...is one in which the kids don't act all ungrateful and disrespectful like, and exclude their parents from their lives. Because of course, all parents are shining beacons of effort and responsibility, who never put a foot wrong and who love their children with a sprawling torrent of unconditional affection.
This is according to an article in 'The Daily Mail' this week (yes I know, why do I still read it? It's just...sometimes you need something to skim-read while you're in the gym coffee lounge, otherwise people just think you're mad if you just sit there staring into space. Or they'll try to talk to you, which can be worse). The article made me upset and angry in equal measure, because it was probably one of the most ill thought-out pieces of writing I've ever read. I marvelled at how it was deemed fit for publication.
In it, the journalist wrote that there was an increasing number of children who, on reaching adulthood, decide to 'dump' their parents; cleanse them out of their lives because their childhood expectations weren't met. These 'expectations' are reported as a Mum "not giving me a cuddle when I split up with my boyfriend" and there was a full interview with an excluded Mum who "seriously doesn't know what (she) did wrong...(she's) not allowed to see (her) grandchildren and it's excruciating". Or words to that effect. We didn't get to hear her daughter's side of the story.
How can such a complex and emotive subject possibly be summed up in a 500-odd word article, written by someone who quite obviously has no experience of the subject matter? I can't imagine for one moment that anybody would exclude a parent from their lives as a result of a hasty whim. I know that because I've excluded my mother from my life ever since I was nineteen, and I've been wrestling with the consequences of that decision ever since. Because it's bloody hard.
The assumption made in the article is that it's a breeze for these people to "callously" cut their parents out of their lives, but I just can't believe that it's ever done without thought or instinct; without the feeling in your core that you HAVE to do it, because it's the only thing that really feels right, that will make your life even vaguely liveable even though you know how much pain it will cause others.
I think that if I were to write my story here, it could be taken as 'petty' or 'ill thought-out'. Possibly; it would depend on how I decided to put it. The same goes for my mother's side of the story. It may be easy for an outsider to feel sympathy for her (the truth is that so do I; I don't actually hate her or wish her any harm). But the reasons for my excluding her from my life are real, and they are not trivial. Neither are they, I believe, for anybody else.
What the article failed to note was that some parents just aren't cut out to actually be parents. I have three friends who have no contact with their fathers; not through their own choice. What about them? Are they failures as children? I strongly believe that unconditional love and effort must come from the top down. Every person born is an accident of biology, born to random people who may or may not have decided to have you in the first place. You did not put in a application form for life, and parents are just people; if they want love and respect from their children then those things must be earned and given just as freely back, surely? At least you must believe, as their child, that they did their best with whatever they had in their hearts. Some do; some don't, and the reasons are unique in every case, as is the eventual outcome.
But anyway. Next time when I'm in the gym I'm going to take a copy of 'Heat' to read instead.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Monday, 24 January 2011
Happy Monday
Two things have pissed me off this morning. The first one has to do with 'fine dining' and how it almost never includes vegetarians. Gordon Ramsay in particular does nothing to hide his contempt for vegetarians and as such never includes anything meat or fish-free on his menus. And it seems his attitude is pretty "normal" in the world of the fancy restaurant.
I'm supposed to be going out for a meal on Friday with my cousin-in-law, who asked me to choose the restaurant because I'd "know all the places with good vegetarian menus". Frankly, I can't think of any locally who don't offer mostly just the one dish of the usual vegetarian fayre which usually goes along the lines of 'goats' cheese and red onion tartlet', 'tomato pasta' or my favourite 'vegetarian lasagne' (something I've been told is a favourite among chefs who just want to rid themselves of mouldy veg!)
Two restaurants were recommended to me by friends this week, so I had a look at the online menus. No vegetarian dishes featured on either of their main course lists. Why isn't there? Are we so bloody contemptible; is our decision not to eat meat (for whatever reason that may be, it isn't always animal activism) so offensive?
Certainly some people do look as though they find it offensive. I will only mention that I am a vegetarian if someone asks, but I am pretty much always questioned as to why. When I say I just don't like the taste of meat (I actually do hate the way animals are treated but a) would not be rude enough to go on about that in the company of a meat eater, and b) feel that this generally makes up part of a world that isn't fair, full-stop. If I wanted to be a real activist I'd never eat or wear anything) they usually look a bit disappointed. But why do people ask that in the first place? I never say to meat eaters "so why do you eat meat?" This is because I really don't care what other people eat. All I want are a few slightly imaginative vegetarian dishes on a menu when I go out, so I don't feel stupid or inferior when I have to ask the waiter for two starters instead of a main course (for some reason there is usually always a vegetarian starter) or "what do you offer for vegetarians?" knowing that I'm being a slight pain in the backside just for asking.
The other thing that's pissed me off today is reading about two football commentators slagging off a lineswoman at a match (off-air, but who cares?). She'd later been proven right over the decision she made, and thank God for that...otherwise people might have sided with the commentators. But it isn't necessarily them, or what they said in particular that pissed me off so much as the fact that it just highlights the fact that women are always seen as second-class. We haven't really made any progress at all. Legally yes, but in the eyes of a lot of men, no.
These men tend to be over fifty and hiding some sort of rage. Generally you can see it seething away behind their eyes; rage at getting older and becoming invisible (I don't believe that just happens to women, I think every generation tends to be seen as generally irrelevant to the ones that come afterwards). The clearest example I can think to illustrate this is Jim Davidson's appearance on 'Hell's Kitchen' a few years ago; the one where he called Brian Dowling a "shirtlifter". It was the way he treated Abigail Clancy (a model and footballer's wife for the uninitiated) that struck me; she was a beautiful young girl who he knew wasn't going to find him attractive no matter what he did or said, so he chose either to ignore her or treat her with barely disguised contempt.
I'm not saying all men are like Jim Davidson! - but from my own experiences I do think a lot of them prefer just to see women as sexual objects, or people to look after the kids and be at home, and that's it. And sometimes these things are said out loud, on or off-air, and sometimes we're all just reminded of how little progress women have really, actually made.
I'm supposed to be going out for a meal on Friday with my cousin-in-law, who asked me to choose the restaurant because I'd "know all the places with good vegetarian menus". Frankly, I can't think of any locally who don't offer mostly just the one dish of the usual vegetarian fayre which usually goes along the lines of 'goats' cheese and red onion tartlet', 'tomato pasta' or my favourite 'vegetarian lasagne' (something I've been told is a favourite among chefs who just want to rid themselves of mouldy veg!)
Two restaurants were recommended to me by friends this week, so I had a look at the online menus. No vegetarian dishes featured on either of their main course lists. Why isn't there? Are we so bloody contemptible; is our decision not to eat meat (for whatever reason that may be, it isn't always animal activism) so offensive?
Certainly some people do look as though they find it offensive. I will only mention that I am a vegetarian if someone asks, but I am pretty much always questioned as to why. When I say I just don't like the taste of meat (I actually do hate the way animals are treated but a) would not be rude enough to go on about that in the company of a meat eater, and b) feel that this generally makes up part of a world that isn't fair, full-stop. If I wanted to be a real activist I'd never eat or wear anything) they usually look a bit disappointed. But why do people ask that in the first place? I never say to meat eaters "so why do you eat meat?" This is because I really don't care what other people eat. All I want are a few slightly imaginative vegetarian dishes on a menu when I go out, so I don't feel stupid or inferior when I have to ask the waiter for two starters instead of a main course (for some reason there is usually always a vegetarian starter) or "what do you offer for vegetarians?" knowing that I'm being a slight pain in the backside just for asking.
The other thing that's pissed me off today is reading about two football commentators slagging off a lineswoman at a match (off-air, but who cares?). She'd later been proven right over the decision she made, and thank God for that...otherwise people might have sided with the commentators. But it isn't necessarily them, or what they said in particular that pissed me off so much as the fact that it just highlights the fact that women are always seen as second-class. We haven't really made any progress at all. Legally yes, but in the eyes of a lot of men, no.
These men tend to be over fifty and hiding some sort of rage. Generally you can see it seething away behind their eyes; rage at getting older and becoming invisible (I don't believe that just happens to women, I think every generation tends to be seen as generally irrelevant to the ones that come afterwards). The clearest example I can think to illustrate this is Jim Davidson's appearance on 'Hell's Kitchen' a few years ago; the one where he called Brian Dowling a "shirtlifter". It was the way he treated Abigail Clancy (a model and footballer's wife for the uninitiated) that struck me; she was a beautiful young girl who he knew wasn't going to find him attractive no matter what he did or said, so he chose either to ignore her or treat her with barely disguised contempt.
I'm not saying all men are like Jim Davidson! - but from my own experiences I do think a lot of them prefer just to see women as sexual objects, or people to look after the kids and be at home, and that's it. And sometimes these things are said out loud, on or off-air, and sometimes we're all just reminded of how little progress women have really, actually made.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
A woman's sense of direction...
...is based more on emotion than reality.
I speak from experience, as yesterday late afternoon I'd arranged to meet a friend at Somerset House, along the Embankment. I'd checked the tube schedules and discovered that the District and Circle lines would both be out for the day (shopping on Oxford Street I expect). An alternative therefore needed to be found, and being an avid Internet user I was sure I would find one relatively easily.
I checked the distance of the walk to Somerset House on Multimap. 36 minutes, which looked breezily do-able (I walk everywhere and friends with cars have criticised me in the past for my often misleading description of "it's just a quick walk up the road/around the corner"). So I printed out the map and off I went.
It was a lovely walk. River views and beautiful buildings were in abundance as I ambled along the road, past Tower Bridge and through St. Katherine's Dock (alarm bells ringing yet?) But when I got to a road called 'Wapping High Street' I started to waver. I was coming away from the river now; the scenery was changing to tower blocks and clapped-out cars. Was everything all as it should be? I checked my watch - I'd been walking for nearly an hour and there was no sign of the Embankment.
Shamefully, I called my husband to check where I was; he laughed and said I was "cute", after telling me I had indeed been walking in the wrong direction and to "turn back NOW". Reader, I put the phone down on him.
You'll no doubt be pleased to hear that no more than five minutes later a black cab with its light on trundled past; I hailed it and said "Somerset House along the Strand, please" in as an authoritative voice as possible; as though I understood exactly where I was going and just didn't feel like walking or taking the bus. It worked, I got there - and just on time.
If only I hadn't been dressed for cocktails at the Savoy (which was where we were supposed to be moving on to) with heels to match, I daresay the overly long walk wouldn't have ruined my feet. As it was, I hobbled round Somerset House, then on to the Savoy where we were told there would be "a half hour wait for the American Bar" so we ended up in Smollensky's, where you can happily wear jeans and trainers. Still, it was a good evening.
I speak from experience, as yesterday late afternoon I'd arranged to meet a friend at Somerset House, along the Embankment. I'd checked the tube schedules and discovered that the District and Circle lines would both be out for the day (shopping on Oxford Street I expect). An alternative therefore needed to be found, and being an avid Internet user I was sure I would find one relatively easily.
I checked the distance of the walk to Somerset House on Multimap. 36 minutes, which looked breezily do-able (I walk everywhere and friends with cars have criticised me in the past for my often misleading description of "it's just a quick walk up the road/around the corner"). So I printed out the map and off I went.
It was a lovely walk. River views and beautiful buildings were in abundance as I ambled along the road, past Tower Bridge and through St. Katherine's Dock (alarm bells ringing yet?) But when I got to a road called 'Wapping High Street' I started to waver. I was coming away from the river now; the scenery was changing to tower blocks and clapped-out cars. Was everything all as it should be? I checked my watch - I'd been walking for nearly an hour and there was no sign of the Embankment.
Shamefully, I called my husband to check where I was; he laughed and said I was "cute", after telling me I had indeed been walking in the wrong direction and to "turn back NOW". Reader, I put the phone down on him.
You'll no doubt be pleased to hear that no more than five minutes later a black cab with its light on trundled past; I hailed it and said "Somerset House along the Strand, please" in as an authoritative voice as possible; as though I understood exactly where I was going and just didn't feel like walking or taking the bus. It worked, I got there - and just on time.
If only I hadn't been dressed for cocktails at the Savoy (which was where we were supposed to be moving on to) with heels to match, I daresay the overly long walk wouldn't have ruined my feet. As it was, I hobbled round Somerset House, then on to the Savoy where we were told there would be "a half hour wait for the American Bar" so we ended up in Smollensky's, where you can happily wear jeans and trainers. Still, it was a good evening.
Thursday, 20 January 2011
A disappointing January
Apparently, the Monday just gone was "the most depressing day of the year". How could it fail to be, when as soon as you wake up you're being bombarded with depressing images and reminded that you CAN'T possibly be happy today! (If I were ever to get married again, I think I'd schedule the wedding on the third Monday in January, and I'd make all the guests wear fancy-dress).
The reason why the third Monday in January is considered the most depressing is because it's the date by which we've usually trashed all our carefully made resolutions and realised we didn't effect a miraculous change in our personalities dead on the stroke of midnight on 1st January. You just stop kidding yourself.
This year I decided to break all my goals down into bite-sized chunks and review them every month. But I'm already in danger of not achieving them and it's so frustrating. I'm just not a 'goal' person, no matter how hard I try. I think I instinctively rebel against being told what to do even when it's me telling myself! I'm going to have to be a lot more sneaky about goal-achieving in the future. More like "well, if I do that then it's great, but if I don't I won't worry". Except I will really.
I also have an awful habit of leaving things until they get right down to the wire, then working like crazy to get everything finished by a set time (this was basically how I handled my education). But I always - always - got it done on time in the end.
So basically, yes, I'm still the same person I've always been. Despite the magic of a New Year, I'm still flawed old me. But to be honest it didn't take the onset of Monday 17th January for me to realise this. I've always known it.
The reason why the third Monday in January is considered the most depressing is because it's the date by which we've usually trashed all our carefully made resolutions and realised we didn't effect a miraculous change in our personalities dead on the stroke of midnight on 1st January. You just stop kidding yourself.
This year I decided to break all my goals down into bite-sized chunks and review them every month. But I'm already in danger of not achieving them and it's so frustrating. I'm just not a 'goal' person, no matter how hard I try. I think I instinctively rebel against being told what to do even when it's me telling myself! I'm going to have to be a lot more sneaky about goal-achieving in the future. More like "well, if I do that then it's great, but if I don't I won't worry". Except I will really.
I also have an awful habit of leaving things until they get right down to the wire, then working like crazy to get everything finished by a set time (this was basically how I handled my education). But I always - always - got it done on time in the end.
So basically, yes, I'm still the same person I've always been. Despite the magic of a New Year, I'm still flawed old me. But to be honest it didn't take the onset of Monday 17th January for me to realise this. I've always known it.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Lifting shops...bloody hard work without a strong pair of hands and a crane (sorry)
I read in the paper yesterday that shops in the UK are losing £375,000 per day due to shoplifters. Accompanying the article were stories of little old ladies stealing bags of lentils and a homeless man shoving a frozen turkey down his trousers (seriously...apparently the man in question got caught, and the turkey put straight back out on sale!)
But this is where I would be a terrible shopkeeper, because it'd only take a story like the homeless man's to make me want to give him the turkey for free (though I did wonder where he intended to cook it had he got away with his crime). Little old ladies would get my sympathy too, as would single parents and bullied kids, and I'd end up going bust in a matter of days.
I must admit to not feeling too worried about places like Tesco losing out to shoplifters; it's the independent little shops I feel bad for. And yet the 'independent little shop' at the end of my road is the place where my very own 'shoplifting story' took place, many moons ago...
I think I was about seven years old at the time. My Dad was strict about not allowing my sisters and me chewing gum; he thought it was vulgar. There was a little shop on the corner of our road that we went to pretty much every day for half-penny sweets (God I'm old!) and the like, and I was allowed for the first time to go there on my own. On this day I waited for the man behind the counter to turn round for the sweets I wanted, and as quick as lightning I grabbed a packet of Wrigley's Fruit Gum.
I've shocked you there, haven't I? A crime committed in broad daylight. But I can't really remember why I did it; whether I really wanted the gum since I wasn't allowed to have it anyway, or if it was just the thrill of stealing it (I suspect that if I asked my seven year-old self, she'd say the latter). Anyway, I took the gum home, chewed it in my bedroom and then (some might say carelessly) I left the wrappers under my bed, where my Dad duly found them.
What happened next is something I'll always remember. Dad asked where I'd got the gum from, and I owned up immediately (I always did; something I've always found annoying about my own personality, both then and now). He all but dragged me by the ear back to the shop, where he ordered me to confess what I'd done and pay for the gum out of my pocket money. I was mortified...and I've never stolen so much as a Post-it note since.
My Dad was right, of course. But something in me still admires that rebellious little seven-year-old me. I've always been such a conformist and a people-pleaser, and I wonder if that incident sparked off those sentiments in me. Perhaps if I hadn't been caught, or hadn't confessed to the gum-stealing crime, my life could have ended up being more reckless, more fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants. It's easy to think that now I'm in my thirties, I suppose - a mild form of 'mid-life crisis' and 'What could I have been if I'd taken another path?' Perhaps I'd be in jail now, unable to write these witty and entertaining blogs (although with the way prisons are now I probably would still be able to write them. They probably wouldn't be so upbeat though...I'd ramble on about EastEnders and how I keep on getting beaten up because I'm correcting everyone's spoken grammar).
But this is where I would be a terrible shopkeeper, because it'd only take a story like the homeless man's to make me want to give him the turkey for free (though I did wonder where he intended to cook it had he got away with his crime). Little old ladies would get my sympathy too, as would single parents and bullied kids, and I'd end up going bust in a matter of days.
I must admit to not feeling too worried about places like Tesco losing out to shoplifters; it's the independent little shops I feel bad for. And yet the 'independent little shop' at the end of my road is the place where my very own 'shoplifting story' took place, many moons ago...
I think I was about seven years old at the time. My Dad was strict about not allowing my sisters and me chewing gum; he thought it was vulgar. There was a little shop on the corner of our road that we went to pretty much every day for half-penny sweets (God I'm old!) and the like, and I was allowed for the first time to go there on my own. On this day I waited for the man behind the counter to turn round for the sweets I wanted, and as quick as lightning I grabbed a packet of Wrigley's Fruit Gum.
I've shocked you there, haven't I? A crime committed in broad daylight. But I can't really remember why I did it; whether I really wanted the gum since I wasn't allowed to have it anyway, or if it was just the thrill of stealing it (I suspect that if I asked my seven year-old self, she'd say the latter). Anyway, I took the gum home, chewed it in my bedroom and then (some might say carelessly) I left the wrappers under my bed, where my Dad duly found them.
What happened next is something I'll always remember. Dad asked where I'd got the gum from, and I owned up immediately (I always did; something I've always found annoying about my own personality, both then and now). He all but dragged me by the ear back to the shop, where he ordered me to confess what I'd done and pay for the gum out of my pocket money. I was mortified...and I've never stolen so much as a Post-it note since.
My Dad was right, of course. But something in me still admires that rebellious little seven-year-old me. I've always been such a conformist and a people-pleaser, and I wonder if that incident sparked off those sentiments in me. Perhaps if I hadn't been caught, or hadn't confessed to the gum-stealing crime, my life could have ended up being more reckless, more fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants. It's easy to think that now I'm in my thirties, I suppose - a mild form of 'mid-life crisis' and 'What could I have been if I'd taken another path?' Perhaps I'd be in jail now, unable to write these witty and entertaining blogs (although with the way prisons are now I probably would still be able to write them. They probably wouldn't be so upbeat though...I'd ramble on about EastEnders and how I keep on getting beaten up because I'm correcting everyone's spoken grammar).
Sunday, 16 January 2011
British Customer Service - does it exist?
There seems to be a glut of TV programmes focusing on customer service and attentiveness in this country ('Michel Roux's Service' and 'Mary Portas - Secret Shopper' spring immediately to mind). Maybe with good reason; surly service is almost part of our national character. But is it really that bad?
I personally prefer 'aloof' service to the fawning American-style "have a nice day!" Maybe it's another British thing, but I hate being fawned over; it embarrasses me. The most notable 'fawning' occasion I remember is when my husband and I had just got engaged and we treated ourselves to a weekend break in Monte Carlo (which was just lovely). We went window-shopping along the exclusive 'designer' district and I was tempted to try on a £3,000 Yves Saint Laurent evening dress, as you do...a snip at the price and there are so many places I'd wear it in Southend, after all. So we wandered in; me somewhat awkwardly, and the shop assistant couldn't have been more helpful, taking the dress into the changing room and finding some lovely high-heeled shoes for me to try on with it. All very glamorous.
Except...the dress looked awful! It was made of clingy black satin that squashed my chest (which really doesn't need much squashing to resemble an ironing board) and though I've got a relatively flat stomach despite all the chocolate and cheese scoffing, somehow it made me look as though I might possibly be pregnant. Ordinarily I'd have taken it off and thrown it aside in disgust. But my husband and the assistant had congregated outside the changing room so I had no alternative but to show them how it looked. I threw back the curtain; my husband took one look and stifled a laugh. But the assistant acted as though J-Lo herself had just emerged from the changing room, insisting on taking a photo "because you look so beautiful!" I didn't get the dress (really?) but it made me understand why some celebrities go out looking as though they've got dressed in the dark. If you're surrounded by that kind of sycophancy twenty-four-seven, you probably become immune to its insincerity after a while.
And it's sincerity that I like from my service-providers, even if that doesn't necessarily mean it's polite as well. I'm not saying that service with a genuine smile doesn't go amiss because it does, and when it happens here, which is more often than some commentators would have anyone believe, it's a nice day-brightener. But in the main I don't really care; be surly and vague when you serve me if you like, if that's how you're feeling. Rather that than a fake smile any day.
Friday, 14 January 2011
In tribute to Liz Jones
Liz Jones writes for The Daily Mail. Not a newspaper I usually read (I must stress this!) although I must admit it was the first paper I read regularly as an adult. I was nineteen and for the first time ever I was commuting to work, so I felt I needed a newspaper to accompany my journey and my new, grown-up lifestyle. In the newsagents on that first day I pondered all the newspapers on offer. The Sun and The Mirror were definitely out, as was The Times because it scared me a bit. I ended up picking The Daily Mail because I thought the calligraphed title looked pretty (oh, the shame!)
After about a week I abandoned it; The Daily Mail made me depressed. Its stories had a heavy touch of dark, uneasy gloom about them, and there ought to be a picture of the front page next to the word 'misogyny' in the dictionary. It was just...nasty. Occasionally I pick up a copy in the gym (where they leave free copies next to the 'Energising Juice Bar') and note that it hasn't changed much; today's edition for example featured a picture of a bare-faced Pamela Stephenson with the headline 'Make-up Strictly Needed'.
But I digress. Liz Jones writes a regular column for The Daily Mail, called 'Liz Jones Moans' which is probably pretty self-explanatory. She's very open and frank about her private life, regularly slating her ex-husband in print and wondering why women have children and shop in Lidl and can be a bit overweight and, well, live normal lives where they don't have their legs waxed regularly. She goes on and on about designer clothes and rants about how she hates the homeless and men in general.
And yet I quite like her. I never take her rants seriously; in fact I find them quite endearing, probably because she comes across as a bit of a lost and lonely, slightly unhinged soul who wears her designer clothes like some sort of shield. We could even be friends; I'd bring a bit of humour into her life and make her eat chocolate and she'd bring a bit of style into mine. Probably.
Anyway...all this is a rambly prelude into a story I'm going to tell about going for a meal last night which, when I think about it, might come across as a bit pretentious. But like Liz's columns, it isn't to be taken seriously. Right? Ahem...
My friend Matt and I went out for dinner last night, to a 'swanky' restaurant in Leigh that was doing a special 'three courses for £12.95 deal'. We decided to take advantage of a bargain like that, so off we went, eyes gleaming with eagerness.
It all started well. The restaurant looked beautiful; low lighting, plush furniture and twinkly candles abound. As the nice waitress took my coat and showed us to our table, she asked if we'd like a drink. "Can I have a glass of Rioja, please?" I asked, only to be met with a blank look and in that second, the lovely facade dropped just a little as the waitress squawked "You wot?"
"Rioja? Do you do that by the glass?" I asked again, a little confused now. "I haven't heard of that" she said firmly, as though I must have meant something else. She looked at me, I looked at her and then she said she'd get the manager before I had the chance to say "Oh, just make it a glass of house red".
The manager comes over: "What was it you wanted?" he barked. "Just a glass of Rioja" I said meekly, feeling like a suspect interred at Guantanamo Bay. He shook his head. "Not heard of that...are you sure you've got it right?" When I said yes he said he'd go and check. He came back claiming to be holding a glass of Rioja which I tasted after he left and it definitely wasn't. Did I say anything? No, I'm British!
Then came the ordering. There wasn't anything vegetarian on the main menu, so I ordered the cheeseboard as a main course (something I actually like and will do sometimes even if there are vegetarian dishes available). "You must be MAD!" exclaimed the waitress loudly, looking at me as though I'd just escaped from Runwell. Her shocked voice drew curious glances from the neighbouring tables and suddenly I felt like I'd shrunk. "No I'm not mad, I just like cheese" I said in a small voice.
The cheeseboard came; it was horrible. The Cheddar had been left in the fridge uncovered and the Stilton tasted out-of-date. Plus it was accompanied by what looked and tasted like Robertson's marmalade. I didn't enjoy it. Did I say anything? No, I'm British!
Not risking dessert, I ordered a coffee. "Just black, please" I said when asked if I wanted milk. The coffee duly arrived with milk in it. But you'll be pleased to hear that I did say something this time; the smell of milk in drinks makes me retch so even I couldn't pretend to like that. I sent it back, the response from the waitress being "You should have said you didn't want milk"
I paid for the meal, and I left a tip. That's how pathetic I am, and that's where my story would differ from one told by Liz Jones, who would have kicked up a right old stink. But you see, that's why we'd make such good friends.
After about a week I abandoned it; The Daily Mail made me depressed. Its stories had a heavy touch of dark, uneasy gloom about them, and there ought to be a picture of the front page next to the word 'misogyny' in the dictionary. It was just...nasty. Occasionally I pick up a copy in the gym (where they leave free copies next to the 'Energising Juice Bar') and note that it hasn't changed much; today's edition for example featured a picture of a bare-faced Pamela Stephenson with the headline 'Make-up Strictly Needed'.
But I digress. Liz Jones writes a regular column for The Daily Mail, called 'Liz Jones Moans' which is probably pretty self-explanatory. She's very open and frank about her private life, regularly slating her ex-husband in print and wondering why women have children and shop in Lidl and can be a bit overweight and, well, live normal lives where they don't have their legs waxed regularly. She goes on and on about designer clothes and rants about how she hates the homeless and men in general.
And yet I quite like her. I never take her rants seriously; in fact I find them quite endearing, probably because she comes across as a bit of a lost and lonely, slightly unhinged soul who wears her designer clothes like some sort of shield. We could even be friends; I'd bring a bit of humour into her life and make her eat chocolate and she'd bring a bit of style into mine. Probably.
Anyway...all this is a rambly prelude into a story I'm going to tell about going for a meal last night which, when I think about it, might come across as a bit pretentious. But like Liz's columns, it isn't to be taken seriously. Right? Ahem...
My friend Matt and I went out for dinner last night, to a 'swanky' restaurant in Leigh that was doing a special 'three courses for £12.95 deal'. We decided to take advantage of a bargain like that, so off we went, eyes gleaming with eagerness.
It all started well. The restaurant looked beautiful; low lighting, plush furniture and twinkly candles abound. As the nice waitress took my coat and showed us to our table, she asked if we'd like a drink. "Can I have a glass of Rioja, please?" I asked, only to be met with a blank look and in that second, the lovely facade dropped just a little as the waitress squawked "You wot?"
"Rioja? Do you do that by the glass?" I asked again, a little confused now. "I haven't heard of that" she said firmly, as though I must have meant something else. She looked at me, I looked at her and then she said she'd get the manager before I had the chance to say "Oh, just make it a glass of house red".
The manager comes over: "What was it you wanted?" he barked. "Just a glass of Rioja" I said meekly, feeling like a suspect interred at Guantanamo Bay. He shook his head. "Not heard of that...are you sure you've got it right?" When I said yes he said he'd go and check. He came back claiming to be holding a glass of Rioja which I tasted after he left and it definitely wasn't. Did I say anything? No, I'm British!
Then came the ordering. There wasn't anything vegetarian on the main menu, so I ordered the cheeseboard as a main course (something I actually like and will do sometimes even if there are vegetarian dishes available). "You must be MAD!" exclaimed the waitress loudly, looking at me as though I'd just escaped from Runwell. Her shocked voice drew curious glances from the neighbouring tables and suddenly I felt like I'd shrunk. "No I'm not mad, I just like cheese" I said in a small voice.
The cheeseboard came; it was horrible. The Cheddar had been left in the fridge uncovered and the Stilton tasted out-of-date. Plus it was accompanied by what looked and tasted like Robertson's marmalade. I didn't enjoy it. Did I say anything? No, I'm British!
Not risking dessert, I ordered a coffee. "Just black, please" I said when asked if I wanted milk. The coffee duly arrived with milk in it. But you'll be pleased to hear that I did say something this time; the smell of milk in drinks makes me retch so even I couldn't pretend to like that. I sent it back, the response from the waitress being "You should have said you didn't want milk"
I paid for the meal, and I left a tip. That's how pathetic I am, and that's where my story would differ from one told by Liz Jones, who would have kicked up a right old stink. But you see, that's why we'd make such good friends.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Miriam O'Reilly and the nastiness of age...
So Miriam O'Reilly won her age discrimination case against the BBC today, after being dropped from 'Countryfile' (who knew that a rural affairs programme would be interested in youthful glamour?) and told to "watch those wrinkles when HD comes in". An open and shut case, surely. Miriam O'Reilly is 53 - not an age you'd expect to be confined to the scrap heap.
I don't think this ousting of older women in television is something the viewers want. I was disappointed when Arlene Phillips was axed from 'Strictly Come Dancing' as I thought she was bright, witty and knowledgeable (and with a forty-year career in choreography she certainly was). Alesha Dixon also seems bright and witty, but she's not even half as knowledgeable (how could she be expected to be?) and so the show has lost something valuable. I'm not quite sure why the BBC did that; surely the core audience for 'Strictly' isn't heterosexual men, and even if it were, aren't there enough young dancers in skimpy dresses for them to ogle? (God, now I'm really sounding like my Nan). But if anything, the viewers are being treated with more contempt that the presenters in the assumption that all we want to see on television is shiny, bright youth. We don't want real people with their experience and gravitas, Heaven forbid!
The Miriam story was reported in an online version of the newspaper I read, and readers had commented underneath it. I noticed a few of them said things along the lines of "were Miriam O'Reilly and others like her complaining about ageism when they were young and being promoted on the basis of looks?" I don't think that's at all relevant. When you're young, you're supremely self-obsessed (or was that just me?) and you skip through life not really questioning others' motives. When I was nineteen I was promoted to manager-level in a local call-centre (yes, I know - I was a high achiever). Suddenly my peers had gone from giggling eighteen year-olds to austere forty year-olds; I was the only 'young' person in the manager's group (though I've basically been about thirty-five years old since the day I was born, but that's another story).
There was one woman in particular (of around forty-five) whose behaviour towards me struck me as 'odd' after I'd achieved my promotion; she seemed pleased for me but her dealings with me seemed tinged with a kind of strange weariness that I would only now I'm a lot older, recognise as her feeling threatened by a younger person doing exactly the same job as her. At the time I didn't have a clue what it meant and just thought she didn't like me very much. Though that may have very well been true!
I don't think this ousting of older women in television is something the viewers want. I was disappointed when Arlene Phillips was axed from 'Strictly Come Dancing' as I thought she was bright, witty and knowledgeable (and with a forty-year career in choreography she certainly was). Alesha Dixon also seems bright and witty, but she's not even half as knowledgeable (how could she be expected to be?) and so the show has lost something valuable. I'm not quite sure why the BBC did that; surely the core audience for 'Strictly' isn't heterosexual men, and even if it were, aren't there enough young dancers in skimpy dresses for them to ogle? (God, now I'm really sounding like my Nan). But if anything, the viewers are being treated with more contempt that the presenters in the assumption that all we want to see on television is shiny, bright youth. We don't want real people with their experience and gravitas, Heaven forbid!
The Miriam story was reported in an online version of the newspaper I read, and readers had commented underneath it. I noticed a few of them said things along the lines of "were Miriam O'Reilly and others like her complaining about ageism when they were young and being promoted on the basis of looks?" I don't think that's at all relevant. When you're young, you're supremely self-obsessed (or was that just me?) and you skip through life not really questioning others' motives. When I was nineteen I was promoted to manager-level in a local call-centre (yes, I know - I was a high achiever). Suddenly my peers had gone from giggling eighteen year-olds to austere forty year-olds; I was the only 'young' person in the manager's group (though I've basically been about thirty-five years old since the day I was born, but that's another story).
There was one woman in particular (of around forty-five) whose behaviour towards me struck me as 'odd' after I'd achieved my promotion; she seemed pleased for me but her dealings with me seemed tinged with a kind of strange weariness that I would only now I'm a lot older, recognise as her feeling threatened by a younger person doing exactly the same job as her. At the time I didn't have a clue what it meant and just thought she didn't like me very much. Though that may have very well been true!
Monday, 10 January 2011
A (somewhat disjointed) look at the world of internet dating
That rubbish 'Match.com' advert has just been on. You know, the one where a man and a woman are playing instruments in what looks like a junk shop and he starts singing "I like..." and then she sings "...old movies", and then after we've established that she likes 'The Godfather 3' they turn around and smile at each-other. But you just know the relationship isn't going to last, because when she sings "Godfather 3" he looks puzzled and sings "that's not considered the best one" before seemingly letting it go after he's got a good look at her and realised she isn't covered in warts. But that fleeting, puzzled look says it all...and it'll all come back to haunt him. Two years down the line when they've broken up and he's being consoled over a pint with a friend he'll say "You know what the worst thing about her was? She wanted to watch 'The Godfather 3 every bloody night. I told her it wasn't considered the best one, but she wouldn't listen" He's a perfectionist, and perfectionists deserve to stay single.
Anyway, how is that ad conducive to an internet dating website? That wasn't how they met - they actually got off their backsides and went out (albeit to a mad junk shop, but still...)
A friend of mine used Match.com and she said it was 'The Sun' of internet dating. She had a few dates with a man who ordered the cheapest bottle of wine on the menu, and another with a voice like Leslie Phillips, then gave up and sent me her list of 'matches' every day for me to have a laugh at, and usually it worked; the best one being a man whose profile photo was of him sitting at his computer...which was surrounded by pictures of topless women he'd cut out of newspapers. Wow! What a catch.
It also seems that pretty much everybody on Match.com is looking for "someone I can cuddle up with on the sofa with a bottle of wine and a DVD". I lost count of the amount of times I saw that on people's profiles and my advice would be: if you're looking for a relationship, try not to emulate what happens ten years down the line once all the dullness has set in.
(It's a good thing I'm not looking for anyone myself, because as you've probably guessed I can be a bit too discerning at the best of times).
I saw an advert for eharmony.com once, and it looked so pompous and holier-than-thou that I was tempted to have a look, just to see what the process involved. So I did (with the full knowledge of my husband I might add), chose my relationship status as 'Separated' and was then taken through a set of questionnaires which took nearly an hour to complete ('would you ever steal from a shop?' seems a strange question to ask people looking for love, but I suppose they can't risk putting a stealer with a non-stealer - where would it all end?)
Once I'd finished the registration process (remember that it took nearly an hour!) I was rudely told that "we don't accept separated people as members". I'd have argued hysterically as to why they had it as an option in the first place, but then I remembered that my real status is actually 'Married' so I didn't push it.
If I were ever to find myself 'on the market' again I think I'd just embrace cats and cardigans. Far less effort all round.
Anyway, how is that ad conducive to an internet dating website? That wasn't how they met - they actually got off their backsides and went out (albeit to a mad junk shop, but still...)
A friend of mine used Match.com and she said it was 'The Sun' of internet dating. She had a few dates with a man who ordered the cheapest bottle of wine on the menu, and another with a voice like Leslie Phillips, then gave up and sent me her list of 'matches' every day for me to have a laugh at, and usually it worked; the best one being a man whose profile photo was of him sitting at his computer...which was surrounded by pictures of topless women he'd cut out of newspapers. Wow! What a catch.
It also seems that pretty much everybody on Match.com is looking for "someone I can cuddle up with on the sofa with a bottle of wine and a DVD". I lost count of the amount of times I saw that on people's profiles and my advice would be: if you're looking for a relationship, try not to emulate what happens ten years down the line once all the dullness has set in.
(It's a good thing I'm not looking for anyone myself, because as you've probably guessed I can be a bit too discerning at the best of times).
I saw an advert for eharmony.com once, and it looked so pompous and holier-than-thou that I was tempted to have a look, just to see what the process involved. So I did (with the full knowledge of my husband I might add), chose my relationship status as 'Separated' and was then taken through a set of questionnaires which took nearly an hour to complete ('would you ever steal from a shop?' seems a strange question to ask people looking for love, but I suppose they can't risk putting a stealer with a non-stealer - where would it all end?)
Once I'd finished the registration process (remember that it took nearly an hour!) I was rudely told that "we don't accept separated people as members". I'd have argued hysterically as to why they had it as an option in the first place, but then I remembered that my real status is actually 'Married' so I didn't push it.
If I were ever to find myself 'on the market' again I think I'd just embrace cats and cardigans. Far less effort all round.
Sunday, 9 January 2011
It's nearly 2am...
...and I can't sleep. Unfortunately, in recent weeks this is quite usual. I think it's something to do with my resisting the whole "new year new me" pressures, yet deep down quite wanting to be a "new me" and scared that I may never achieve it. But that's another story, and anyway I've just bought a book on meditation which I hope will help clear out my cluttered mind, once I actually get around to reading it.
In the meantime I've got 'How to Look Good Naked' on in the background as I type this. What a strange programme that is. Gok Wan seems like a nice man, and his enthusiasm seems genuine. It's just...I can't quite believe his victims actually agree to his methods, which are the same in every episode. The victims always look shocked as they're told that the culmination of their new 'makeover programme' is that they will have to walk down a makeshift catwalk in a High Street shopping centre totally starkers. Yeah, because that isn't what happens EVERY WEEK is it? I'm not sure if it's quite the secret garden of feminine empowerment Gok thinks it is (though it actually might be; I must confess to never having tried it myself, but then I'm not sure Southend Victoria Shopping Centre is the right place to go starkers. The setup is all wrong; the catwalk would have to be set up next to the 'Coffee World' outlet and I'd probably get sued for losing them business).
To start with, a picture of the victim in their mumsy, greying undies is blown up to 50,000% and then put up on a billboard, after which random members of the public are grabbed and strongarmed into saying how beautiful the victim looks, which in these gloomy, wobbly photos they never do. Sorry, but 'beautiful' is a word that must be used sparingly and truthfully in order for it to actually mean anything. It must not be bandied about on E4 just to boost Gok's public appeal and salary.
After the victim has been told just how gorgeous she is, Gok then suggests some new clothing choices, nine times out of ten including Spanx 'control underwear' - surely the truly beautiful people don't need to wrestle with a Lilliputian Tubigrip in order to achieve the holy grail of style and sophistication? I'm wrong - apparently they do. And they do it without protest, which is admirable or stupid depending on your point of view.
The Spanx is then abandoned, together with all clothing, as the victim is sent off for a 'naked photoshoot'. They have their hair and make-up done, and everything. But again, I can't quite see the appeal of stripping off in a draughty house, to be photographed in the buff by an all-male crew. (Maybe it's another one to try sometime!)
Which all leads to...the catwalk moment, in front of a baying crowd, some of which contain the victim's closest friends and family. Maybe just me, but my closest friends and family are probably the people I least want to see me parading naked on a High Street catwalk. Complete strangers are guaranteed never to mention it again, ever.
(There's another episode on in a minute. I'm going to give it a go)
In the meantime I've got 'How to Look Good Naked' on in the background as I type this. What a strange programme that is. Gok Wan seems like a nice man, and his enthusiasm seems genuine. It's just...I can't quite believe his victims actually agree to his methods, which are the same in every episode. The victims always look shocked as they're told that the culmination of their new 'makeover programme' is that they will have to walk down a makeshift catwalk in a High Street shopping centre totally starkers. Yeah, because that isn't what happens EVERY WEEK is it? I'm not sure if it's quite the secret garden of feminine empowerment Gok thinks it is (though it actually might be; I must confess to never having tried it myself, but then I'm not sure Southend Victoria Shopping Centre is the right place to go starkers. The setup is all wrong; the catwalk would have to be set up next to the 'Coffee World' outlet and I'd probably get sued for losing them business).
To start with, a picture of the victim in their mumsy, greying undies is blown up to 50,000% and then put up on a billboard, after which random members of the public are grabbed and strongarmed into saying how beautiful the victim looks, which in these gloomy, wobbly photos they never do. Sorry, but 'beautiful' is a word that must be used sparingly and truthfully in order for it to actually mean anything. It must not be bandied about on E4 just to boost Gok's public appeal and salary.
After the victim has been told just how gorgeous she is, Gok then suggests some new clothing choices, nine times out of ten including Spanx 'control underwear' - surely the truly beautiful people don't need to wrestle with a Lilliputian Tubigrip in order to achieve the holy grail of style and sophistication? I'm wrong - apparently they do. And they do it without protest, which is admirable or stupid depending on your point of view.
The Spanx is then abandoned, together with all clothing, as the victim is sent off for a 'naked photoshoot'. They have their hair and make-up done, and everything. But again, I can't quite see the appeal of stripping off in a draughty house, to be photographed in the buff by an all-male crew. (Maybe it's another one to try sometime!)
Which all leads to...the catwalk moment, in front of a baying crowd, some of which contain the victim's closest friends and family. Maybe just me, but my closest friends and family are probably the people I least want to see me parading naked on a High Street catwalk. Complete strangers are guaranteed never to mention it again, ever.
(There's another episode on in a minute. I'm going to give it a go)
Friday, 7 January 2011
Why do we blog?
Why? The "we" is rhetorical; I'm not assuming everybody blogs, but it does appear that a lot of people do. But do we actually have something to say? I do, but I don't think it's essential for people to know what that is, unless I've prepared it specifically for that purpose, or asked them to read it. I think that's the main problem when it comes to my wanting to be a novelist: why would anybody want to read what I've got to say? "Here you are; this is a book about my thoughts and philosophy on families and infidelity. Read it!" You've got to be pretty damn confident, and I'm slowly getting there.
Anyway, the reason I write this blog is to basically pour out my random thoughts on any given subject in stream-of-consciousness mode. I write whatever I feel like writing, I don't edit it and I don't write it with an audience in mind. Strangely, I never really think about anybody reading it, because it all feels so anonymous. You might say "well, go and write a private diary then", but I do that as well!
Yesterday I wrote a blog post about Kelly Valen's new book, 'The Twisted Sisterhood' which has received widespread attention from the newspapers I read, and from which I have read snippets and reviews. I wasn't all that complimentary about the book's supposed subject, despite not having read it (though from reading all the articles it felt like I had!) But the post attracted a comment from Kelly Valen herself, rightly suggesting that I read the book before stating an opinion and explaining more about the book, and it was that that made me think: I genuinely hadn't thought about anybody reading my post at all, let alone the author of the book I was besmirching!
The comment meant I'd had at least one reader; it was as though my private little blog world had been infiltrated (mad I know!) and I removed the post immediately. It was a half-formed 'opinion' based on something I hadn't read; even so I'm aware that I am still entitled to voice it. But I didn't want anything I'd written (especially something so half-thought and rambling) to become 'real' by causing any offence. That isn't what my little space here is for. It's for half-baked rambles and random thoughts, and that is all.
Anyway, the reason I write this blog is to basically pour out my random thoughts on any given subject in stream-of-consciousness mode. I write whatever I feel like writing, I don't edit it and I don't write it with an audience in mind. Strangely, I never really think about anybody reading it, because it all feels so anonymous. You might say "well, go and write a private diary then", but I do that as well!
Yesterday I wrote a blog post about Kelly Valen's new book, 'The Twisted Sisterhood' which has received widespread attention from the newspapers I read, and from which I have read snippets and reviews. I wasn't all that complimentary about the book's supposed subject, despite not having read it (though from reading all the articles it felt like I had!) But the post attracted a comment from Kelly Valen herself, rightly suggesting that I read the book before stating an opinion and explaining more about the book, and it was that that made me think: I genuinely hadn't thought about anybody reading my post at all, let alone the author of the book I was besmirching!
The comment meant I'd had at least one reader; it was as though my private little blog world had been infiltrated (mad I know!) and I removed the post immediately. It was a half-formed 'opinion' based on something I hadn't read; even so I'm aware that I am still entitled to voice it. But I didn't want anything I'd written (especially something so half-thought and rambling) to become 'real' by causing any offence. That isn't what my little space here is for. It's for half-baked rambles and random thoughts, and that is all.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Writing wrongs
I'm so tentative about 'goal setting'. I'm sure a psychologist would say it's because I don't have enough faith in myself to believe I'll actually complete them (there may be some element of truth in that) but it's fear, mostly. Fear of moving out of my comfort zone. Because once you've completed those goals, what's next? Something bigger and better? What if I don't want that...what if I'm not up to being 'bigger and better'?
So I've decided to set little, monthly 'targets' to complete, with a treat for the start of each month if (when!) they get completed. Start small, build up - that's what I'm trying to do this year. So...this month for example I will edit at least ten chapters of my novel, learn to meditate, complete at least ten writing exercises...you get the idea. My treat is that I'll go and read some trash with a coffee at Caffe Nero (those bloody loyalty cards, it's like Boots, you feel almost hypnotised into going there because you feel like you're getting something for nothing). The 'trash' will probably be Derren Brown's new autobiography, which I got for Christmas. I'm getting more highbrow in my old age - previously I'd have considered a copy of 'Heat' as trash; now it doesn't feature on my radar at all. It definitely means I'm getting older. You just get more irritated by things, like the endless Christmas and New Year repetitions. And I'm only 33. I've got to start spending Christmas away from home. But anyway...
...the book I'm actually reading at the moment is about British political history in the Seventies. I think it's interesting to know what your place of birth was like just as you came into it; what things were like for your parents as they were settling down happily ever after (!) and having you. Plus I wanted to really get to the bottom of what people go on about when they talk about Margaret Thatcher being a heroine or a villain. I've got a perfectly laid-back and lovely friend who spits pips if her name is mentioned, wishes her dead, and says she'll dance on her grave, and she's only my age. How could she have inspired such hatred in her? I'm hoping that by informing myself about what was going on at the time, I can better understand it. And I'm enjoying the read, even though holding the book itself makes me feel like I should be wearing a beige blazer with elbow patches on it.
Monday, 3 January 2011
The inevitable New Year blog post
Happy New Year to all my readers, of which I just know I have many. Far too many to mention you all individually, so I hope you'll forgive me if I don't just now.
Made any New Year's Resolutions? Broken them yet? My answer to both of those questions is: no, and of course not, because I am one of those people who scoffs at the very idea that the start of a new year heralds a smoke-filled BAM! moment after which instantly emerges a better, shinier version of myself. 'New for 2011 - Nina Version 33.7. She doesn't drink! She never thinks bad thoughts! She writes at least 5,000 words every day and every single one of them is utterly profound and makes perfect sense! You get the idea. But I'm afraid I'm still me. I still spend far too much time on Facebook when I should be working and I still think horrible thoughts about killing Aleksandr Orlov and Gio Compare in cold blood. My fundamental personality isn't about to change; or if it does I'll realise it when it's too late to do anything about it, and that could be on a really radical date like the 31st July.
Yet in some ways you can't help but assess your life at the beginning of a brand new year. Your mind just drifts there, no matter how much you might not want it to. I think this is partly due to Christmas. So many wasted days are spent in the run-up to 1st January; most people feel an unconscious (or conscious if you prefer) need to atone for the fortnight of eating and drinking too much, for receiving an abundance of presents, for lying around comatose and not doing anything useful. "It's OK - come the New Year I'll sort all that out". It's like the perennial "I'll start the diet on Monday" feeling slimmers get every Tuesday morning onwards. I myself purchased a new workout soundtrack for 2011, because I couldn't escape the feeling that from January my workouts will be automatically rejuvenated, as if by magic. Above my desk I've pinned a horoscope for 2011 which states that "this is the year to work on that novel you've always wanted to write". (We'll skip over the fact that my Chinese horoscope says the exact opposite. I'm not Chinese anyway, so that doesn't count).
So you see, you can't fully escape that whole "new year, new me" feeling, no matter how hard you try. I say, just go with it. You never know, one year it might even come true.
Made any New Year's Resolutions? Broken them yet? My answer to both of those questions is: no, and of course not, because I am one of those people who scoffs at the very idea that the start of a new year heralds a smoke-filled BAM! moment after which instantly emerges a better, shinier version of myself. 'New for 2011 - Nina Version 33.7. She doesn't drink! She never thinks bad thoughts! She writes at least 5,000 words every day and every single one of them is utterly profound and makes perfect sense! You get the idea. But I'm afraid I'm still me. I still spend far too much time on Facebook when I should be working and I still think horrible thoughts about killing Aleksandr Orlov and Gio Compare in cold blood. My fundamental personality isn't about to change; or if it does I'll realise it when it's too late to do anything about it, and that could be on a really radical date like the 31st July.
Yet in some ways you can't help but assess your life at the beginning of a brand new year. Your mind just drifts there, no matter how much you might not want it to. I think this is partly due to Christmas. So many wasted days are spent in the run-up to 1st January; most people feel an unconscious (or conscious if you prefer) need to atone for the fortnight of eating and drinking too much, for receiving an abundance of presents, for lying around comatose and not doing anything useful. "It's OK - come the New Year I'll sort all that out". It's like the perennial "I'll start the diet on Monday" feeling slimmers get every Tuesday morning onwards. I myself purchased a new workout soundtrack for 2011, because I couldn't escape the feeling that from January my workouts will be automatically rejuvenated, as if by magic. Above my desk I've pinned a horoscope for 2011 which states that "this is the year to work on that novel you've always wanted to write". (We'll skip over the fact that my Chinese horoscope says the exact opposite. I'm not Chinese anyway, so that doesn't count).
So you see, you can't fully escape that whole "new year, new me" feeling, no matter how hard you try. I say, just go with it. You never know, one year it might even come true.
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