Take a Break

20 June, 2013

I was reading about the top selling magazines in the UK.  I mean,I don’t actually read any of them, unless I’m at the Doctors or somewhere like that.  I tried to read one in Specsavers at the weekend, it was on technological advances and they did a list of their top 40 fav products on the market.  So there’d be a  picture of say, some speakers.  You know the type of thing, doesn’t look like a speaker, that’s half the joy of being technologically advanced isn’t it?  Having things other people don’t know about.  Anyway, next to the speakers they wrote; Capabilities:  does an x4r with a JBNK and has 2rpb which makes it unique.  Honestly, I just couldn’t understand a thing.  I felt old.  Then, I went in for the eye test and it was confirmed.

So, I was reading about magazine sales,  c’mon, see if you can guess the top five selling magazines in the UK?  I’ll give you some ideas shall I?  You’ve got Cosmo, Vogue, House and Gardens (pretty, pretty),  Brides, Nuts, TV Times, Health and Fitness.  Any ideas yet?  Ok, here’s a little clue – it’s none of them.  Think of the magazines you read, maybe?  Ok, I’ll put you out of your misery:

Top 5 selling paid for magazines in the UK

1.  TV Choice
2.  What’s on TV
3.  Radio Times
4.  Take a Break
5.  Saga (retirement)

Now, I personally don’t watch TV and part of the way I’ve brought that into the children’s lives is to ensure we never have a TV guide.  Yep, they have unlimited access to the telly, but they never have a clue what’s on.  Of course, they could go use the TV itself – it has an electronic programme guide on it.  But, they seldom do.  I think actually they’ve just forgotten we’ve got one.

The other surprise in there is Saga Magazine, which, I think is subscription only.  My mum used to get it and I always read it because it was well written and they didn’t make all the articles up, unlike some other magazines.  But the biggest shocker on the list, for me anyway, is Take a Break Magazine.  Have you ever read it?  Own up now, it’s got a  circulation of 740,00 copies a week?  Someone is buying it.

For now, I’m going to assume you don’t read Take A Break very often and give you a little look at the uplifting stories they publish.  This week they are offering insightful commentary on a range of real human issues (with photos):

The headlines on last week’s front page were:

*Finace nicked my cash to wed secret lover
*Was he lying or dying?
*Caught on camera: Rape at eight months pregnant
*Big day shock: I had my wedding without my groom
*Our beautiful prom queen:  Why I couldn’t tell her the truth.

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Nice isn’t it? The fourth best selling magazine in the UK.  So, with this in mind,  I’m going to start re-working this blog to include a bit more sensationalism, drama and violence, in an attempt to move it into a more commercial market.  The story (below), is about a stabbing in our kitchen (please don’t read on if you’re squeamish).

“We were a happy family, just myself and my three children after my husband had left.  Yes, things didn’t always go our way, but we kept a cockney cheer about us.  Often, you’d find us out in the streets where we lived, spontaneously performing complex choreographed song and dance routines with the bin men and passing strangers.  Hard times, but my, they were happy times too.

Things were tough, but we always made time for a song and a dance (routine).

I had no idea at beneath that cheery grin, how troubled my beautiful little girl was.  I never sensed what must have been building like a volcano inside her.  Perhaps things weren’t going well at school?  Although I’ve searched for an answer, I’ve never got to the bottom of it.  But, I’ll never forget the day it all happened.

I’d just cooked tea, no matter how tight money was, I always made sure the kids ate well.  They were halfway through their tottiglioni arabica served with organic rocket salad and a hazelnut and fresh pomegranate molasses vinaigrette, when it all began.  Without any warning at all, Amba picked up her fork and started stabbing her food. “Stop it, stop it!”, I pleaded with her, but there was no stopping her.  She just kept on stabbing it, like she was possessed or something.

fork

An artist’s impression of the fork.

I’d never seen her like that before, the boys and I were shocked and appalled.  I felt sick watching her, could this really be my beautiful angel?  I don’t know how long it lasted, it’s hard to tell, it was like time stood still.   Eventually, something inside me just snapped and I shouted, “For god’s sake Amba, just put the fork down!”

Somehow, I’d finally gotten through to her.  Her frenzied attack slowed, soon she’d put the fork down. Later, we worked out, she’d stabbed her tottiglioni over 20 times.  Even more shocking though, she acted as if nothing had happened.  She looked up at me and just said;
“I’ve finished.  Can I go out and play?  Amy is waiting for me.”

I was choked up and appalled. I couldn’t reply, it broke my heart to think of her with such awful table manners.  How could I let ever allow her to go for tea at someone else’s house again; when I knew what might happen?

Since then, fortunately, we’ve moved on as a family.  We don’t discuss that day, we’ve put it behind us.   And I never make Tottiglioni Arabica with pomegranate molasses vinaigrette anymore, too many painful memories. Even now, sometimes when she picks up her fork, a sense of utter panic comes over me.  I’ve often asked myself, where did I go wrong?  Yes, of course, I blame myself for what happened.  What mother wouldn’t?”

I'm too frightened to cook proper meals

We eat more simply now, cooking brings back painful memories.

 

 

Bye x

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Planet Organic

19 June, 2013

Last weekend saw the Festival of the Chariots go through London, from Hyde Park to Trafalgar Square.  It’s a traditional hindu festival imported to London from Puri, a city in the State of Orissa, on the North East Coast of India.  The festival revolves around three huge brightly decorated chariots being pulled by ropes along the streets.  A deity sits on each one.  The meaning of Ratha-yatra, is fairly literal.  The Journey (yatra) of the Chariots (ratha).  Ok, maybe it should be called Yatra-ratha, but it’s not, ok?

Rathayatra London. If you think this is busy, you should see it in Orissa

Stupidly, one time I must have mentioned to the kids that there is an Indian myth that if you die beneath the wheels of one of the chariots, you will attain liberation.  I can’t remember telling them this, but god do I wish I hadn’t.  All day long, I got this sort of thing;

Amba:  “Oh, I can’t look, has someone died yet?”
Me: “No, no one is going to die.”
Sami: “If someone fell and died under the wheels, would everyone be happy for them cos they’re liberated or sad that they’re dead?”
Me: “No one is going to die under the wheels, it doesn’t happen, ok?”
Sami: “But if they accidently fell near the wheels and didn’t get up in time, and the wheels crushed them flat like a pancake. Would their family be happy or sad?”
Me: “Neither.  No one is going to fall under the wheels, it’s doesn’t happen, do you understand?  It’s just a nice family day out, at which no one ever dies.”
Asha: “When are they kill someone under the wheels, do we all get pancakes?”
Me:  “There’s no dying and no pancakes.  Do you understand me?”
Asha: “That is so rubbish.  Sami, when’s the killing bit on?”

Rathayatra in Orissa. Did anyone die? Who knows.

The festival came to a close and we went back to the car in Queensway.  Sami waited with our friend, Sri, while I took Amba off for a desperate wee.  She was running out of time, I dodged round a couple of skinny chicks in designer jeans, strolling in front of us, and ran across the road into Planet Organic (PO) with Asha following behind me.  I found the loo for Amba, then browsed the Organic Pizza Tofu Fillets (£2.99) with Asha, while we waited for her.  At this point, the two chicks in skinny jeans passed us.  Unexpectedly, one of them launched into a tirade about what a shite parent I was.  Apparently, I’d crossed the road and accidently left Asha on the busy street outside, when I rushed Amba in.  She made it clear that people like me shouldn’t be raising kids, because we’re too stupid (and I suspect a bit too “high street”).  It was a full-on sneery bitchfest, with a  “I’m so much better than you” undercurrent.  Initially, I was just shocked, not at what she said, just at the nastiness that it came with.  I brooded over it, as I considered the Green Spelt and Hazelnut Cutlets (£3.39).  It required a response, I considered chucking a Dr Hauschka Deoderant (£11.99), at her.  But it was too risky, they might make me pay for it.  I considered coming back  with a devastating put down, but the real problem was  she was right, I wasn’t watching him properly.  Ok, it maybe a reoccurring theme in his life, but hell, she didn’t know that and she’d been a total bitch about it.  Then, I remembered the festival.  I remembered that in conflict the spiritual position is to use humility to disarm the ego.  I was still wearing a sari after-all.  So I went over to them, I drained all irritation from my face and anger from my body; and with all the sincerity I could muster, I said “Thank you”.  She was more than shocked and tried again to tell me what a crap parent I was.  So again, I listened and just said “Thank you.”  Nothing more.  Then the other one had a go too, but she was a bit nicer, so I gently put my hand on her arm and said, “Thank you so much.”  I left them wide eyed and totally speechless, as I walked off to find Amba in the loos.  Oh yeah, top-that bitches, I thought.

Amba had made it to the loo, just in time. If the last person in there had only left the seat cover up, not down, then there it would have worked out so differently for her.  It was flooded, there were no staff around and no mops.  So, I held my head high, passed the bitches again and swooned out of there, sari swishing, Amba’s shoes sloshing.  Self esteem in pieces.

We got back to the car, found Sami and Sri, and said our goodbyes.  Amba made me promise not to tell Sri what had happened.
“Is she coming back to our house?” Asha asked as we drove off.
“No, she’s getting the train to the airport, she’s going home now. “ I replied.
“No. “ said Sami, “She’s going to use the loo in Planet Organic first.”

Planet Donut

Bye   x