested. We go over the business plan I’ve filled in and we stop at the financial pages, they are empty. He asks me how long I can fund myself and the business with my current resources. I look at him – he hasn’t got it. I tell him I’m on benefits so there isn’t a problem, I’m fully supported. He is amazed, and says, “That’s brilliant”. At last, someone understands me. He looks over my plan again and we talk about grants and funding. “You have four employees?” he asks. I shift uncomfortably in my chair – they are employees in a casual sense of the word. “You see, if you had five employees, even casual ones, you’d be eligible for a Train to Gain grant of £500. You can use it for educational courses of Level 4 or above”. I pick up my mobile and hire someone, he makes the referral. I find a one year Diploma as a Hypnotherapist, I will have a therapy qualification to support the workshops. Theoretically, I will be able to take referrals on the NHS and even better, it’s flexible so I can do it around the children. Three weeks later I am in a comfortable bright room in Birmingham telling the woman next to me to “Relaaax and stare at a spot on the ceiling” . Train to Gain paid for more than half of the course and my Lone Parent Advisor pulled out all the stops to help me when I decided I was leaving Income Support. She helped me apply for a Return to Work Grant, which adds an extra £40 a week to my income. This pays for the additional travel and books I need.
Here and now, I’m a qualified hypnotherapist and I love it. I work part time in Witney at the “Anderson Clinic”. My clients give me warm praise and I meet lovely people. I’m not totally free from benefits yet, but I’m on my way. In the new year I’ll be starting hypnobirthing workshops and workshops for women with distressing childbirths. It’s an exciting time and I can see a future – free from benefits ahead of us. It might take a while, but as a family, we are happily on our way.
http://www.andersonclinic.co.uk
I hit my toddler
22 November, 2009
I hit my toddler, Asha. I hit him again, over and over. I can’t stop. Time opens like a wide cave and we fall, between dark seconds. There is no here, no now, only Asha and the beat of my hand on his back. I look down at his now burgandy face, he looks straight ahead, eyes wide, no sound. Someone shouts for me to turn him upside-down, but I don’t listen. A distant voice says “Do you want a first aider, do you want a first aider?”. It’s the check out girl – full of initiative. I ignore her. An urgent terrifying thought comes to my mind, I throw it out and hit his back again. Something moves in his mouth and he gently throws up into my welcoming hands, he breathes. I breathe.
Check out girl stares at me and I ask her for a tissue. She kindly offers me two of their cheapest tissues and then as an afterthought, a jay cloth. I wipe my slimy hands into a jay-ball of sick, then I hand it confidently back to her. The woman next to me looks away from me in disgust. It’s not the jay-ball, I think it’s to do with my holding up the queue.
Inside I am shaking. I am cracking into a thousand tiny pieces of relief. Calmly I reach for my card, as if nothing has happened and slot it into the machine. Check-out girl says “I’ve never seen a kid do that before?”, She is too shocked to ask if I have a points card. No one else speaks to me, no one asks if he’s ok, I wheel Asha away and we cling gladly to each other. To celebrate his survival we split a chocolate 
Ripple at the fag counter and leave the supermarket. The sun is shining and the world looks good to me. I smile at everyone I pass, and they smile back. Strangely normal in Witney, but that’s they way of small market towns, they are still very local places. And that’s the strangest thing about what happened. No one said anything to us. If Asha falls on the footpath, people stop and see if he’s OK. If he’s feeding the ducks, people pass and smile, and say “hello”. When he played at the check out, people were smiling and watching him. Pointing when he hid from my sight, telling me he was right there – just a few seconds before it happened. But no one spoke to us. I struggle to understand it.
Is this the world I’ve heard about on the news? That world where no one cares about anyone else? The one where people walk the other way, rather than help someone in distress? Am I out of touch with reality? I stopped watching the news a while back, because I objected to it being just so negative. Good things do also happen everyday, but they don’t make dramatic headlines, they dont stike the beats of Big Ben in quite the same way. If the news was renamed, “All the bad things that happened in the world today”, people would think twice about tuning in at the end of a long day.
As we walk across the meadow, safely hand in hand, thoughts come to me. Someone did call out, “turn that kid upside-down”, but I ignored them. The check-out girl did want to get a first aider, but I ignored her. Perhaps people really did want to help. I only looked at the woman next to me, frosty for sure, but I didn’t look down the queues at the others. I paid and left. What if they had wanted to say something to us? Maybe, they were concerned at the little boy choking infront of them? The one they’d just been watching and smiling at. But we, The English, are not good with sticky situations outside our preset social boundaries. We are not easy with the warm words and actions of other cultures. I too played my great british role of “good in a crisis”, to perfection. The irony of it dawns on me, that it was me, who did not look up to meet their concerned eyes. I didn’t let their kindness in.
The Other Woman
15 November, 2009
I’m sitting in the hairdressers reading a Tatler article on how some posh skinny woman found “The One”. He isn’t her boyfriend or husband, but her hairdresser, and according to her, every woman must change hairdressers until we find “The One”. He will not only be a hairdresser, but a psychic and have a qualification in speed counseling too. Once we find him neither our hair, or our life, will ever be the same again. He will lift us in times of despair and in his eyes we are truly beautiful. She doesn’t mention how much we tip him. I notice Nerf glance down at the page I’m scanning. He still hasn’t said a word to me. To be honest if he wasn’t the best hairdresser in the whole of Oxfordshire, then I would search for another. I’d find one who never shut up, who pryed unnecessarily into my private life, who would know my kids names and who would keep digging till she has me in tears each visit. And of course, then she would step in as my rock, and bring my joy and hope back with her encouraging salon wisdom, borrowed from the glossies. Yes, I long for a hairdresser full of twisted curiosity and fake kindness. But till then, I have no choice. No other hairdresser has ever made my hair look so, well, normal. Normal isn’t really what he does with it, he makes it look abnormal, like proper TV hair. 
When I leave the salon people mutter “Maybe she’s born with it?”, and men stop their expensive sports cars to give me bunches of flowers.
The girl washing my hair is telling me all about her “blended” family. She is the second youngest of six kids. Her father brought one child to the relationship, her mother already had three and then they had another two together. Then he left this wife and moved in with his new wife. Hair washing girl went with her dad to live with his new wife and her two kids. That’s eight children if you’re having trouble keeping up. Apparently, there was a lot of disharmony in his new family unit, until he did the right thing and left the evil stepmother. I love every moment of it, but I wonder what her manager would say if she knew what I’d learned in five minutes. Anyway, we’re in luck and no one else is interested. Life really is better than fiction. Then she tells me how her mum bought itching powder for her to put in the step mother’s clothes. And you know what? She used it. To this day the stepmother has no idea that her pants, clothes and sheets were laced with itching powder. I am amazed.
I think about Mr. Ex’s woman – we’ll just call her Mrs Ex. (Although technically she’s married to her own husband). I look at the hair washing girl and I realise how different it is for me and mine. And I tell her how grateful I am to Mrs. Ex. who takes such good care of my children. It was a struggle not to slate her to my kids, to tolerate her when I was pregnant. But it’s paid off.
“The fact is, it’s Saturday. She has five children to look after and I”, I pause mid sentance and hairwash girl interrupts with a sly smile, “And you are at the hairdressers” she says. Sniggering like a couple of kids, she leads me back to Nerf for the silent cut. I dont mind, I’ve had my dose of gossip and enlightenment at the salon.
I am greateful to Mrs Ex., the so-called “Other Woman”. You are the one that fills this rainy Saturday entertaining five children, changing nappies and cooking meals which will be half eaten. You’re doing a great job, keep it up.
I am the Other Woman. The one with Tatler on her lap and TV hair.
Those Endless Days
6 November, 2009
I am having one of those days. One of those days when you are just happy to be alive, and grateful for everything in this life. A day when the universe said “I’m looking after you honey”. The sun is shining, warm on my face it is a beautiful day. I glide effortlessly through a spectrum of autumnal colour. I drift off for a few moments of much needed rest, in warmth and comfort. Everything in here is still, everything out there is frantic. I am in the “Now” as Eckhart Tolle would say. Sami, the wonder kid, has arranged this day for me and I haven’t even thanked him. In fact I was on irritation autopilot as I left the house. But now, on reflection, there are so many people I have to be grateful to, because without them I wouldn’t have appreciated these peaceful moments so much. I am having a day off and it is exactly what I need on the first Monday of half term. So, without further delay, I would like to say “thank you” to a few of the supporting cast that made this possible.
The very first “thank you” must go to Mr. Ex. for refusing to have the kids one hour earlier than normal, so that I could make it to the theatre in London. I should also thank him for his three phone calls at 1.30am as he tried to clarify this with me – sorry I didn’t pick up, but it wasn’t a great time for me. I did find an unsuspecting grandmother in London to have the kids (borrowed her from a friend). It was very good of her, especially as she didn’t know we were coming. The theatre was wonderful, Bellydance Superstars at the Bloomsbury. The kids have loved our weekend away – although ironically, my idea had been a break from them, rather than with them. Anyway, we got out and about and managed to do both the Science Museum and the Natural History Museum on the same day – we got there really early.
Which leads nicely into my second “thank you”. This goes to Mr. George Hudson, an entomologist (bug collector) living in New Zealand who died in 1946. 
It was Mr. Hudson’s brilliant idea to change the clocks twice a year. This was so that he could have more time to collect bugs in daylight. Strangely, I can think of a much simpler solutions to this problem. That Mr Hudson could have got up just a bit earlier and stay out just a little bit later doing his bug-thang. But somehow, changing the time in half the world made far better sense to him. He also thought it was a shame how much daylight was wasted by people sleeping. Well, Mr. Hudson, I really hope that reincarnation exists and that you were one of the parents queuing with me, outside the Natural History Museum last Sunday morning. All of us wishing we had stayed in bed that extra hour, instead of lining up outside a closed door. Or perhaps Mr. Hudson, you might be one of the circus performers we saw last Spring – wondering why we trooped in so rudely, halfway through your show. Anyway, it’s not Hudson’s fault. I think if the clocks are going to change twice a year, then we should be properly informed. They should announce it from loudspeakers on the top of a car. There should be government texts sent out to us all. One thing is for sure, we should never find ourselves on a tube train at 8.30am with four young children, when we could be in bed.
My third “thank you” goes to the wonderful AA man who opened my car for me, in a record 30 seconds, when we got back that night. The record is strictly for AA/RAC men who open my cars, not joy riders etc. Just in case you’re interested, the worst attempt was an RAC man who took 35 minutes to open a Volvo that had my keys in the ignition. How dumb was he? The year I had Asha, I used all of my available RAC call-outs on locking my keys, or baby, in the car. Then I had to leave and join the AA. Anyway, Mr AA Man, it was just a tiny bit, well, patronising of you to show me how to lock it, without the keys, by pressing the button. Shame then, that I hadn’t got my stuff out of the car and you had to open it up again. Even though it took you 20 minutes the second time, I’m still going to count your first attempt as my current record. Thanks AA man.
A very special “thank you” to Sami, my first born. Top marks for your brilliant attempt to keep my car keys safe in your hoodie as we crossed London. I had absolutely no idea that you would attempt something so resourceful. Yes, your failure (and I specifically choose that word) was disappointing for both of us. But hopefully I will be able to find the spares when I get back to Oxfordshire. I know they are in the house somewhere, I think I saw them about six months ago.
Thanks now to our wonderful railway network, which can get me back near home in less than an hour. Also for the innovations in online ticket purchasing. I discovered you can even buy tickets for trains which are canceled. In fact, I have one in my purse right now. Amazing, I bet you couldn’t do that in the olden days.
Lastly, my sincere thanks to the wonderful Oxford Tube coach service. Next time I will definitely buy the ticket which was £7 cheaper than the one you sold me. Thanks for telling me about it as you passed me my change. And lastly a massive thank you to the mechanic who is working on the engine right now at the back of the coach on the side of the M40.
But the truth of the matter is, that this wonderful day-off is a choice. It is a choice whether to focus on the pain and disharmony of life – it’s always going to be there. Or whether to take a different view of what’s happneing to us. Which lens we look through, the short sighted one, or the one that gives us a bigger picture. The warmth and silence that this opportunity has provided me with, is exactly what I needed today. I need a rest before half term takes a hold of my time and energy. I’m going to make the most of the beautiful scenery and the chance to catch a nap in a comfy seat. Right here, right now, nothing is wrong and I can choose to find everything perfectly right with life, if I want to. And just for today, I do.
“Thank you for the days, those endless days, those sacred days you gave me”
Resentments
3 November, 2009
He walks away. My children hand in hand with him, my baby in my sling but now wrapped around his waist. Not even a “bye”, I sit in the now empty car, the invisible woman. Anger rises inside me, my mind races, hurting itself with the shrapnel wounds of pains now past. Rage boils at all that I have been through. He walks away, oblivious. With our happy children beside him, excited at his Sunday company. I need to do something to calm down.
The Doctor is running an hour late. I read “Hello” magazine in the waiting room, feeling fatter and poorer than when I arrived. There’s a book called “I can mend your broken heart” by Paul McKenna in a box on the floor. 
It’s in the secondhand pile, which means he’ll mend it for nominal fee, it seems like a reasonable deal. I throw my lefty principles aside and invest 50p in private healthcare.
Dr Late asks me how I’m feeling – “Totally fine, except for odd outbursts of overwhelming anger and resentment”. I don’t mention how the Hello magazine has just destroyed the last of my self-esteem – now is not the time to criticize the NHS. I explain that everyone else has recovered and moved on from the break up. The children are much happier now Mr. Ex is finally having them one night a week. But I find myself looking back over the pregnancy wondering why Mr. Ex made it so hard. I feel angry. I want to be Mrs. Cool. I want the moral high ground, the dignified position. But I’m struggling to hold it together. I ask for counseling on the NHS. Dr. Late is a kind gentleman who listens when his patients talk, he thinks about his patients’ needs. He gives everyone the time it takes to hear them out, hence he is called “Dr. Late”. He probably hasn’t had a lunch hour in 30 years. He writes me a letter of referral, by hand, with an ink pen. Then he tells me that there is only a slim chance I’ll actually get any help, but he’ll give it his best shot.
The days roll on and nothing much changes, except I clean the car out and find Paul McKenna under some crisp packets. His nose is now a yellow boiled lolly, licked to stick and dusted with dirt. I settle down in the driver’s seat for my first appointment. I do as he instructs and read the book in one go. The exercise for resentment is simple – so simple in fact that it’s a bit of a joke, here it is. When I feel resentful, I have to freeze the image, put it on an imaginary TV screen and turn up the whiteness until the picture disappears. That’s it – well at least I only paid 50p. Private medicine is obviously not all it’s cracked up to be. I decide not to use the CD – it’s in brand new condition. If I don’t scratch it, I’ll get more for it on ebay, the lolly has left him in dire need of a nose-job though.
The next time I see Mr. Ex he is in newly aquired smart casual attire for his newly aquired job. I am in something from ebay customized with custard and ketchup. He leaves the 
house but stays with me. He’s in my mind, and I feel the irritation, the anger the resentment. The jealousy – he is so free and I am so trapped. I stop it there, time to call in McKenna. I freeze the thought and hold the image of him in my angry mind’s eye. Slowly I turn up the whiteness and I blast him out of my inner vision. I blast him with brilliant white light and add some sparkles to it and keep it going until there is not trace of him. But there is no epiphany, I get on with my day as if nothing has happened.
But something has happened. Something different has been going on and I haven’t even been aware of it. It’s not until the evening that I notice it. I haven’t given Mr. Ex. a single thought for the entire day. I have thought nothing about him whatsoever. I have completely forgotten to feel resentful of him. I have forgotten to feel hard done by. I am amazed, I can’t believe it’s actually worked. I am shocked. I search for the resentment in my head and I find it, but it is dormant, no longer charging round my mind kicking off. I leave it resting and creep away.
It happens again the next time I see him. I blast his irritating image from my mind and forget all about it until hours later. Same magical result as before. It’s happened twice and I am speechless (almost). But then the time after that when I see him, it is different again. I dont blast him with light this time. I dont need to because I don’t feel resentful anymore. It’s stopped, it’s over, it’s gone. grateful am I to have my peace again. I cannot believe that it has happened so simply. My best friend or worst enemy mind, I am glad to have it back on my side. As I think about the changes, I have realizations about the break up, and these help me to take more responsibility for what happened. I suspect these have been triggered by Mr. McKenna. I have searched my mind for them in the past, but not been able to find the answers, now they are clear to me. I am less of a victim, I understand what I got out of marrying Mr. Ex and why it didn’t work. The results are so amazing that I take McKenna’s book off ebay.
About three months later, I get a phone,call out of the blue. It’s Mrs Psychotherapist from the NHS calling to assess me for her “list”. My referral has finally come through, and she wants to find out just how nuts I am so she can decide how long I can wait to get her help. Obviously she says it a lot nicer than that on the phone. I tell her that I think I’m OK, I get a slightly patronising, “Really?”, in response. It’s the voice of someone who doesn’t want to rain on my parade, but who also clearly doesn’t believe that I am able to get well without a lot of intervention. I tell her about the whitening-out exercise and how well it worked. She is listening, she is curious. I share with her my realization about the marriage; I explain how I got to an age when I wanted a baby, so I looked around and found a really nice baby and married him. How I loved that baby. I bought him nice clothes and cooked him nice meals. I sent him to the best college. But as that baby grew up, he became a teenager and got very difficult. Then he started hanging out with the bad boys in the local pub, and coming home late. He started arguments and picked fights and didn’t want to go out with me anymore, he’d rather be with his friends. Finally, he took some money from my purse and left home blaming all of his problems on me.
There is a pause at the other end of the line. I wait for the verdict on my mental health. She calmly says that she is taking me off her list. That in her professional opinion I don’t need psychotherapy. Then she asks for the name of the book, because she wants to write it down.
And as she wrote, she said to me, “I wish I could get results like that with my clients”.
Dr Late asks me how I’m feeling – “Totally fine, except for odd outbursts of overwhelming anger and resentment”. I don’t mention how the Hello magazine has just destroyed the last of my self-esteem – now is not the time to criticize the NHS. I explain that everyone else has recovered and moved on from the break up. The children are much happier now Mr. Ex is finally having them one night a week. But I find myself looking back over the pregnancy wondering why Mr. Ex made it so hard. I feel angry. I want to be Mrs. Cool. I want the moral high ground, the dignified position. But I’m struggling to hold it together. I ask for counseling on the NHS. Dr. Late is a kind gentleman who listens when his patients talk, who thinks about his patients’ needs. He gives everyone the time it takes to hear them out, hence he is called “Dr. Late”. He probably hasn’t had a lunch hour in 30 years. He writes me a letter of referral, by hand, with an ink pen. Then he tells me that there is only a slim chance I’ll actually get any help, but he’ll give it his best shot.
The days roll on and nothing much changes, except I clean the car out and find Paul McKenna under some crisp packets. His nose is now a yellow boiled lolly, licked to stick and dusted with dirt. I settle down in the driver’s seat for my first appointment. I do as he instructs and read the book in one go. The exercise for resentment is simple – so simple in fact that it’s a bit of a joke, here it is. When I feel resentful, I have to freeze the image, put it on an imaginary TV screen and turn up the whiteness until the picture disappears. That’s it – well at least I only paid 50p. Private medicine is obviously not all it’s cracked up to be.
The next time I see Mr. Ex he is in one of his new outfits for the office, I am in something customized with custard and ketchup. He leaves the house but stays with me. He’s in my mind, and I feel the irritation, the anger the resentment. The jealousy – he is so free. I am so trapped. I stop it there, time to call McKenna. I freeze the thought and hold the image of him in my angry mind’s eye. Slowly I turn up the whiteness and I blast him out of my inner vision. I blast him with brilliant white light and add some sparkles to it and keep it going until there is not trace of him. But there is no epiphany, nothing else happens, I get on with my day. That evening I a thought crosses my mind. I reflect on what’s happened. I haven’t given Mr. Ex. a single thought for the entire day. I have completely forgotten to feel resentful of him. I am amazed, I can’t believe it’s actually worked. I am shocked. I search for the resentment in my mind and I find it, but it is dormant, not alive and kicking me. I leave it resting and creep away.
It happens again the next time I see him. I blast his irritating image from my mind and forget all about it until hours later. I dont even remember I’ve done the exercise for hours. Then the time after that I dont need to blast him with light. Because I don’t feel resentful anymore. It’s stopped, it’s over, it’s gone. I am amazed and grateful. I have my mind back, I have my peace. I cannot believe that it has happened so simply. As they say, the mind can be your best friend or your worst enemy. I am so glad to have mine back on my side. As I think about the change, I have realizations about the break up that help me to take more responsibility for what happened. I suspect these have been triggered by Mr. McKenna. I have searched for this in the past, but not been able to find the answers, now it is clear to me. I am less of a victim, I understand what I got out of marrying Mr. Ex and why it didn’t work. I resolve not to sell McKenna’s book on Ebay.
About three months later, I get a phone,call out of the blue. It’s Mrs Psychotherapist from the NHS calling to assess me for her “list”. My referral has finally come through and she wants to find out just how nuts I am so she can decide how long I can wait to get her help. Obviously she says it a lot nicer than that on the phone. I tell her that I think I’m OK, I get a slightly patronising, “Really?”, back from her. It’s the voice of someone who doesn’t want to rain on my parade, but clearly doesn’t believe that I am able to get well without a lot of intervention. I tell her about the whitening-out exercise and how well it worked. She is amazed. I share with her my realization about the marriage; I explain how I got to an age when I wanted a baby, so I looked around and found a really nice baby and married him. How I loved that baby. I bought him nice clothes and cooked him nice meals. I sent him to the best college. But as that baby grew up, he became a teenager and got very difficult. Then he started hanging out with the bad boys in the local pub, and coming home late. He started arguments and picked fights and didn’t want to go out with me anymore, he’d rather be with his friends. Finally, he took some money from my purse and left home blaming all of his problems on me.
Mrs. Psychotherapist, crosses me off her list. In her professional opinion I don’t need psychotherapy. Then she asks for the name of the book, writing it down she says, “I wish I could get results like that with my clients”.
