I once received a copy of Oxford Montessori’s school brochure (when I  only had one child and actually cared about that sort of thing – his education and stuff).  It was full of spelling mistakes, incorrectly used words and even a map which had one of the schools located on the wrong side of the street.  Here’s a quote I remember;

“We will inform you if your child is illegible for the government voucher scheme”.

Illegible instead of eligible?  I think they were offering my child the chance of their amazing education skills for only £5,000 a year.  I thought the brochure was the best indicator of the school they could possibly send out to be honest.  I didn’t ring up with corrections, I rang the local state school and had a look round instead.

With workshops I’ve enjoyed, I’ll often leave a bit of feedback on small things that could be improved like, “move the venue from East London to Birmingham” etc., all helpful stuff.   Generally speaking, it’s received by the host with, er, hostility.  This happened recently, so I’ve decided to have a bit of a re-think on feedback and how to leave it.

My new forumla for feedback is based on my many years of research, trial and, oh-s0-many errors.  I think I’ve now developed an exciting new formula that will give you incredible results.  Soon, you will find people hanging on your every word and inviting you to be a public speaker at their events.   Please feel free to copy it, or expand on it in your own intimate style.  Although no two situations are ever exactly the same, with this formula you will get massive-results-which-blow-your-mind. The conversation should typically go along these lines;

Host(ile) facilitator:  Hey, How was my workshop?

You:  “Oh your workshop……” (pause for thought, like you’re thinking back to the actual day, instead of remembering your lines.  Basically the more you pause at this stage the better the overall effect.  So fill that pause with something like imagining yourself walking backwards through your whole house – include garage /or sheds).  Then when you’ve done that, you can begin…

You: “Oh it was, well, really fantastic”

Host(ile): Really?  Do you really think so?  I mean I know I’m relatively new to this but….

 You;  (interrupt with enthusiasm) “Oh, yeah, you’re not the biggest, that’s true, but OMG! you’re so the best, the best, it was fan-tas-tic. Really, really good.

Host(ile): Wow, that’s so nice of you, I’m so glad you liked it.  We’ll be doing some more later in the year…

You: (interrupting enthusiastically)  More! (a slight scream should enter your voice now)  Oh, yeah, I’d like more, yeah more.  I’m just going to keep coming again and again and again it was sooooo amazing.  Thanks. (Deeply exhale and if light up a cigarette if you’re outside). 

Host(ile):  You’re welcome (he looks happy). I’ll tell you what, shall I put you on our mailing list.

You:  Yes, Yes, YES!

I guarantee, you’ll get a much better result if you use this method anytime you’re asked for feedback.  If you need to practise this complex technique before you use it then write some feedback about my blog below.  (Just scroll up if you need help remembering the formula.)

Introductory price: £7,777.99  (cash/paypal)

H x

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

Akram Khan’s latest offering to the contemporary dance world is truly the sort of thing you see once in a lifetime.  Ok, that’s overlooking the fact that it’s coming back to Saddler’s Wells next year – so you’ll be able to see it once in your lifetime as well as me.

The most amazing thing about it is the feeling of honesty and love.  I don’t mean that in a “luvvie” type of way.  He takes us on what initially appears to be his journey from growing up a standard British “youf” bickering with his Pakistani father.  But as the story unfolds, it’s his father’s journey that becomes the deeper storyline in Desh.  Touching it is too.  Within this we are both transported right into the midst of a traditional fairy tale and then challenged with reality of Pakistani child workers – working for us..  Well, you can’t say he didn’t fit a lot in, can you?

If the story telling is magical, then the visual feast of Khan at his most creative and beautiful dancing us through it is more than breathtaking.   The other lovely thing about Khan is that he doesn’t desert his sense of humour when spinning his silken yarns.  I laughed and cried during this performance.   The amazing visual effects, designed by Timmy Yip (Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon) enable Khan to climb animated trees and dance through the sky, proper dancing with the stars it was.  It’s spell binding.  All of the animated “front drops” he uses were hand sketches, every few seconds requiring thousands of drawings, and the animated scene lasts at least ten minutes.  The work behind it is staggering.  I sat and watched and couldn’t really believe the beauty unfolding on the stage in front of me.

Joscelyn Pook (Eyes Wide Shut, Massive Attack) composed the music, and interesting and haunting blend of vocals often mixed with ecclesiastical undertones, this turns Khan’s piece into a truly multidimensional masterpiece.

I first saw Khan some twelve years ago, then a talented classical Indian dancer in the Kattak school.  He would dance and at the end his Guru (teacher) would stand up and accept the applause.  I didn’t see his Guru last night, although he might well have been there.  But what I did see, was how Khan’s early roots have stood him in good ground for all that grown out of him since.  He has kept the grace of his early performances, despite being 37 (aged in the world of dance) and kept the dignity and respect of the culture he was trained in.  Although now in his dancing we have occasional glimpses of his traditional pieces – I have to say I find his newer work fresher and speaks louder to us, his generation.

To sit in the theatre and watch Desh is like an amazing dream or what an acid trip should be but isn’t.  Informative, beautiful, unreal, meaningful and moving.  Take a Khan trip once in your lifetime, go on try it, but beware you might get addicted.

Another thing I learned last time, was to be very careful about who you buy it from.  Previously I have avoided all the dealers.  Instead, I bought my last car from a retired middle aged couple in leafy North Oxford.  They had a genuine reason for sale and were effusive about the car and sad to be selling it.  Turned out they were a couple of crafty old shysters who swapped my cash for scarp metal in their neighbour’s recycling boxes.

The man I bought my last car from

They’d banged an old tyre on at each corner and called it a “car”.  They assured me the engine was “very quiet” and off I rolled, literally downhill all the way from there.  They hadn’t climbed to the top of the Saga cruise ship without using other people as their stair lift in life, I was to discover.  The “car” had everything replaced by my local garage over the following three years.

This time I decided on a Vauxhall Zafira.  Wtf?  I hear you ask. I’m sure you imagined me in a vintage sports car or saw me as a sophisticated Yummy queuing up in environmentally customized 4×4 outside the school gates?   I hate to disappoint, but there are a few intelligent reasons which led me to choose Vauxhall over Lexus, Range Rover or Maserati – they’re all called price. Chiefly, the price is right because Zafira’s qualify for a government scheme called Motability for the disabled.  It’s really clever, just like the name, a synergistic combination of motor and motility, or motor and ability, (or motab and ility).  Anyway, exactly what the scheme is doing for the disabled?  By signing over the mobility component of the Disability Living Allowance (DLA) each month for three years, anyone in receipt of Higher DLA can lease a brand new car with full servicing, tyres and Road Tax included.  After three years they can chose to upgrade again to a brand new vehicle if required.  This clever scheme has run since the 1970s and has managed to both create a whole consumer base for new cars (people who would never have afforded them and wanted to get out) and simultaneously has managed to boost the flagging motor trade with thousands of sales per annum.  Clever eh?  It was introduced by the Late Lord Goodman (before he died).  Anyway, the upshot for me of all this is that there are tons of second hand Zafira’s around,  they’re low in price,  low in miles and have a full service history.  I was going to have one.  Motability is the biggest supplier of second-hand cars in the motor industry, but you can only get one of their used cars from a motor dealer.

So out on the hunt for a good deal, I first visited the Bellinger Vauxhall dealership in Wantage.  I had two of the “Oh-my- god children” (omgc) with me, which sufficiently deterred any of the salesmen from an approach.  We even ventured into one of their glassy showrooms where I acquired lots of new biros (and the omgc acquired all the complimentary biscuits).  We were just about to leave; feeling very satisfied that Vauxhall had a lot to offer, when a salesman approached.  Five minutes later I found myself huddled over a brochure trying to decide which of the brand new cars I’d be most interested in.  The omgc excelled themselves by playing quietly together near one of the show cars.  Sensing my dilemma (I don’t actually want a new car), my dealer said if I wasn’t fussy on colour, he’d see what he could do.  (Please god, not silver.)   He disappeared for ten minutes and when he came back he generously added £1,000 to the price of each of the cars, saying he’d found the new price list.  Weird.  At this point I wanted a fast exit, so I asked the omgc to stop filling the show car with forecourt gravel and we left.

I needed a car with more space for the kids

Now, I learned an important thing on that outing.  No one takes a woman seriously if she has two dirty young boys in tow.  She’s just not considered mentally competent.  So when I visited Hartwell Vauxhall in Kidlington, I made sure I amassed four dirty young boys and an idea of a competitive price.  The hustle was on.  And then it was off.  Could it have been the sight of my old banger part askew on their lot, or the sound of breaking plastic which arose unidentifiably from the back seats while we did the test drive?  I’m not sure, but I was mighty upset when I saw Sami prize the top off the gumball machine and generously share his stolen hoard.  I rushed over hoping no one else had seen.  Patiently, I explained that they had to pay for the sweets and they were there to help sick children with Leukaemia.  Looking at me with total scorn, omgc #1 said “Eating loads of sweets isn’t going to make them better.”  Another hasty exit, (but I didn’t make the kids empty their pockets of gobstoppers).

Eventually, I found a car.  Well, actually my 85 year old mother found it in her local paper.   She told me to ring the garage in Tewkesbury, and while I was on the phone she interrupted asking;

“Will they take a cheque or do they want cash”

“Would they prefer a Banker’s Draft?”

“Can you pay now by phone, or do they need the card?”

Eventually, I told her that we’d play them hard by going to see the car before buying it. Savvy – that’s me.

Jason Jones Autocare was the final stop on my car buying journey.  He turned out to be brilliantly eccentric, everything I’d ever imagined in a second-hand car dealer.  He was vaguely recognisable from the photo on his website, obviously taken around 1988, when he was svelte and youthful.  He couldn’t find any of the many cars he’d promised me were in stock.  He couldn’t work the basics on his own computer and had to get someone old enough to be his grandfather to tell him where to click (it was that hard).  He also had a great sense of humour (obviously).  However, he managed to get me the car I wanted and to undercut the main Vauxhall dealers by about £1,500.  This was without giving me any special discounts or deals, so what can I do but recommend him?

Oh, and just in case you’re wondering, he knew all about the silver cars and he advised me to go for a blue one.  He said they’re really reliable and never crash.

Me and my new motor

(Should I mention that the kids smashed a window on it before it was a week old?)

Nah,  let’s not spoil it eh?

Then, (well in real time it was before the then) I got a bunch of lovely presents.  I think one I have to mention was an original painting by my friend, the talented Laura Middleton.  If I find my camera I’ll include a photo of it and if I find my way around the web, I’ll include a link to her site.  Honestly, I would have been really, really, pleased with even a print, but to get the real thing was so amazing. Thanks L.

The kids woke me up with shiny parcels.   They had in fact wrapped everything in purple sticky back plastic – you know the stuff you cover books with?  Anyway, it made opening the presents last a lot longer.  We managed to unpeel them from their wrappers,  each one still coated with a light sticky film.  Nice.  I damn nearly gave up on the lip gloss altogether, but luckily Sami took over and prized it out.  Good thing too, as it has proved doubly useful;  I now have amazing looking lips and a clever device to remove all the fluff from the bottom of my handbag.   Amba gave me chandelier earrings, which in size and weight, are the identical to real chandeliers,  just no light bulbs.  Asha, kindly gave me a bottle of alcohol-free ginger wine.  Funny that, because I don’t remember ever ordering that in a bar or restaurant, but I do remember it being one of Sami’s favourite drinks.  Sami ran downstairs and opened it for me before breakfast.  Then Asha made a special presentation of “Xmas wood for you mummy”, and offered me a slat from the base of his bed.   Thanks.  I briefly enacted my favourite scene from the Blues Brothers where a nun smacks a stick between Jake and Elwood’s heads.  Asha and Sami took the lead roles, until Asha confiscated my Xmas wood and hid it under his duvet.

For breakfast I dropped into Hacketts, a local café bar for breakfast, on my own. It was just fantastic;  me, a magazine, good coffee and something on toast.  No kids, nobody else, no worries, just a great feeling.   As I paid my bill, I mentioned to the waitress that it was my birthday and she said “Well, you’re lucky if you live to the next one”.   Now, I don’t want to come off as a complete narcissist, but it wasn’t exactly the reply I’d been expecting.  Perhaps this showed on my face, because she started to spontaneously explain what she meant.  Her explanation was a list of all the people she knew who had died, ever.  Now, she is 55 (she told me last time I was in there), so, what I’m hinting at here is that there are quite a few people she knows who have taken the, er, last taxi home.  Specifically, her best friend in November last year, then her best friend’s son who has leukaemia at 30 (and two young children), her best friend’s mother and sister who died the same week (but that was when waitressy lady was 21).  I heard it all, the litany went on and on.  I got the funeral arrangements and everything.  What to speak of the full monty on the woman who worked in the pub down the road who had an aneurism age thirty five, just a few weeks ago.  I kid you not, this went on for ten minutes (but it felt like an hour).  At one point she looked down and I had a chance slip one of my inappropriate laughs out without her noticing.  She did that thing where she’s halfway through doing my bill transaction and then she just stands there engrossed in (one-way) conversation, but physically, totally frozen.  My change dangling like a hostage, just above the open till, while I prayed it would make it across the no man’s land bar, back to my pocket, so we could escape her together.

I made my way into Waitrose. I thought I’d get a birthday cake that I actually wanted to eat this year. Which meant choosing it without the kids around. The patisserie lady showed me a few expensive, frankly stupid, looking cakes, all pastel icing and little flowers. Hardly a reflection of my character. Laughing, I said to the woman, “Ha, I’ll just go and get a Smarties one, shall I?” she look at me dead seriously and said “They do it in medium and large”.

I had lunch with my Mum in Moran’s in Cheltenham.  Towards the late afternoon I found myself in possession of an unfeasibly large box of chocolates and in the company of three uncharacteristically helpful children, fighting to carry it for me.  As an act of random kindness, I took the little darlings into Costa and lifted the lid. As it was my birthday, I went first and took all the hazelnut pralines.   (No arguments, they don’t like nuts).  Then they ate all the ones they liked, by a process of elimination.   Instead of reading the little choccy menu that comes in the box, they followed Asha’s failsafe methodology. It went like this;  pick up a chocolate, bite it in half, then decide if you;

a) like it enough to finish it,

or

b) dislike it enough to return it to the box.

This went on for about half an hour.  Then, I scooped up all the half eaten ones and threw them in the bin and put the Turkish delights back in the box.  (Turkish delight aren’t veggie so we’d shoved them on the side to avoid confusion).  Amba carried the box down the street and offered a chocolate to all the old ladies we passed.   They responded with total delight at this charming five year old girl saying “Happy Valentines”.  I smiled graciously at them; yes that’s me, the wise parent out teaching her child what real “love” means on Valentines Day.  I knew they’d be too polite to spit the apricot parfait out on the floor once they’d bitten into it.  And that’s how we got rid of the horrible ones left at the end.

Oh go on, be my valentine

Bye xxxx

Ok, it’s not a gym, but nearly.  There are a few little differences,  my Crazy Sexy Gym beats a traditional gym hands down on all the differences.

The first thing about Crazy Sexy Gym is it’s not called IRON BOLLOCKS, it’s actually called “Curves”.  You know, curves, like on a real body that goes in and out.  I’m just beginning to work on the “in” bits, but I’ve got all the “outs” nicely sorted, so I’m halfway to the perfect body already, which is why I’m not even going to call it “Curves”, but Crazy Sexy Gym.

Crazy Sexy Gym has a circuit of exercise machines, about ten of them, with some aerobic (sprung) boards in between them.  The idea is that you work your way round this circuit   three times.  You carry a little electronic tag which you plug into each machine.  This tag sets the machines to your individual resistance and off you go, a full body work out takes 30 minutes.  The really brilliant thing about this is that every time I think to myself, “I hate this, I totally hate this and I can’t carry on,” a recorded voice says “change stations now”, indicating that my full 30 seconds on that machine is over and it’s time to do 30 seconds on the next machine.  Cool isn’t it?

The ambience of Crazy Sexy Gym is unlike your normal sweaty, pushy, gym.  As you work your way around the circuit you will converse with the other women there.  (Did I mention it was women only?)  The discussions are about holidays, shopping, puddings, the amazing sale on at Evans etc.  This goes on for the entire duration of your workout, you will be breathless by the end, but you’ll know everything that’s happened in Corrie and EastEnders (but not Holyoaks).  One of the reasons I joined Crazy Sexy Gym was that when I did my trial workout, everyone else in there was at least 25 years older than me.  As I jogged heavily on the sprung boards for 30 seconds, they made comments to each other like “Oh, it’s wearing me out just looking at her” and “It’s alright when you’re young.”  I felt like I was on a Cindy Crawford exercise DVD or on in a wet Baywatch swimsuit.  I hadn’t felt that fit in years; that’s a pretty good start I thought, so I joined.

Compare that to last time I was in a proper gym (I mean exercising, not using the loos).  I was ambling power walking on the treadmill when some 26 yr old, size 8 pentathlete started sprinting right next to me.  I was trying to watch 60 Minute Makeover on the flat screen at the time.  (Have you seen it?  It’s where a load of people ransack your house in the name of home improvement.  But, they only spend 60 minutes doing all the renovations.  So literally like 30 people charge in, paint the rooms, refit your carpets, replace major appliances and install a new kitchen.  Then when the buzzer goes, indicating they have fulfilled their 60 minutes of unskilled destruction, they stop and leave it exactly as it is.  Personally, I can see a few problems with this methodology, but they’ve never shown the owners crying and the house falling down, so it must all be ok).  Where was I ?  Watching daytime TV as a skinny, fit, thin bird sprinted a quick marathon next to me.  Now, one thing I know about a lot of these “perfect” body types is that they are actually desperately insecure about how they look and genuinely think they’re fat and ugly.   I considered sweetly saying; “Excuse me, I don’t mean to be rude, but do you realise your fat legs are thumping your feet so hard on the treadmill that I can’t hear this show?”  But she wouldn’t have heard me as she had some cool music on her iPod frying her Crazy Empty Head.  So instead, I decided to leave.  I stopped walking and next thing I knew I was lying on the floor behind the treadmill.

Another interesting thing about Crazy Sexy Gym is the changing rooms.  Apparently, they let the members decide what facilities they wanted.  The members opted for a kitchen rather than showers, which says a lot really doesn’t it?  Personal hygiene is taken seriously though and there is a free supply of wet wipes and deoderants for everyone to use.  Believe it or not, no one nicks them either.  The changing rooms are carpeted not tiled so  there’s no danger of a fall.  Instead of ugly metal lockers, they have nice little pine cubby holes, each one filled with a pair of very white trainers.  There’s a pair with big labels in the soles saying “Susan Whitingale”, I’ve found they fit me the best.

Typical changing room at Curves.

So, now for the science.  They weigh and measure you once a month.  I worked out there twice a week for the first month, half an hour each time.  Then I had a month off with Xmas and heavy snow.    When they finally measured me, I’d lost 4 inches over my body.  That’s including an inch of my stomach, half an inch of each thigh and one off my boobs (but you’d never know it).  And I hadn’t even been for a month.  Pretty amazing I think.

You know what they say, you can’t argue with success.
Can’t recommend it higher than that.  Cost is £34 a month, give Crazy Sexy Gym a go.

Byeeeeee x

A bit of researched uncovered the problem.  In Oxfordshire there was a fire at the digi-transmitter in May this year.  But according to the transmitter website it’s all up and running again properly. (According to my crappy TV signal this isn’t true).  The transmitter is going up to full signal for the big switchover in Sept 2011, then the digibox will be working again just fine.  So, in the meantime there a few ways I can get a better signal on my set for the 12 months in between.  I can either get a new aerial and rewire the system (£150), or get a new TV (££ stupid money), or play creative games and improve my children’s reading (nah).   The amazing thing is, that when we’re faced with a problem we can’t solve in the normal linear thinking way, we have to resort to using our brains and finding a different type of solution – one outside the box.  Draw on those resources we never knew we had.   It’s the sort of thing that happens when climbers fall thousands of feet braking both their legs and still manage to trek 100 miles to the nearest Everest base camp – or when a single mums faces a full year without any kids TV.  I just had to find a way.

So, with no technical knowledge what-so-ever, I decided I would plug my computer into my TV.  There are two ways of doing this.  One way is to buy an internet TV from Argos (£2,000) and then subscribe to an internet TV package (£Tons) and watch it not working.  The other way – the one I chose, was to wander aimlessly into Maplin, stare blankly at the bewildering display of cables and mutter to an assistant, “I want to plug my old PC into my crappy TV, can I do that?”  Thirty seconds later I had everything I needed.  The

PC to TV thingy

Maplin man looked at me with shining eyes of  knowledge and told me how to connect the two cables to my computer, I too could join the (digital) revolution.  Then he repeated those instructions another five or six times.  Eventually I said, “Ok, I think I’ve got it; plug the green cable into the yellow socket?”  Then I went home to steal my son’s computer from his bedroom and move it to the living room before he got in.  (I think I should just mention that obviously I haven’t had personality change or won the lottery and lavished a computer on my kid.  The next door neighbour came round with it one day and gave it to him – amazing eh?)

Back to business, I wired it all up within five minutes and set the settings in Windows.  I only needed one quick phone call to Maplin man at the shop, and when I’d eventually found the right socket for the lead (green to yellow), then miraculously it worked!  I couldn’t believe it either.  I spent £50 on the leads, so I returned the £35 digibox  to Dixons, which meant that in all it cost me an extra £15 for On Demand TV.  I was so pleased with my new found techno abilities, I immediately signed up to Computer Geekly magazine online, so I could make new friends.  The only thing I couldn’t get to work was the extended screen setting in Display Settings.  This should allow you to watch online TV on the TV, and simultaneously use the computer as normal on the monitor. It didn’t recognise my TV as a separate device, but I think that’s because it’s so old.  But how amazing would that be?

There are a lot of shows that you can’t get On Demand.  But that said, you don’t get any Bid Up TV and for the kids it’s great because they actually have to choose what they’re watching, instead of just turning on and tuning out.  Also perfect for my two year old, who now gets In the Night Garden on demand –  exactly the way he likes things.  The kids loved it so much that Sami tried to pull a sickie and skive off school the next day, just to play around with it.  (He did eventually chose to go to school and tell all his flat screen friends how he’d got t’internet TV at home).

Oh yeah,  should I mention that the kids don’t actually watch the TV screen?  No, they prefer to huddle round the tiny monitor, bickering and elbowing each other for space, while their show plays on a full sized TV next to them.

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

http://www.forwardpress.co.uk

Copies of the book are available for £15.99 (!)

Bugsy

Shame then, for me, that I’ve been obsessing about getting abroad this summer.  I’ve searched high and low for a cheap holiday deal. But I couldn’t find anything within my budget of £40 week – and believe me, I tried.  Not one to give up easily, eventually I came up with the stupendous brainwave to try House Swapping.  This is a truly fabulous idea, where Guardian readers just swap their rather gorgeous homes and have a week or two abroad with no accommodation costs, living like the common people.  Some of them even swap cars too.  Perfect, I thought.  So I looked on the biggest service provider, Homelink, for either a flat or a house (I’m not fussy).  Somewhere hot, on the beach, with a pool and a really nice car – yep, that would do us.

Now Homelink have about three thousand houses around the world open to swapping, you can view all of them on their website.  You can specify, the country, dates and even the type of people – retired, kids, no kids that you’re interested in swapping with.

Anyone for Cuba?

Several of the houses I looked at were second homes, which makes dates more flexible.  I have to say though, the houses available are surprisingly up market.  One of the unusually smaller homes I spotted, turned out to be a four bed guest cottage on someone’s private estate in Barbados.  (You’d of thought they could afford a B&B for a week’s holiday, wouldn’t you?).  Many of the people travelling are retired, or groups of two to four adults.  Quite a few couples with a teenage child too.  A lot of the houses on their site are really, really nice.

How about Martinique?

Although in principle, this seemed like the perfect solution to my no-money holiday, it soon became painfully clear it was not going to work out for me.  The problem was when I’d browsed 2,981  homes, I still hadn’t found one that even roughly equated to my slovenly shite hole.  I was seriously lacking in a few house swap essentials – no designer furniture, no en suite bathrooms, no satellite TV, no pool, no walk in closet and let’s be honest – no chance.  No one else had photos of children’s scribble on the walls, crappy old kitchen units, with doors that don’t quite stay shut, a burgundy bath and “don’t ask” stains on the carpets.  How should I put it, were we out of their league?  I discussed it with a close friend. Her feedback was to check house swaps with third world countries, where overpopulation and lack of sanitation coupled with a burning desire to visit the UK, might be enough compensation for my housekeeping skills.  Nice.

Ignoring her, I turned to another close pal.  She suggested I try something she thought was more my level called “Couch Surfing”.  (Er, sorry?)     This, she quickly explained, is a massive loving online community of hosts and travellers who are proving that the world is a better place (than you see on Crime Watch).  The premise behind Couch Surfing is that travel should be an egalitarian experience, open to all, not just those with spare Airmiles on their Gold Card.  How it works is a Couch Surfers posts a request for a night (or three) on a sofa in your locale.  If you like the look of them (you won’t get the smell till the morning), you send them your address and arrange to meet for a coffee or even to host them without meeting.  But you don’t just let them in at midnight and kick them out at 6am.  No way, you show them round a bit locally, maybe cook them a meal, introduce them to friends or suggest places they can get a long distance train to.  I looked around the website, at the happy faces of youthful backpackers, the midlife crisis crowd and other normal nice looking human beings, who want to get out and about on the cheap, and like meeting people.  I suddenly found I’d fallen in love.  (With couch surfing, ok? Not with a couch surfer, I’ve only just divorced the last incumbent for god’s sake).  So I joined up, and paid a tenner which verifies my address and location (this is optional).  Then off I went looking for sofas to surf this summer.  There are lots of safety guidelines on the site and they specify all the time, that it is not a dating site.  You are only supposed to make arrangement via the site, so that all the email can be traced when you disappear.  The other thing they ask you to do is locate and add your friends to your page, and leave feedback on people you’ve stayed with or had to stay, to build up a community.  There are nearly two million people registered on this site – that’s a massive amount of people, and sad to say, I don’t know any of them.  So, if you join, please add me as a friend (unless, you’re like, a serial killer or something).

After having enviously peeked at pages of young trendy things trotting round the globe, I moved on to the “Groups” section, to see if I could find anyone I had something in common with.  There are trillions of groups on the Couch Surfing site  where you can find people who dream your dreams, on couches like yours, all over the planet.  Naturally, I checked out the Sports and Activities groups first of all.  Full of the usual stuff; white water rafting down Victoria Falls, snowboarding over the North Pole or a meet-up at the summit Mt. Nikon.  I didn’t find anything to join, but I will go back later and start my “Used to amble slowly on a treadmill” group when I have a moment.  I did find four groups to join in other categories though.  These are:

1. “House Swap” – yep, still haven’t given up on that ole chestnut.   I got an offer from a woman in Portishead.   I was hoping for Sri Lanka.
2. Vegetarian/Vegan.  I always join the veggie sites.  I don’t really know why, other than it’s a sort of hard to break habit – I’ve been veggie for 26 years.  Obviously, during that time I’ve come across most of the animal activist groups on the planet, and not joined them.  The problem for me is, I don’t really like animals that much, if I’m honest.  I definitely don’t like them enough to eat them.  (Or to get arrested for them, or to die for them).   I just think they should live where they are supposed to live (somewhere outside with trees and stuff), and I should live where I am supposed to live (somewhere expensive with a pool and a housekeeper).  I don’t really feel the need for it to be much more complicated than that.  I certainly don’t think they are man’s best friend – has one of them ever made you a great meal for your birthday?   I’ve seen David Attenborough’s shows and believe me, under all that soft fur, most of those lickle creatures are vicious bastards who can’t cook.
3. Family Couch Surfers was my next group.  Again, I don’t know why.  It’s not like I’m going to show up in some stranger’s living room for a free mini break with my kids.   Somewhere they host us and make us feel more welcome than the children’s  grandmother does.  Er, hold on a sec……………
4. Lastly, I joined one called “Independent Women”.  With this one you have to write to the forum moderators and explain why you want to join.  I wrote, “Both of my wives have asked me to contact to you, on their behalves.  I am permitting them to become members of this Dependent Women’s forum.  They are very inspired to see so many nice English ladies allowed to use their husband’s computing machines.  They have learned very fine recipes from my Mother and they wish to swap cooking advises with your groupies and learn about how you nice ladies cook for the great English Gentlemens.  I will soon post a photo of my brother, with the possibility of perhaps finding him a gentle and intelligent second wife – he wants one that speaks English.

Alright, I didn’t do it, (yet).  As a woman who has travelled independently quite a bit over the years, I know something about personal safety.  I felt this was something I could share with other women in this forum.  I’ll give a few tips on here anyway.  The way I always play it, when offered a free bed for the night by a strange guy, is to immediately reply, “Yes, thanks so much”.  It’s important not to forget manners, so follow this up immediately by asking, “Is there anything I can do for you in return?”  Using this technique, when travelling alone through my teens and early twenties, I enjoyed free lifts and accommodation all over the world and never had any problems.  Alright, maybe it’s a slight exaggeration, but not many problems.  Just one small problem in Bordeaux, one in Toulouse, one in Delhi, one in Figueres and one in Paris. One very lucky escape in Sydney, and another one in The Hague.  Only one time did some guys ever threaten to shoot me in Cleveland, and there was only ever one very worrying

Eventually, I learnt to defend myself

incident in Zimbabwe, (which was my fault for being a dumbass).  Oh, and one thing that wasn’t very nice in Chester – of all places.  But I’m not going to count that one time in NYC because the police came, nor one thing in Washington DC. (because, I’ve already forgotten it).  Nor, that one time in Seattle – because luckily we both got away.

See, except for those “one” times, I was pretty much almost completely safe the whole time.  (God help me when my kids start doing this and lying to me about their exploits).  Having said all that though, these (in truth, minor incidents) are massively outweighed by the thousand of gestures of generosity and kindness I felt showered with along my journeys.  I look forward to having a surfer on my sofa, and returning my part in giving out a bit of kindness. Yes, I will be careful, I will only take women and probably when the kids are at Mr. Ex’s.  And obviously, I’ll let you know before I leave the country for safety reasons.   Then, if this blog goes strangely silent, please write to Couch Surfers and tell them I’ve disappeared and see if you can get my tenner back.

Bye xxxx

My current number of godchildren is nine, for no good reason. I haven’t got any money to lavish on them, let alone leave them in a generous will. They get some (god) motherly tough-love and a share in a dvd at Xmas. Sometimes, I remember some of their birthdays and, if there’s special offer on in Poundland, they might even get a present. I’m thinking of declining any further god kid applicants, (and handing out free condoms to my friends).

A mum from school said, “Nine, that’s like Royalty”. Yup, I’m sure you’re thinking, Princess Grace of Monaco, I know.  But, believe it or not, I could be a lot more Fergie – inappropriate humour used to make situations that are bad, far worse. I read an article on her this week in the Daily (it must be true) Mail. She is apparently on skid row again since she lost her job running a Weight Watchers meeting.  Although, during the interview, she bought the £1,300 chair she was sitting in, as a spontaneous present for a friend. Her latest business venture went into liquidation owing £600,000, plus £200,000 to her solicitors and a few others who are owed smaller sums (like £20k).

Now, I always quite admired how Fergie survived the 80s and 90s. I’m not normally one to knock someone when they’re down. But the woman does get £250k a year from her ex-husband. On top of that she earned £2 million A YEAR representing Weight Watchers. Is this really the ex-princess who went into a “deprived” housing estate to help normal people get their lives together? I can’t believe no one thought of pitching that show the other way round? Normal hard working people, show hopelessly out of touch ex royal, how to manage her life and live on under £2.25 million a year.

It would go something like this:

Common (sense) bloke: Don’t worry luv, I’ll help you. I can teach you a bit of common sense with money. How much do you spend a year right now on non essentials?
Skint Fergie: I only spend on essentials. Nothing else.
CsB: Ok, then, how much is yer mortgage?
SF: My more gauge? Quite high, I suppose, about ½ a mill.
CsB: Half a mill, great, I used to work in’t mill. How many ton of flour do you get through a year?
SF: Well, I had to cut the cakes right down when I worked for Weight Watchers. But I have to admit, with all this stress, it’s gone up a quite a bit .
CsB: . So that’s in full productions, great. And you say you worked at Weight Watchers?
SF: They let me go.
CsB: Too fat?
SF: No. I was made redundant and since then, I’ve spiralled into a bit of debt.
CsB: Easy to do if yer not working. Do you get any support from that ex husband of yours?
SF: Two fifty a year.
CsB:. Well that won’t go very far. I’m sure it helps, with little extras though, like clothes and shoes.
SF: That’s exactly what I told him.
CsB: What about benefits, are you entitled to any?
SF: I get a lot of criticism about this. But yes, I take all the benefits I can get and that’s basically what keeps me going.
CsB: Aye, it’s hard surviving on benefits. What about family, do you get any help there from your parents or your in-laws?
SF: None. My side are poor polo players. His family live the life of royalty, but they won’t help me.
CsB: That’s terrible. Do you need help with housing? Where do you live?
SF: My ex husband was left a house by his granny. I’m in his spare room.
CsB: You don’t have to live like that luv. I’ll get you on the housing list. But, you’ll have to go into B&B for a few weeks.
SF: What? A hotel? That would be amazing.
CsB: Well, it might be a bit hard, but it’s just for a few weeks.
SF: Oh fabulous. Be a darling and book me for Mustique.
CsB: Don’t be daft luv, you can’t go to focking Spain.

Come on Sarah; how many people have your sort of disposable income, with no overheads? For now, just stop promoting yourself as a role model and guru of social change. Focus on strengthening your tenuous link with the real world first.

Girl, get a grip.

I'll never give up, (my Harrod's gold card).

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