One Step at a Time

2010-01-06T01:59:00.000-08:00

I looked out this morning, like Good King Wenceslas, and saw the snow, albeit not deep, not crisp but fairly even. It being such a thinl ayer I decided to go in (even though everyone at our office has been praying for snow). My office is right at the edge of town, where the Downs begin and so if it snows, it really snows. It;s 4 inches so far.

Now, I LOVE snow. Even when it meant I couldn't try out my Burgundy bike but now, as the date for needing to hire a long wheel base van to transport furniture to friends' houses, and then putting the boxed up bikes in the van to drive to heathrow to catch a flight for our big trip, as that day nears, I'm getting anxious and want the snow to stop. I'm at my desk at work (one of the very very few who made it in) and see big fat flakes falling onto the 4inches already settled so far. This had better be a cold snap that is over by 26th January.

2009-12-09T06:02:00.000-08:00

Our plans are coming together and we've booked our first set of flights. We're going to Buenos Aires to start and have a flight out of New York (to London) for September but we won't be using it (it's refundable). Instead we're going to buy a RTW ticket flying to Melbourne. We leave the UK 27th January, with our bikes all boxed up and will cycle from Buenos Aires to Ecuador and fly to Panama City from where we'll cycle to North America. That's about 6 months of cycling there. After that, we're off to Australia, new Zealand and Asia for the next 6 months. And then we'll probably fly to Rome or somewhere and cycle home across Europe. Fab, no?

Anyway, we've set up a blog for it, named after our trusty steeds. The Sous Chef's bike is a bright, Ketchup red and mine is a lovely Burgundy. We love our bike. maybe a bit too much.

I will probably only update this blog for really, totally non-travelling related stuff but, frankly, if we're cycling 5-7 hours every day in a new and exciting part of the world, I probably won't have much non-traveling news to report.

done!

2009-11-21T07:29:00.000-08:00

I can hardly believe it, but it's done: I've handed in the final piece of my final course in my BSc (Hons) Psychology degree with the OU. I can now do no more towards it and can only sit back and wait for the result.

The OU has been a big part of my life. I've been studying towards it for five out of the past six years. With the exception of a few months over the winter (some years), I have always had an assignment or other to fret over. Although this is no PhD, I can well imagine what that must be like - the hours toiling, the never-endingness of the whole thing, the plugging away and plugging away, year upon year, the despondency at those moments when it all looks so impossible to finish, the gut-wrenching nerves and fear of not being able to do it, the wondering whethere you've even got what it takes.

And now it's done. Part of me thinks: Wow, 5 years of work! And while holding down a full time job that isn't even related to the degree too! But another side is already belittling it all with snarky remarks like: sheesh, it's only a degree. Dumb 18year olds manage it. Just about every other person has a degree, so it's not something to be all that proud of.

But right now, I AM proud, dammit. I didn't do this at a bricks and mortar university with lectures and handy tutors to go over my assignments with, no campus with a library, no student services, no being able to immerse myself into the topic (I get a taste of what real uni must be like from summer schools). It's been me and textbooks and an online forum of other busy people trying to juggle it all.

I can hardly believe I've done it.

Ceps maniac

2009-10-26T05:15:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a sunny, fresh autumn day that had immediately followed a wet day. Those are the ideal conditions for a bit of mushrooming. You can tell when mushroom conditions are perfect: lots of waterlogged cow pats, preferably with a shiny little pool of water on top. This is not where mushrooms are found but watery cowpats are a good omen.

So, with such perfect conditions, the Sous Chef and I decided to go out and see what we could find for our mushroom risotto. He was particularly keen to find some Penny Bun Boletes (Ceps or Porcini mushrooms) but other boletes would be fine, too. Boletes are not like the mushrooms with ridges or gills underneath their caps, a bolete's underside looks like a sponge, with lots of pores. We tend to find beech and birch boletes, and slippery jack (another good 'un), but it's ceps that are the best. When it comes to other mushrooms, the gilled sort, we have a few set favourites that we can recognise with confidence but we also took along two books on mushrooms to help with identification on some borderline cases. These gilled types are the ones that contain the deadly-poisonous varieties so while boletes are pretty safe, with the others you have to be sure. Really sure. (some make you feel unwell, others can kill you without warning. Kidney failure). So you have to be sure.

Through the first half of the walk we found lots of interesting but sadly inedible mushrooms and a few poisonous ones, too. We collected some unknown ones to check the sporeprint (place the cap on a sheet of paper, check an hour later what colour spores it drop. This can help narrow it down a bit) but that was just for scientific curiosity, not for eating. It was getting late and still no ceps. The Sous Chef was getting increasingly anxious to find some ceps ("you're ceps mad, you are")and eventually we were not disappointed. We found four remarkable specimens and felt extremely pleased with our find. Woodland wildlife likes a penny bun bolete as much as we do, so they often get pretty nibbled but we found some in good condition.

It was some time later we bumped into a group of 6 walkers who had a basket chock FULL of boletes. It put our meagre find into the shade. But hey - we had three large boletes and a small one, enough for our risotto and any more would just be greedy.

A train ride home and a hot bath followed by a creamy wild mushroom risotto, cooked with the day's find. Delicious! I flippin' love autumn.

the post-exam deadzone

2009-10-22T03:39:00.000-07:00

It's all been a little intense with my revision these past two months (or so it seems to me. The Sous Chef seems to think I did rather little revision, noting one weekend where I did no more than 40 minutes - I think he thinks I only revise when he can see me).

Every evening has seen me finish my dinner, put my cutlery neatly together and sigh, as I know I must now go upstairs and hit the books again. My heart would usually sink a little bit. Last night, I finished dinner and realised: I don’t need to do any revising tonight! It felt strange not to be doing any. I read parts of the chapter on autism (for my other course) but to not have to grapple with critical social psychology was a bit strange. I missed it, really.

Looking back over the course, I realise I only truly ‘got’ it in these last two months. Perhaps it is the condensing down of notes that makes the topic small enough to see the bigger picture. Or maybe it just has to be studied twice. First slowly to unpack it and then again as revision to smoosh it all together again, fitting all the parts together.

All those things I have put off to do ‘after the exam’ now seem a lot less appealing once their procrastinatory potential is removed. It seems for me to ever do anything, I need something even worse I should be doing instead. At least I have the big trip to concentrate on next. I fear I shall be one of those perpetual OU students, always doing some course or other. If I didn’t, how else would I get the house clean/bake stuff/paint the back room/sort the filing out if I didn’t have TMAs to procrastinate over?

Yesterday's Exam

2009-10-21T04:08:00.001-07:00

I’ve spent the past two weeks talking nonsense, about interrogative themes, intersubjectivity and interpretative reportoires. Not to mention the paranoid-schizoid position, the pre-reflexive self and the quoting of opinions of existentialist philosophers such as Merleau-Ponty, Sartre and Heidegger.
This revision has driven the Sous Chef potty, as he tries to seem interested. Later stages saw him test me on concepts, theories, studies but mostly, what I need more than anything to get a decent mark in this course, is the right-sounding waffle. Psychology generally, has been dominated by the scientific, statistically significant, replicable results type psychology but this course has been the voice for the qualitative, touchy-feel, airy-fairy, postmodernistic waffle side of psychology. It’s driven me batty but in the last three weeks it all started to make some sense.
The exam was yesterday morning. One chap was severely reprimanded for bringing his revision notes to the exam desk (admittedly, he was found reading them before the exam had actually started but even so. How desperate and/or stupid is that?)
The exam was three questions in three hours. Each part had a choice of two questions and you chose one from each section. As soon as I read the options, all the information fell out of my head. I went totally blank.
I ate some fruit pastilles to calm myself down and read the questions again. I kept re-reading them and realised I was getting nowhere so just started to scribble some notes for a plan on the first page.
I wrote out three essay plans/brain dumps in the first half hour (I like to get all the info out before I start any proper essay writing) spaced apart to allow essay space between for about three sides of essay and then set to it, 50 minutes for each essay.
The first essay was on unconscious and conscious processes in the formation of subjectivity and started on it. I’d got about half way and checked the time: it had been only 15 minutes! the time was going really slowly, I had plenty of time, so I relaxed and started to enjoy myself. Yes, I was enjoying the exam!
The second essay was on attitudes and the last on intra-group processes. I was doing swell until somewhere, midway through the final essay, just as I was starting to critical evaluate the theory of Groupthink (Janis, 1972) that I totally lost the plot. Mid-paragraph I had no idea what I was going to say next, no point to bring out and I was in a dead-end. One packet of Rolos later and I decided just to change the subject to Phenomenology, drag in some stuff from a chapter on the Fundamental Attribution Error (something about not splitting the world into discrete objects but looking at individual/group identities as a whole rather than separate things) and at 5 minutes before the end, wrote “run out of time“, added some bullet points of good ideas and a quick conclusion that may or may not have had anything to do with the preceding essay.
Ok, so that last essay went rather badly, but I did manage two decentish essays before that. On the strength of my previous exams and assignment, I would need only 55% or better for a 2:1 (a First is sadly out of the question, as I didn’t get a high enough grade average in my assignments – a tutor who declared herself a ‘tough marker’ back in February made me doubt I’d manage a First anyway, so it’s not a big surprise). I won’t hear what my exam result until 18th December, but with a threshold as low as 55%, which I achieved for sure, there’s no need for nailbiting.
Just one more assignment (a biggish one, due 24th November) and my degree will be finished. Hurrah!

Who is in charge of the Universe?I have a complaint.

2008-10-31T02:53:00.000-07:00

The Sous Chef and I wanted to go away somewhere warm with our bicycles. Since the summer is off (due to my studies) it'll have to be in winter that we go away (and I have two weeks off work at Christmas - unpaid, mind).

After much thought and impatient jabbing of fingers on the world map on our kitchen wall (yes, we have a map of the world on our kitchen wall. Doesn't everybody?) we decided on

I admit, it's a long way to go for a curry but we did some research and the southern tip of India is doable by bike. I have been going out of my mind chasing the best fares possible to Chennai (used to be named Madras). If you know of a site that does low cost flights, trust me, I've checked it, rung the number, sent an email.

On top of chasing prices I have also collected a vast store of knowledge regarding the bicycle policy (the taking thereof) of numerous airlines. It ranging from "Free" to "150 Euros each way, with some including and others not including it in your 20Kg baggage allowance. I have spoken to staff at numerous airlines to check their policy.

Yesterday, checking for more flights while researching the cycle policies the 'best offer' that looked the one most likely we'd take DISAPPEARED. The prices went up by about £200 each! This was starting to unravel so I spent most of yesterday getting cross-eyed comparing prices, checking flight/transit times and cycle policies once more and found a BETTER price. WOohoo (so far so good, Person-in-Charge-Of-The-Universe).

I've had airplanes on the brain, so for some light relief I head to Youtube and in the area marked "Recommended for You" the top video is:

footage of a Garuda aircraft crash taken by a survivor.

erm. thanks Youtube. The recommended section usually has items similar to stuff I've watched. That means it generally has salsa, some Indonesian tv programmes, animated short films from the Vancouver Film School and the usual assortment of cute kittens and laughing babies. I'm not in the habit of watching plane crashes, especially not just before going on a long-haul flight.

my exam is today

2008-10-13T02:25:00.000-07:00

It is the morning of my exam. In 4 hours' time I'll be sat at a desk, unwrapping my polo mints and wondering whether I maybe should have gone to loo after all..

The Sous Chef has been testing my knowledge with revision sheets. I can remember shitloads of stuff about Cognitive Psychology. I thought I knew nothing, but I woke up at 4 am this morning and (of course!) found myself unable to go back to sleep. So I dredged up all my revised material and was aghast: it really is in there! Amazing. The skill in the exam will be applying what I know to answer the question (not to be taken for granted, but at least I know stuff)

What else has amazed me is how much the Sous Chef now knows about Cognitive Psychology. It's very tedious for him but he's been marvelous in testing me and listening to me blather on about the phonological loop and visuospatial scratchpad of working memory. He knows more than most about subliminal priming, Biederman's geons and can tell you the difference between agnosia, prosopagnosia and aphasia. He might even be able to tell you where the parietal lobes are and what the amygdala is for. Definitely NOT things he particularly wanted to know about. I suppose I should be thankful I'm not doing a degree in Geology (snore) or Theology (yawn) or Art History. I can whitter on about my subject of choice for blooming hours! (Hopefully up to three, which is how long the exam is).

Anyway, I am prepared. I feel confident I can do this. My biggest problem will be staying focused for that length of time (1.5 hours is about my limit for keeping on task). Wish me luck!

What is consciousness for?

2008-09-21T09:27:00.000-07:00

that, folks, was the totally not at all vague title of my final essay for this Cognitive Psychology course. I can’t blog much about its contents because of plagiarism (we get into trouble if we make that kind of thing available) but maybe I’ll create a private little area where I can shove all my old essays and ideas and notes and password protect it or something.

The course has been fascinating, its been difficult and it’s been excruciating at times. But overall I’ve enoyed it. All that is left now is the exam in three weeks’ time. Less than a month until… GOOD GOD! LESS THAN A MONTH?!!? HOLY CRAP! HOW THE HECK AM I GOING TO CONVINCE AN EXAMINER I ACTUALLY STUDIED THIS COURSE?!!

If I’m caught blogging, shout at me for procrastinating. I shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near my (or your) blog until after 5.30 pm 13th October.

now excuse me while I go have a panic attack in the corner over there.

Rumba - Cuban and Ballroom

2008-09-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

Rumba is a dance that has left traces in cuban salsa, particularly in the styling. It has rich, layered percussion and is one of the slower Cuban dances. To me, it has a gooey toffee quality to it, arms sweeping with each step. Its movement are smooth, very African with full use of the shoulders, the hips, the arms. It doesn't have 'footwork' or step patterns as such, it's just about transferring your weight at the right times and doing this softly within the music and doing it so it fits with your partner (but you can dance Rumba on your own. Sometimes men dance Rumba against each other. Trust men to make it competitive).

The 'vacuna' I mentioned in an earlier post is, I suppose, its own competition. He tries to catch her out with a swift hip, hand, knee or foot movement and she has to block him. They are dancing together but battling at the same time.

Here is a clip of some Cuban Rumba. See if you can spot the vacuna attempts. To help you out, the first one happens at 00:16 (and is successfully blocked). She's not always so quick.

Ballroom Rumba, on the other hand, is something entirely, totally completely different. Ballroom has ruined many a dance such as Samba and Tango, mostly by standardising, formalising and regulating every inch of the dancers body and form and creating some (in my opinion) ugly movements. The biggest difference is that Ballroom Rumba is danced with a straight back, straight arms and the dancers step on a straight leg. In Cuban Rumba on the other hand, the only thing that's straight is the dancers.

Here's some ballroom rumba:

perhaps I'm just a snob but ballroom rumba makes me reach for the sick bag. To get that awful ballroom stuff out of my head, I'm going to watch Rafael and Janet show you how to do it right:

Afrocuban Weekender

2008-09-16T11:06:00.000-07:00

Just got back from an afrocuban weekender in Norfolk with my good friend and fellow salsa nut C-side. She persuaded me to go despite my current broke-ness and revision-commitments.
I figured a weekend of some smooth cuban would be a nice distraction. I haven't danced cuban salsa in a loooong time (the more recent dancing escapades have been 'cross-body' style, a different animal entirely)

So I went and I had TOTALLY underestimated how much fun I would have. The weekend was absolutely TERRIFIC. The teachers were great and taught with plenty of humour. It wasn't wall to wall salsa, either. As well as salsa, we also had rumba (cuban rumba not that ballroom rubbish), son (oh diVINE!), belly dancing (respect to belly dancers. jaw-dropping skill and a heck of a lot of muscle power), Lambada Zouk (fluid and beautiful), bachata (move those hips), reggaeton /9move every muscle in your body) and some drumming workshops if the dancing had taken its toll.

Lessons went on throughout the day, at 7pm we were fed and then had to get a few hours kip in before hitting the dance floor as parties went on until 6am or 4am. (with more lessons the next morning).

Somehow, C-side and I managed to always drag our weary bodies to the dance floor and have a great night to the 3-2 of the clave beat. And no wonder! We were spoiled for choice with lots of great great dancers. No one stepping on toes or wrenching our arms, no sleazy types (although I did slap one chap. More on that later). It was just really really nice people who you could get to know between lessons and arrange to dance at the party later.

C-side and I quickly pointed out our favourites to each other. Sweet-E (a gorgeous dancer on the floor and a shy little sweetheart off the floor) ranked very highly. As did some very nice chaps from Laahndon who kept insisting we go to visit the capital and dance there (I must admit I'm tempted - the standard of dancer in London is higher than in Brighton). C-side and I were definitely in the groove. I haven't had so many terrific dances in a looooong time.

Mind you, I did get caught out- and this is where the slap happened. During a salsa number my dance partner and I broke apart and started dancing Rumba for a bit. Now in Rumba there is a sort of game. You do not touch your partner at ALL. The woman is meant to be seductive but coy while the man is preening (like a rooster) and trying to gain her attention. The moves are very simple but it's how you move, no fancy steps. Since you're not touching, you can move a distance apart but you're still dancing together. She is supposed to flirt but not too much while he puffs out his chest and struts. But it's not all innocent. The guy can, at some stage in the music, suddenly, even at a distance, gesture sharply (often with the hips, a foot or a knee) toward her (this is called a vacuna or 'vaccination') and she is supposed to spot this and quickly block by placing her hands over her privates. She might, if she fails to block in time, show her defeat by drawing a pregnant belly with her hands. So there I was, seductively dancing Rumba when suddenly! - aaargh!! under the circumstances, I decided not to draw the belly and just slapped him instead.

I think we managed to squeeze in about 11 hours dancing in every 24 hour period so it's no wonder c-side and I were both groaning on the train home. My legs and abdominals are sore and I definitely haven't recovered from the hours of dancing yet and it's been two hot baths and three early nights since then.

Definitely will be going next year. Definitely.

2008-09-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

The internet connection keeps cutting out. I can stay connected for no more than ten minutes at a time. This is ANNOYING! Just writing a short blog post takes forever and I actually have a big essay to finish (rather than blogging, reblogging and reblogging)

What this means is "What I did for my holidays part 2" will have to wait (I know you're all on the edge of your seats for it, but please do try to stay calm, ok?)

What I did for my holidays part 1

2008-09-03T06:53:00.000-07:00

Every good holiday should start with cycling around London. It might sound crazy but it's a bit like the advice to swallow a frog at breakfast. At least now you know things aren't going to get any worse.

Don't get me wrong, I am used to traffic and roundabouts from cycling across Brighton, but Brighton isn't London. There aren't as many tourists stepping off pavements without looking, as many side streets, as many street signs and distracting attractions plus in Brighton I know exactly where I'm going. In London, every street is a surprise.

Also, I'm not a Londoner so when I see Picadilly Circus my immediate instinct is to go "ooh looky at all the preeety colo-aaaaargh!" (which is the point where I realise I'm on a bicycle in traffic and taxis are insured for killing cyclists plus someone with a camera just stepped backwards off the pavement in front of me. "Yeah, arigato for that"). It's strange and cool to be cycling past all the sights of London but it's also hella scary. I was so intimidated that I refused to navigate around Trafalgar Square and reasoned it'd be quicker to use the pedestrian lights anyway. (A useful trick when pushing a bicycle through a crowd is to always look over people's shoulders into the distance. They magically take responsibility for their safety and move out of your way).

We got to Euston station in good time but there was a problem with our carriage on the sleeper train. Everyone booked onto car H had to be moved to the lounge car instead. A number of First Class passengers (not on H) kicked up a stink that they couldn't sit and enjoy their drink in the lounge car and had to take their refreshments in their berth. One in particular was nearly thrown off the train because he couldn't understand that he might have to be inconvenienced so that people like us would have somewhere to sleep.

We did sleep on the floor of the lounge car (with the lights on all night) and I got about as much sleep as you can expect when sharing a carriage with an obese man whose snoring sounded like wet farts. Confucius say: "only loudest snorer get best night's sleep".

So we arrived in Inverness the next morning, as fresh as newly trampled daisies. For those who are not au fait with Scottish geography (like me) the town of Inverness (or Inbhir Nis in Gaelic) lies at the tip of Loch Ness, which together with Loch Lochy neatly cleaves Scotland in two. Loch Ness is HUGE. According to some touristy blurb on a plaque we found, Loch Ness contains more fresh water than all the lakes in England and Wales COMBINED. It doesn't look that big, because it's not some vast expansive lake, it's just very very very very deep and very very very very long. It is also where we met the first midge.

It took us a couple of days to cycle from the West coast, along the Lochs to the East coast (via Fort Augustus and Fort William) and arrive in Oban where we would catch the ferry. We had planned a walk up Ben Nevis while in Fort William but since the weather was so bad that we couldn't even see Ben Nevis, we figured it wouldn't be safe to actually be up there. (we've done the getting into trouble at the top of a mountain when the weather turns for the worse before. I don't need to repeat the experience).

So we cycled on to Oban, which is a little fishing village/ferry port that is cute and small and nice but also a bit touristy (Ceilidh evenings every night, anyone?). Bagpipes were meant to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy during battle (the enemy reasoning that if the Scots are capable of slowly torturing a cat for that long, God knows what they'd do to captured prisoners)! In the 1700s, they were classified as an instrument of war and outlawed for this reason after the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie - My question is: who brought them back?! Instruments of WAR, people! Sweet music it ain't.

We found the campsite which turned out to be on top of a hill on a hill located on a hill (that was not a cut and paste error) . The height meant we did have a beautiful view of a bay and the weather was splendid, though.

So the next morning, we caught the ferry to Oban but not before the Sous Chef weighed his panniers down with a bottle of 10 year old Ardbeg, a whisky glass and had a taste of a £180 whisky at the shop. I wish I could elicit that look of true love in his eyes, but until I can become sweet and smokey with not too much peat, I'll have to get used to being his second favourite thing in the world (or third, after cycling).

The ferry took 6 hours to carry us to Castlebay on the island of Barra. The Outer Hebrides are like a half-excavated dinosaur skeleton poking out of the Atlantic ocean. Barra is the tail and we would cycle up its spine and catch the ferry home in a week's time.

Barra is so tiny you could cycle around it before breakfast. We cycled only halfway round before spotting a terrific beach and some grass to camp on. I'm not a beachy person but even I couldn't resist this entirely deserted stretch of sand and surprisingly warm sea.

Meanwhile the Sous Chef couldn't resist breaking open the Ardbeg and having his first taste of whisky on the Hebrides. It was worth going all that way just for that one evening, overlooking a beach, sipping Ardbeg, breathing in the crisp Hebridean air and going to sleep with the sound of the ocean. As it turned out, this was not to be our last or even our best beach.

advertising, belly fat and being depressed

2008-08-29T13:05:00.000-07:00

What a shock to be back. The Sous Chef and I got back from our trip in the Scottish Highlands earlier this week

(I haven’t posted about it because he has the snaps on his login and we can’t get the shared folder to appear on my login). The Outer Hebrides are pretty remote. It takes 6 hours on the ferry to get from Oban (western edge of mainland) to the little island of Barra (where Whisky Galore was filmed). There aren’t even small villages, but just isolated houses in the heather. We were occasionally aware of this thing called the Olympics going on by the newspaper headlines we’d spot in the occasional post office shop we’d visit to buy provisions from but most of the time we were just removed from all that.

Getting back is a shock because, although I never noticed how clean the air out there is I certainly noticed how grubby the air is around here. It’s thick and has a taste. Awful.

The other thing I am really noticing is the volume of advertising. Everywhere there are billboards and posters and bright colours trying to sell you stuff that a) you don’t need (would they have to advertise if you did?) and b) is often BAD for you. It’s non-food like chocolate bars, crisps, KFC, Lucozade or it’s perfect bodies and faces selling stuff that won’t make you look like that anyway. I know it’s always been there but coming back to it makes it stand out. It makes me consider changing my buying habits. Avoid buying anything that is advertised. Generally speaking they are advertising the things that have a high mark-up (read: are overpriced for what they are). When was the last time you saw broccoli on a poster? Or fresh meat? The stuff they advertise is where they’ve done stuff to it to up the price (value-added in their speak). The Sous Chef and I are both pretty good cooks and tend to make dinner from fresh ingredients anyway. So it shouldn’t be too hard.

Also, some things I noticed about Scotland were that even remote, desperately beautiful areas of the Outer Hebrides would have the side of the road littered with discarded bottles of Lucozade and Irn Bru. How much of the stuff do these people drink?! Assuming the turds who throw their rubbish out of the car window are a minority, that means a hell of a lot of orange coloured sugary fizzy pop is consumed in Scotland.

Also, (not unrelated) there seem to be a lot of chubby teenagers about in Scotland. Being fat is not a sin and I do strongly believe that carrying fat does not mean people are greedy or lazy or gluttons. Weight is a very complex interaction of foods and hormones and lifestyle and identity. I get annoyed at people who say “just eat less and exercise more” because it doesn’t work for most people. Weight can pile on after pregnancy, at middle age etc for hormonal reasons and not because they’ve suddenly turned into bad people. But I’m still not used to seeing a 13yr old with a large amount of belly hanging over the waistband. They weren’t big, it was the shape that surprised me. It was all around the middle and mostly fat under the skin. It is true that women tend to carry fat under the skin so it looks worse than it is, more wobbly. Fat inside the organs and muscle is less blubbery looking but still unhealthy. So-called TOFI (thin outside, fat inside) often don’t know they are carrying too much fat because it’s not as visible.

What are they eating that makes them this shape? I think Lucozade and Irn Bru being so popular might have something to do with it. Also, there were times we couldn’t find bread that wasn’t white. Chips were everywhere. I’m thinking the problem is refined carbohydrates. It was only through a concerted effort that the Sous Chef and I made sure to include plenty of protein in our meals and keep refined stuff to a minimum (though we did have danish pastries for breakfast once, ahem).

The fact that so many youngsters had this ‘over the waistband’ issue makes me think something is very wrong. They’re in a growing phase and while hormonal changes do set the body to fat-depositing mode (and boys are in muscle-building mode) it shouldn’t be going there. It shouldn’t be wobbling over the waistband when you’re in your early teens.

The last thing that’s shocked me is how I feel coming back. Being at home all day doing (or avoiding) my assignment has made me feel very low. I’ve gone from cycling 4-6 hours a day in the fresh outdoors to being stuck at home in front of a computer and I can feel my mood sliding toward the depressed. The last time I felt like this was in Indonesia when I was a housewife. Home all day with no one to talk and feeling like I didn’t want to go out anymore. I feel drab, miserable and (most alarmingly) feel I mustn’t eat (especially expensive food) cos it’s a waste. That’s familiar. Scarily familiar. So I’m going to buy myself something expensive for lunch today.

(But not wash it down with an Irn Bru)

ACE

2008-08-29T12:42:00.000-07:00

Just got in contact with some old school chums via Facebook. I only knew them two years (we were in the sixth form together) but I have such fond memories of them.

One in particular was often made fun of by our Sociology teacher. He had his pack of brainy favourites who would get praise and then there were the ones he'd make known he thought were not so great. My friend was one of these. Mostly because she'd say things like "I done it yesterday". He would chuckle whenever she spoke and would talk to her like she was stupid, even in front of everyone in the classroom. She took his reaction in good humour but her giggles jut made him think even less of her, assuming she didn't know she was being got at. I'm not sure what she got for her A-levels in the end. I think it was three Es. Something like that. Of course this came as no great surprise to Mr Wilkinson.

Anyway, turns out she didn't like her results so retook her A levels and got three As and then went on to do a Psychology degree and post-grad diploma. "Stick that up your arse, Mr Wilkinson" she declared.

Well stick it indeed. I can't believe she got three As. I'm immeasurably proud she did because I know it was on her OWN hard work and not out of support from the school (support was laughably poor).

As for me, I aced my A'levels.

And by that I mean I got grades A, C and E (German, English Lit and Sociology respectively).
I look back and am annoyed at the grades. I was completely at sea during my A levels. I had just come from 10 years in a German school. I had never seen, much less read or written an essay. I had no idea what one was and certainly didn't know anything about introductions and conclusions. I didn't learn anything about essay writing. Because I had no foreign accent and I could spell and punctuate they assumed I was as English as everyone around me but I really wasn't. The first year was culture shock.

Language style, form and function of an essay? I was clueless and no one thought I might need a bit of help on the matter. As an example, I remember my first essay at A level. We had been reading a poem in class and were asked to submit an essay on it by next week. I wasn't sure what an essay was but I wrote what I could. My English teacher was appalled. It was half a page of A4, written on maths paper (this was normal in my school in Germany - you can write but also draw diagrams on maths paper so we were encouraged to use it) and naturally contained none of the normal rituals of essay writing. I just wrote about the poem as concisely as possible (being concise was important in Germany, we never wrote anything more than a few hundred words long). You'd think the teacher, being handed something like that would get an idea that maybe this student needs some help. I decided to try better and thought I just needed to waffle more. During my A levels it was always difficult for me to get enough words to make an essay so I just wrote everything in lengthy sentences, using lots of filler words. That's what essays seemed to be like to me.

Aside from the essay writing fiasco, I had also never sat an exam in my life before. The exam hall routine was something entirely alien to me. I didn't know much about what it would be like until the day. No one had told me how to revise, either. I had not a clue. Not. A. Clue.

So I'm quite bitter myself but that JM did what she did and proved them wrong makes me want to punch the air (or the teacher). She's an example of someone not letting other people tell her she's stupid or can't do it. Just showed em how it's done. Good For Her!!!

shewee - the vedict

2008-08-27T11:45:00.000-07:00

The shewee, it turns out, does take some practice. For one thing I'm trying to wee and I'm standing up and that's something my body just isn't used to happening. I have years of being successfully potty trained where standing is an automatic no to bladder release. I can't expect my body not to go "nu-uh!"
So there I am, trying really hard to relax the necessary muscles thinking 'well come on then' and muscles not under my control are going 'no way, you're still standing. Sit the heck down'. Despite an urgency, nothing is happening. THIS is how men feel when they get anxious in the gents. I had no idea!

Eventually, with some gentle persuading of the aforementioned muscles and me picturing myself on the loo, I can feel I'm going but alarmingly I see no result. I am convinced I am in fact weeing down my leg. I can feel I'm going but where is the wee? Panicking I try to constrict every muscle I have but this was an urgent pee stop. I do not have the pelvic floor muscle control I would like. (note to self: do more Kegel exercises)to stop about 2 pints of liquid pushing the other way.

But look! there is a trickle and it's... Eureka! it's it's... oh no, it's splashing on my shoes. Oh the indignity.

I move my feet a little and check for progress but now there seems to be less coming out of the shewee than I think ought to be. I mentally check for any warm sensations in my shorts (inconclusive) but I think I feel a tiny trickle down one leg. I'm so anxious that my pelvic floor does the muscle equivalent of a handbrake turn and I can't wee anymore. I don't know whether I stopped through nerves/paranoia or stopped cos I'm finished. A mile down the road, I found a place for some good old-fashioned squatting and boy did I go.

So, not the instant hit I had hoped. I used it about three times and each time I was unable to relax the muscle enough because I was always paranoid that I was missing it and weeing into my pink and lacies. On one time I was sure I could feel a tiny trickle down my leg. I think I need to practice at home with it (where I can change if necessary) before taking out on the road again.

Update:
just used it at home. It worked much better this time and with practice I could probably get the hang of it but the most interesting thing is:

I left the loo seat up

*slaps forehead*

Penis Envy

2008-08-08T05:15:00.000-07:00

Penis envy is a term coined by Freud to partly explain why women are as they are. He believed that not only does the penis turn up (as it were) again and again in our subconscious, it being a symbol of sexuality and of power, but also that women feel an acute sense of lacking this organ.

Penis envy in a literal sense would mean women wish they had one and will always feel at a disadvantage for being without. If boys define themselves as male because they have a penis, then a girl is defined as female because she doesn't. Females are non-males. Missing something important. Lacking.* . In a less literal but no less real sense, penis envy is not wishing one had that extra bit of flesh but rather wishing one had the privilege that seemed to come with it. Women in Freud's time were not so much the weaker sex as the weakened one. With being very much subject to their husbands or fathers, I am sure the advantages bestowed upon the penised people would have been a greater source of envy to the women of Freud's time.

Personally (and I say this is a Psychology student) I think Freud was talking a load of hooey. Freud's assertions said a lot more about Freud than they ever did about people in general. We all know that men are extremely fond of their bits. Men form a lasting relationship with their little friend and also, virility, sexual prowess, length and girth all contribute to men's sense of self and their gender identity it is true. I am sure men would find not having a penis a great loss indeed, but that doesn't necessarily mean women want to have one when we've never had one in the first place.

However (yes, however. This is where I get personal) I do feel an element of envy, despite me saying Freud overestimated how generalisable his introspections are) I confess I DO feel a sense of envy.

It's an ingenious piece of design. A urine delivery tube that can be aimed away from the body at almost any angle makes urinating in the open considerably more convenient for the male than for the female. When I was 18 I spent a summer looking after two girls aged 8 and 10. When the 8 year old informed me of an urgent need to pee (we were miles from the nearest loo) I pointed here in the direction of a dense shrub and instructed her to go there. 'Look out for nettles and make sure you face downhill' I advised.
When she reappeared from behind the shrub I could see she was about to burst into tears. It turns out she had (to her own surprise) weed sideways and straight into her new shoes. I looked at her socks and they were indeed dripping. We were several miles from home but she (still crying) squelched back with us for a change of clothes.

Boys never suffer this indignity. As a girl you learn bladder control by necessity. Every boyfriend I've known has been pathetic at being able to hold it in. As a girl you become selective about where you go to pee. We have to make more contact with the grubby petrol station toilets than men ever do with their point and shoot system and also, they can go anywhere anyway. The world is their urinal.

When the Sous Chef and I are out cycling, his pee stops to mine number about 5:1. A combination of bladder control and opportunity. I remember one day in particular when we always seemed to be in wide open countryside with not so much as a dandelion to crouch behind. I've been jabbed by thistles, brushed by nettles and had to crouch behind a patch of trees that had houses in the distance. Not so close for me to be arrested but close enough for anyone with good eyesight to have seen me with my arse very much hanging out.

I have had enough of this indignity. I can stand no longer to be jumping from foot to foot when we stop for his pee stops and I can see no cover anywhere for me to hide behind. We are going to be cycling/wild camping in Scotland for two weeks and so I have invested in this:

I'll let you know how I get on. (no pictures though - The whole purpose behind that purchase was to preserve my dignity)

*I could never get on with this idea of the penis having/not having being a defining feature. Even as a child I knew I was female because I possessed female attributes not because I lacked male. Removing the penis does not make a boy a girl. You might as well say men are just women without ovaries.

Residential School

2008-08-02T14:00:00.000-07:00

So what have I been up to this past week? (since I was obviously not falling over myself to blog).

Well, the answer is, I was mingling with some truly lovely, lovely people (who do not have this blog address, so you can trust that I mean that) who are clever and funny and share my anxieties that are part and parcel of being a student with only a text book for company.

It was the Residential School week of my Open Uni course. A campus full of buzzing cognitive psychology students in all manner of shapes, sizes and proportions. All ages, all walks of life, all kinds of histories who had one big thing in common. Each had an experiment to research for, design, create, run, analyse data from and then present.

Public speaking is a common phobia. I am known to be shy and reserved. I tend to be the person who walks into a room and sincerely hopes no one has spotted me and I'll sort of hang around interesting conversations and listen rather than join in. I am frequently surprised when people turn out to know my name (such as when I went back to salsa - I had no idea I was so popular!). It takes a while for me to relax around people and feel at ease enough to speak. Most of the time I sit quietly and listen as it'll take more meetings before I feel brave enough to venture an opinion.

So with me being more shy than is quite socially acceptable, someone explain to me why I found getting up in front of all those people to present my idea so much damned fun? It wasn't the sound of my own voice I like (I have a ssssybillant S, not helped by the new teeth - it makes me cringe to hear it) or that I thought my idea was somehow better than anyone else's (it was pretty good and didn't need much tweaking but another group had a great idea using homophones). My best guess is that I enjoyed the explaining of my idea in the simplest way I could get over because it fascinated me and I wanted it to fascinate someone else, too. The experience left me feeling I should be a lecturer. I just have to become clever enough to do it.

Cognitive Psychology is a field brimming with scientific breakthroughs, understanding how the brain processes/learns/uses language, how categories are formed, how memory works/doesn't work/can be modified (my experiment was on false memory), how we solve problems, how hypnosis works, what goes on during hallucinations. It's got neural networks, cognitive models. Cognitive Psychologists get to play with enormous machines worth £3.7million, that hum very loudly or they connect electrodes to your head and put you in enormous magnetically shielded rooms with vault-like doors and make you track dots with your eyes or look at wiggly patterns.

We had lectures on hypnosis (I turned out to be low-susceptible to hypnosis. Nothing worked, boo) lectures on emotion and cognition, memory, neural-imaging techniques (very cool stuff) and the typical day was from 9am until 9pm - all in all wildly rich and exciting but also utterly exhausting - because in between the lectures and talks we had an experiment to prepare, run and then do the data analyses. (I shan't bore you with those). We had 6 hours to test participants and had to be participants for another 6 hours. Yes- all that in one week.

Some of the experiments were toooo easy (ugh another problem solving questionnaire) and others were fascinating (one was trying to understand how we direct attention to sounds. With earphones, participants were asked to follow a specific voice as it changed ear, or track one ear, or listen out for category words - all while there was another voice speaking into the other ear AND with a background chatter noise. The brain is truly a marvellous thing. Voice recognition software can't even cope when we clearly enunciate into a microphone and yet the human brain can pick out ambiguous sounds switching ears even through background voices - that's an amazing feat for a bit of squishy meat in your cranium that's also doing a thousand other things at the same time.

But it wasn't all work work work.

I like my food. Whenever the Sous Chef and I go off cycling, I love the unpredictability of not knowing what you'll be eating that day. I love the sometimes chaotic combinations we throw together by necessity. I even love that sometimes we don't get to eat at all because we get there too late and the one village shop is shut and the pub stopped serving food ten minutes ago and would we like some peanuts instead. (Actually scratch that. I hate that. It happened a few trips ago and I wanted to garrote the bar staff, cos even a sandwich would have done after out 40 mile ride on nothing but jaffa cakes). I like the surprise element when someone else is cooking. I like to peruse a menu and choose the dish that looks the most unusual or is one I've never tried before.

The food at the residential school was definitely pretty noteworthy. Every vegetarian dish was a bake of some sort. Pasta bake, leek and potato bake (the leek turned out to have been a bit of a myth. It was just potato and cheese). Courgette bake (cos we all now how much flavour a courgette has!).

In addition to having surly dinner ladies (straight from the dinner lady mold of my school days) shouting "MOVE ALONG!" if you spent more than a quarter of a second weighing up whether you wanted the red slop with stringy bits or the beige slop with lumps in that they've helpfully thrown across a plate for you, there was a salad bar on which to fill up your plate with some vegetable matter.

The salad bar must have been drawn up by my grandmother. It was all the things that conformed to grandma's idea of a salad: large sheets of iceberg lettuce, slices of cucumber, quartered tomatoes (seriously HUGE quarters), grated carrot and some coleslaw with a skin on it. This was here every day so I do not want to see cucumber or tomatoes for a very long time. (and I never wanted to eat iceberg lettuce in the first place). On two occasions I saw what I guessed to be potato salad. Actually it was white goop with lumps in. The mayonnaise to potato ratio had got very seriously out of hand.

The puddings were a thing unto themselves. The butterscotch pie was actually a "puddle on a plate" but that didn't stop some cheerful soul trying to make it look nice by adding a whirl of pretend-cream and half a strawberry to one end of what looked like, frankly, a puddle of wet poo.

On other days, it tended to be cake. I'm a connoissuer of cakes. I admit that. I have high standards but also know how easy it is to make good cakes. Here, the sponge cake (which I took one look at and decided against) achieved some special effects, apparently: It turned to dust in your mouth and my dinner companion only ate the icing in the middle.

The carrot cake the following day I also turned my nose up at but I tried a small piece of someone else's. You know carrot cake, right? very rich, moist with cream cheese icing, usually. It's an absolute star of a cake and is dead easy to make. Well, this cake had the texture of upholstery foam (some sort of adapted sponge recipe, perhaps?) that oozed oil when squeezed with a fork and you could see the orange ribbons of the grated carrot suspended in it like it was aspic. I recognised the carrot to be from the salad bar the day before. I wondered whether they would attempt to stir the iceberg lettuce and enormous chunks of tomato into the next pud - whatever it might be. I also think having something involving custard on at least one day would have been nice. This is England after all. Custard is our one National Success that even our sworn enemy the French thought good enough to copy (though creme anglaise is a poor imitation of real custard).

The pasta salad of one day morphed itself into the curried pasta salad the next (same salad, with curry powder stirred through - badly).

The filled sandwiches turned out to be industry grade bricks with yesterday's iceberg and cucumber in them and some mysterious brown objects which turned out to be the mullered beef from Sunday.

The lasagna was not bad but I could have enjoyed a similar flavour if I'd sucked on an oxo cube. It tasted of nothing else.

It's not that the Sous Chef or I are fabulous cooks, or that I'm a picky eater. In fact, 90% of food other people have cooked for me has been really nice. I just didn't expect the other 10% to all fall in the same week. The food was so bad, I started to dread mealtimes. I put on the feedback form that the food was the lowlight of each day.

The other thing I put on my feedback from was that my shower hadn't been cleaned before I arrived and was also blocked with hairs (showers lasting more than 3 minutes were out of the question lest I flood the place - even though I switched the water off while soaping up). The maintenance man fixed it after two days while I was at lectures and, obviously needing a tinkle, used my loo, leaving the loo seat up. It made me laugh out loud. It's a cliche I had forgotten about. The Sous Chef never leaves the loo seat up (I think it's happened twice in the entire 4 years I've known him). It did make me feel a bit funny, that some unknown man had been into my room, had a wee and then left the loo seat up.

But despite (maybe because) all that I had great time. I missed the Sous Chef enormously and my heart leaped even at hearing his voice on the answer machine. I couldn't wait to get back to him. I suspected he was rather enjoying having the king sized bed all to himself. Sleeping in a star position and drooling into my pillow, no doubt.

So, by the end of the week I had gathered and analysed all the data and have all I need to write up my report of the experiment, which is the next tutor marked assignment for the course, carrying oh, only about 21.5% of the mark. I should write up this report as soon as I can, as I'm off to Scotland on Friday and I have to have it done before then. I cannot afford to procrastinate.

And that, dear reader, is why you have a blog entry to read.

flying ants

2008-07-26T03:42:00.000-07:00

Last week, as the Sous Chef and I were cycling home, we noticed that flying ants were out. So many that the seagulls were having a feast. So while we cycled through the clouds we discussed the concept of ants as a superorganism.

Since ants are pretty much clones of one another, this allows for a large amount of self-sacrifice for the colony. If your sister ant has exactly the same DNA as you, then her survival is equally as important as your own. Dying to save your sisters is not really dying at all. In a way then, a single ant is nothing, it is like a cell within a larger organism, a superorganism, which is the colony. It is one genetic entity made up of cells (ants) with the same DNA.

Back to the flying ant, its sole purpose is to go out there, to spread the genes by hopefully finding a receptive female and she'll start a new colony with genes from herself and the male.

Sous Chef: "so essentially, flying ants are like sperm, then"

me: "yes, it m..gghhaaggrggrghhkkhk ...[cough]...I think I just swallowed one."

Sous Chef: " ... "

Where we shop

2008-07-22T13:21:00.000-07:00

We've just enjoyed our usual shopping experience at the large supermarket near to where we go for our run. The supermarket is enormous and yet.... and yet... something about the experience.

Let me describe to you the supermarket.

The outside is pretty tatty and grim and an optimistically large number of trolleys block your way in. Once inside you are greeted by bread in plastic packaging stacked by the door just where people who are leaving the supermarket come out. It is quite strange to have this here rather than in the main section itself. It looks like the delivery driver just left it stacked there.

But onwards to the fresh fruit and veg section. You walk between a gateway of fridges displaying an odd combination of fresh raspberries, bean sprouts and ham. You then have your path blocked by whatever is going mushy that day and needs selling before it becomes biohazard. Now you have to either go right (toward the dimly lit organic area) or left (the rest of the stuff, which is, actually, reasonably well presented).

Past the fruit and veg you come to .... shoes and handbags. This, as we shall see, is not the only odd combination in the store.

At the end of the shoes and handbags you can turn and see the rest of the supermarket. The fruit and veg section is cut off from the rest of the supermarket by a wall. I don't know why but it makes going back for some runner beans seem like not worth the bother.

From here you can see the deli counter which is never staffed. No one buys anything from there and I half suspect the delicacies on offer are wax copies. In fact, I suspect that's true of the staff, too.

The rest of the supermarket is pretty much as any other except with the supermarket's unique little twist: A refrigerator section with fresh pasta, fresh soup, pasta sauces nestled next to tins of lager. In the next aisle you'll find socks and pants next to the herbs and spices.

Another curiosity is there is another bread section right at the back of the store strangely called the Bakery. I've never seen any bakery related activities going on and if you are looking for bread, you might need a head torch to find it. I never venture that way because I'm a bit scared that trolls and ogres live down there. It's gloomy and smells a bit funny.

But I needn't have worried. The trolls and ogres are all on the till*. Not actually working on the till, just sort of loitering, watching the queue grow. This evening there were more staff than customers and still there was a long queue at the till which was manned (or should that be boyed) by someone who has to ring a bell every time a customer has an alcoholic beverage they wish to purchase.

The running of this store might explain why, when this is the largest supermarket within some miles, it remains deserted most of the time. Sometimes I wonder whether it's not actually a supermarket but actually some sort of social experiment.

* I could write much more about the staff but it would be unkind so I won't.

Plans for August

2008-07-20T14:11:00.000-07:00

This summer, the Sous Chef and I have our holidays all sorted. We could go anywhere in the world. Asia... South America... Where could the intrepid cycle-tourers go to sate their Wanderlust? The world is our oyster.

After much thought I decided the place to go would have to be: Scotland. More specifically: The Outer Hebrides. To me it evokes whisky galore, rugged coastlines, crofter-types, raw natural beauty, seals frolicking off the coast, whales and sea eagles. The British Isles as nature intended before we started building A-roads all over it.

He asks me whether I'm excited about our trip and to get me in the spirit of things he keeps reminding me:

-In Scotland, August is the height of Midge season. Midges are thought to outnumber humans (their protein-source of choice) by approximately 5,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 to one. Or thereabouts.

- Most insect repellents (except some that are illegal in the EU) do not repel these hungry wee beasties. Some might say it just helps them sniff you out.

- The abundance of midges (and to a lesser extent the ferocity of the average Scot) might explain why the Romans never conquered Scotland and instead decided to build a wall to keep them out of England (the Scots that is, the midges go where they please).

- The Outer Hebrides are very windy and the weather can be extreme. Daytime temperatures during the hottest part of the year (summer, apparently) is 16 degrees C.

- So far, we've had three mind-changes as to which tent to take because there is a somewhat real chance of our only source of shelter ending up lifting off and flying toward the North Pole. There aren't even any trees to tie it to.

-The islands are sparsely populated, so if the tent really does blow away, there'll be not a bugger around to help.

- We're not likely to stumble across any gastro-pubs or the like. The occasional village post office might be able to sell us some tinned meat of unspecified animal origin, so our cooking will probably have to be experimental/innovative.

-The rainfall is variable but you can expect rain not less than 2 out of 3 days. Did I mention we were camping?

-He's started to wistfully reminisce about how nice the south of France is this time of year. I'm not sure whether this is a hint or not. We certainly won't be needing the sunblock on this trip.

-I've sneaked a peak at the contour lines on the maps to see what sort of hills/valleys we might encounter. Uh.Oh.

So all of this enthusiasm and optimism has me fired up for our trip away. I can't wait...

Here we go again

2008-07-14T10:54:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it. I thought I was over this. I go to one salsa party and suddenly I'm crazy about it again. Lately, I've been going to bed and drifting off to sleep doing turn-patterns in my head. As I wake up each morning I realise I've been dancing all night, sometimes Cuban, sometimes L.A. style, sometimes On2 but always salsa.

I have salsa music in my head and I feel the rhythm and beat even when I'm just sat at my desk in a silent room. I'm mentally executing neat turns, passes and spins. Cross-body lead, double turn, arm up, hold his shoulder, open out, create some tension, another turn, roll of shoulders...

What this means is, since last week (for about 5 days now) I have been dancing. You wouldn't know to look at me, it's all happening in that unknown place where movement is felt even where there is none, but I am continually, imperceptibly, secretly dancing. I'm dancing at my desk, dancing on my way home, dancing when I clean my teeth - always dancing. This is how salsa fever feels.

When I find I actually am alone I do occasionally bust out some moves. Nothing fancy: a turn, a roll of the shoulders, soften the knees and let the hips roll, too. Nothing of any note but to me it's the juice, the essence of the movement I enjoy and it feels too good not to.

Man, I can't believe I'm back to this again - all because of one night of such good dances.

For an example of the sorts of moves I'm dancing, see the video

(not me dancing in the vid btw)

Tripping the Light Fantastic

2008-07-13T11:27:00.000-07:00

It had been a while. I hoped it was like falling off a bike or is it riding a log? Something like that. Anyway, it’s been more than two years.

Recently, however, I ventured out on the dance floor in my hand-made, sparkly, strappy, high-heeled, dance shoes and twirled and spun and stepped and swished to the infectious clavé beat. I was nervous when I first went in but hearing the music I was itching to get out there.

Yes, I was back at salsa and despite my time away I wasn't as rusty as I'd expected and didn't break anyone's shoulders by spinning the wrong way.

: with split soles - thin as a slice of ham

In the past, I’ve always danced in jazz shoes. Shoes is actually the wrong name for them. They are about as substantial as socks. A thin heel at the back, a patch of suede at the ball of the foot and nothing at all in between. The rest is softest leather and it's impossible to trip. I'd tried dancing in high heels but I can’t even walk in them and so had always ended up staggering about and misjudging my step when the heel touched the floor, sending me falling my way through a complicated move.

Last night, since I was wearing a halterneck dress that was not only most forgiving in my least favoured areas but also made my bust look flippin’ amazing, I figured I should bite the bullet and wear the heels (but took the jazz shoes along to change into, just in case).

Readers, I was fabulous. No falling over, no tripping on my own feet, no lurching toward other dancing couples due to a mis-timed step and I could spin looking relatively composed (rather than terrified) most of the time. In other words, I danced a whole lot better than I had expected and it was like I had never been away. Plus, whenever I looked down I would see beautiful, sparkly feet, which were mine! (I don’t have a shoe-thing at all but even I was taken aback by how lovely my sparkly feet looked - like a real girly!).

I expected to be a liability. I apologised to anyone who asked me to dance that I was out of practice and for them to be gentle with me but I always followed well and each asked me for more dances later on, so I couldn't have been that bad for them. One begged me to come to his salsa haunt and called me "a thing of beauty".

On reflection he must have been a ‘man of partial sight’ because this was the end of the evening and (as a horrified look in the mirror in the ladies later confirmed) I looked a wreck. The face was an alarming red, I was dripping with sweat and had hair matted to my head as the sweaty tresses had nowhere else to go. The back of my neck was drenched and more hair was stuck to the skin because somewhere, mid-spin, I’d lost my hair-elastic so hadn't been able to tie it up out of the way. I also had a bit of a limp since those heels were no longer like magic on my feet. I was like the Little Mermaid. Having exchanged her beautiful voice for some human legs, the sea witch warned her that every step would feel like daggers (Hans Christian Anderson must have walked in heels during his spare time – I’m sure of it!)

The feet have been sore for three days now. My arches practically creak every time I take a step. It was worth it, though. So worth it.

Old job, new job, old job

2008-02-21T19:01:00.000-08:00

yes, yes I know. I've not blogged in quite some time and you've all probably forgotten who the hell I am. Heck even I've forgotten who the hell I was.

So let the obligatory prodigal blogger round up of recent notable events commence:

I have a new job. I jacked in the old job, made them poo their pants (and well they might) because while everyone knew I did something extremely important, extremely complex and in large volumes that could make or break the company's finances (so risky to leave it up to one person, I told em so), no one was quite sure how I did it. I was nice enough to give them more notice than I needed to, because the Schadenfreude of seeing them struggle lost to my enormous sense of conscientiousness. I do have an axe to grind with them over how they treated me but I'm a pushover at heart.

The new job is a bit of a shock compared to the old. Partly because I enjoy it - the people are friendly (mostly, more of that in another blog entry), the atmosphere is lively but not excessively, my work is more varied than in my previous job and people don't leave you to get on with a task that is patently too much for one person. Extra help gets drafted in and people roll up their sleeves and help you out when needed. I nearly had tears in my eyes when word was put round the office next door that I was struggling to finish a big job on time and three people pitched in to help. That never happened at my old place. People were so put upon that no one had the time to help you and management were generally speaking incapable of being any help because they know approximately zero about how you do what you do (I speak not just of my own experience, the three colleagues I shared an office with all were in the same boat).

Regular breaks at this new place are actively encouraged. We have a common room where comfy sofas and newspapers, magazines, biscuits etc invite you to bask in a room that lets in vast amounts of warming, bright sunshine (there are windows at each end so you get sunlight am-pm with the exception of noon) and you can sit and relax for ten minutes and no one thinks you a slacker for spending time away from your desk.

The other big shock is going from being the über-competent person, the one everyone would ring up to ask because 'Heather will know' (and generally I did) to being the most clueless person in the room. The jargon is one thing but some terms mean entirely different things in different contexts and I'm not yet so in the know that I can tell which we must be talking about at the moment.

I also generally answer the phone and fail to ask all the necessary bits of information when taking a message and find myself asking really stupid questions instead. But my esteemed colleagues are taking this in their stride and seem quite happy to answer my dumbest of questions.

This cluelessness, while frustrating, will pass in time and I'll feel competent once more but for now it's hard to have any kind of self-esteem when people talk right past you because they figure you won't know anyway (and sometimes, I actually DO)

So that's the new job.
My old job continues to haunt me. After I'd left, they contacted me and asked whether I'd come in and help them with the month end stuff. I agreed to give up a whole day to do it with them and travel to Worthing for a paltry sum of money. (pathetically paltry but I've never been very assertive)

I enjoyed the day of feeling competent again, but even a team of five people didn't get it done in a day so how they expected me to achieve this every month I'll never know. Maybe now they'll appreciate how much I did. Heck now even *I* appreciate what I did.
That was to be the last of it. Or so I thought. They've contacted me since then and asked whether I could do this again. Two days this time. Apparently the last month end stuff they sent off came back with 80 errors and this means the recipients (who they sub-contract to) started banging the table. I remember the pressure of this myself, having been hauled across the coals for errors in my work before, but at least I got the errors down to 7. Just me, on my own and acting very much removed from where the paperwork (that needed checking and be error free) was generated. I never had errors as high as 80.

Schadenfreude? why certainly.

But this time, I was determined not to do it. I ahd an email NO in draft as I wanted to finally cut loose but then one day I picked up the phone at my new job and who was it but my old boss (how the hell did she get the number?!) and of course, I failed to say no. I tried to get out of it by saying I might not be best person to help - I've been away from things a while, I am not the god of this computer software and certainly am not under the impression that I did things in the best, most efficient way. I had been doing what I could under difficult circumstances and other ways might be worth exploring- but they said they were desperate. They needed me to at least trouble-shoot and any help would be appreciated.

So I said yes, beat myself up for being a pushover and then (after much cajoling from The Sous Chef, previously known as Gorgeous Landlord) emailed them to demand twice as much as the paltry sum I had received last time. Either I was going to walk away with some money or they'd find someone else. Win/Win.

Today they've emailed and said no thanks. They would get someone else in. HURRAH! because not only have I studies to get on with, I don't need or want to help them, I owe them nothing.

So that's the new job situation at the moment.

first day back at work

2008-01-03T18:21:00.002-08:00

and normally I just bumble my way through it all, since no one is doing much work, either. It takes everyone a day or so to get back up to speed.

In my case, that was a luxury I could not afford. Claim is due today and the courier is booked for 2pm to collect it, so I had my work cut-out there. But instead of being the normal woolly-headed me whenever I come back from a break, I was sharp as a tack and completely into the swing of it, like I'd never been away. It helped that I had managed to get most of it done and ready before Christmas.

The last day before the Christmas shut down, everyone else had buggered off home at midday, while I was still at my desk at 19:30 finishing it off, grumbling under my breath that I was clearing up other people's mistakes and slapdash approach to paperwork. it did serve to remind me why I had handed in my notice in the first place, so it wasn't all bad.

Anyway, it wasn't until I had faithfully promised to the receiving end that the courier had been booked and that all was well and I was well on course to getting it finished and to them by this afternoon that I realised the courier had NOT been booked and I was putting together a monumental claim that would go nowhere. So the woolly-headedness from a long break away was with me, after all.

Lastly, I appear to have gained 3Kg. I am now heavier than I have ever been in my life. I'm not all that worried though, since my new job involves a 13 mile round trip on my bike every day. It won't be long before I have thunder thighs that are solid rather than thunder thighs that are blubbery*. My main concern will be how not to get run over at the Lewes Road Gyratory, where homicidal (or plain stupid) motorists come into close proximity to cyclist who might have to actually change lanes to go right and be in someone's way for 10 seconds (heresy, I know!)

* I'm resigned to the fact that I will always have thunder thighs but I can at least alter the muscle to fat ratio through

I'm taking it

2007-12-20T00:29:00.000-08:00

I've decided to take the job, despite the low annual salary (pro rata and all that). The low annual salary had me very scared. (It's only 68% of what I earn now!)

but look at the benefits:

- I'll be working only four days a week. I can take every Friday off for studying and not fall so behind anymore.

- I'll have access to a large library nearby any time I want

- work will be a 45 minute cycle ride away. This'll keep me fitter than the 7 minute cycle ride my current job gives

- 2 weeks off at Christmas and 6 weeks off in the summer.

Of course, those 6 weeks off during the summer, when I live 15 minutes walk from the beach is naturally going to be very tough. I'm not sure how I'll cope with that... Brighton Beach, 6 weeks off, in the summer, still receiving a paycheck...

So with all that, I think my summer is going to be a whole lot better than last year's. I'll have considerably less money but I won't be trying to juggle the commitments of an OU course while holding down a full time job and trying to keep a man who wants to go off cycling every weekend happy.

Also, since I get 6 weeks off in the summer, the Sous Chef suggested maybe next year we go on an extended trip to somewhere more exotic. YAY! so maybe he won't go off to South America without me after all! I quite fancy cycling off somewhere more exotic than France

2007-12-18T11:35:00.000-08:00

got a call from the interviewers. It looks like I got the job but they won't give me the official yes until my second reference comes through. They're chasing me to chase him about it.

I was tossing and turning last night about this job though. The money bothers me. It is considerably less than what I'm on now. About 6 - 8 grand less in fact. Am I making a retrograde step here?

but then again juggling a full time job while trying to study has been hard and having a boyfriend who wants to go away on cycling trips throughout the summer - a time when my course gets heavy and I have to spend weekends putting in the hours with the text books - has been particularly hard. With the summer off, I could study in the week and am free at weekends to go to the Isle of Wight or Scotland or wherever, secure in the knowledge that I'm not jeopardising my studies.

The job sounds interesting but not challenging. It's not a move forward, it's a move out but it is at a university. I'll have access to a library, be plugged into the academic world and may be able to find something more suitable within the organisation once I'm in. I could do it for 2 years while I finish my studies and then use my degree. and if I really don't like it or find the money is making things too tight, then I could look for something else in the summer break.

I'm scared of taking it, though. The money bothers me. The ease of the job also. But the good side is the hours, the summer off, the organisation, the location and perhaps what it might lead to.

hmmm and they want an answer as soon as possible. They keep asking me whether I'm still interested every time they speak to me.

The Interview

2007-12-17T11:42:00.000-08:00

Had my first job interview today. Why do I not find them very daunting? I actually quite enjoyed it. I had a rather epic anxiety dream beforehand (involving having to swim to the interview, being naked, being sent away by the interviewers to join a cross country run - still naked - and having the destination office moving off the map) but I was relaxed because, despite being early, a member of the team met me and we chatted and she seemed really lovely. She showed me the software they use (it looks like a simpler version of one I already use) and talked about the job and I felt as relaxed as if I knew everyone well already. I'm shy - where does this feeling at ease in stressful situations come from?!

I then had two work-related tests to do, which were basically a prioritising a day's tasks and a logic problem in the guise of setting up appointments for people according to the available dates they'd given. It was fun and I enjoyed that bit.

The interview went ok although I do remember several occasions whenI could have given better answers than I did, but that's always the way, isn't it.

The job I can do standing on my head and doesn't daunt me at all but I worry it might be too easy. Also, the money is quite poor. Much less than what I'm on here. It's the same pro-rata but I'd be working 30 hours per week and only 44 weeks of the year. But then again, that means I could concentrate more on my studies, now that I'm doing level 3 of my degree. I could even work jut 4 days a week and have one day for ~~drinking beer in the garden~~ studying.

And having the summer off when living in Brighton is not exactly the worst thing in the world either, is it.

So now I wait and see whether they liked me or not. They might not think me suitable, they might not have liked my answers, they might not think I'd fit in, but all that is up to them now. Fingers crossed

In other news - The Sous Chef has been looking at house prices and mumbled something about it being worthwhile to sell up/rent out his house and go traveling for a year. I have some savings but I don't think I have enough for a whole year of travel with my beloved.

Speaking of my beloved, I do wish my kidsis would stop pinching his bottom. She wouldn't put him down all evening when we went out and her boyfriend was standing right there. She's not so much a flirt as in need of male attention and it's my man she's always got her eye on.

Fortunately I have a "very devoted boyfriend" [his words] and I don't fear he's going to run off with my sister. With my other boyfriends, I'd have been worried but I trust mine with all my heart and most of my brain. Two years in and I don't see my being dippily in love with him lessening even slightly. He still makes my knees go wobbly and I still get that heart-skippy feeling when I think of him looking at me. I thought that stuff is supposed to wear off. Maybe after 10 years it will and 2 years is still too early.

That's It

2007-11-23T11:47:00.000-08:00

At work, there has been a fair amount of upheaval. My line-manager left (and he was oh so right to do so, even if it does leave us in a bit of a pickle). Top management aren't replacing him just yet and I don't know how they think that will work.

I've long been unhappy here and have grumbled about leaving for almost a year now, but more recently, now that I have no line-manager, I am under the watchful eye of a different manager. This is a manager who's management style is, when a horse can't pull the cart that's become too heavy, they get the whip out and flog the horse harder.

Well I'm sick of being flogged and am nearing the dead-horse stage so I'm off. My job heads nowhere. I don't earn too badly (but could earn more) but it's not about the money. It's the attitude, my career path, the company's track record with staff and bullying (not of me, thankfully - but it could head that way) and I don't want to spend a minute longer here than I have to. I can think of no reason to stay other than that my CV is currently a bit crap, frankly.

I have always been an inert substance. It takes a lot to get me going but once I'm riled up enough...

and so this is why I'm updating my CV and handing in my notice at the end of next week. Whether I have a job to go or not. I'll waitress if I have to.

But enough about me, what about them? Well, they are going to be f*cked, frankly. The only person who could potentially have cobbled together something akin to what I do for the month-end (which will directly affect cashflow in a drastic way) has left and they're not replacing him. No one else has a clue how I do what I do or even understands how it works and December is not a long month when you factor in Christmas. Sad to say, a tiny little bit of me is actually feeling Schadenfreude.

If they're smart, they'll completely overhaul the system and beg another company who do something similar for a secondment to tide them over. Having only me with such responsibility has been foolish (and unfair on me) and needed reviewing a long time ago (as I have brought up many times in the past, unlistened to). and I'm happy to play along with any changes that'll help but frankly, I don't care enough to go above and beyond the call of duty anymore. I've done that and it's been getting me nowhere.

So tomorrow I approach the agencies. I'll temp, I'll work in a shop, I'll wait tables. I have such small overheads and some savings so I'll be fine and it might give me a boost to go for a career change and actually use my languages and/or psychology background. Whatever I end up doing, it'll be better than being repeatedly flogged for not doing the impossible.

watch this space

Tic Tac Teeth

2007-11-19T11:51:00.000-08:00

Goodness, it's all go round here. For a start I've just had dad staying over (from Germany). He brought the most enormous amount of chocolate with him. Far more than even Landlord and I could possibly eat. In fact, I have to confess I've actually gone off chocolate a bit. I'm finding it a bit sickly and I want less of it. I know! I don't get it, either! but we've now got enough chocolate to feed an army of pre-menstrual women (now there's a formidable weapon the MOD should consider) and the thought of all that chocolate makes my stomach turn.

I'm also further along the road to having a gobful of gnashers, finally. In short, I've had the implants, the bone grafts. They've 'ossintegrated' nicely. I now have two metal screws sticking out of my gums (most appealing, as you can imagine) which show above the denture, so I look like I have spinach in my teeth, only all the time. I have to admit, this makes me a little bit self-conscious when I smile, especially when people point it out to me (being nice but ultimately embarrassing) .

These metal bits are what the final teeth screw into and can themselves be unscrewed. The prosthodontist has done this several times. He has a handy little gadget that fits onto the caps to unscrew them off the implants. It does make me feel rather like an IKEA wardrobe. The last time he did this, he asked whether I'd prefer a local anaesthetic beforehand. What with 40 jabs and counting so far, I declined. Just as well. The jabs would have hurt far more than the unscrewing of the caps actually did. Screwing them back in was a bit weird. They throbbed a bit but not actually painful.

I can see where in my gums the implants are by the location of these caps and they do look rather far forward. The implantologist had mentioned that the finished bridge will be further forward than my denture teeth and this might take some getting used to, from which point onwards, my internal voice just kept repeating: Janet Street-Porter Janet Street-Porter Janet Street-Porter Janet Street-Porter.

He said that the final teeth would also be larger (Janet Street-Porter) than what I have now, as they'll match them to my (real) canines. The new position means they'll also have a slightly different shape. They'll be wider to fill the gap (Janet Street-Porter) and be further forward (Janet Street-Porter!).

The finished teeth have enormous potential to look absolutely bloody awful, but being the brave, practical woman that I am, I immediately went home and cried to the Sous Chef about soon having buck teeth. I lamented that I was going to have a different face shape. My lips would look weird. I said I'd have difficulty speaking. He said not to worry. He said almost everyone has wonky teeth and it's not the end of the world. Having crooked or oversized or funny-angled teeth holds no one back unless they want a career in television, which I don't. Goofy-teeth are quite common.

Yes, well that's all very well. People do have wonky teeth, but the difference is I'm spending thousands of pounds and receiving rather a lot of injections, drilling, hammering, unscrewing, scraping and general dentist-related unpleasantness. I'd rather like to have something to show for it. I don't want to have gone through all this only to wish I'd stayed with the dentures. I guess that makes me vain.

Speaking of vanity, I'm also currently having whitening done. Well partly it's vanity (I'd like a set of nice white teeth) and partly it's practical. Teeth will always darken with age, tea, coffee and red wine but the bridge won't - ever. Making it to my base colour (rather than current colour) means in years to come, I can go back to base which will match the bridge rather than trying to go back to what I have now. Everyone's base colour is different. I need to find mine. However, the process takes weeks and is gradual and my dentures match my teeth as they are now. As they get paler, I'm going to have a piebald mouth with spinach in for several weeks!

Also, the bleaching agent goes to deeper and deeper levels over time. If I keep using it, eventually it'll reach the dentine. Dentine is naturally yellow and when it bleaches that, you get the brilliant, dulux white that Hollywood likes to pretend is natural (it ain't). I do not want to have tictac white teeth. If I've got to have fake teeth, I want 'em to at least look real, dammit. So somehow I've got to keep a close eye on my teeth to make sure they go white without ending up looking like these guys

(taken from an actual teeth whitening company's website. Do people really want tippex teeth?)

so with any luck, I'll have a set of pearly whites (better than the ones above) by January. hurrah!

OU may begin

2007-10-24T11:03:00.000-07:00

Exams are horrible, aren't they. I mean, anyone who tells me they actually rather enjoy the exam had better duck before my right fist goes flying into their left molars. Now, I do actually know someone who was at the exam who would say just this sort of thing; someone who usually gets around 98.5% in the exam but I made a point of avoiding him and pretending I was invisible. I thought it best, since dentistry is so expensive these days.

The exam was three hours. Actually that's not quite correct. It was actually 2 months of intense revision, making notes, losing notes, creating mind maps (or at least, that's what I called my weird line-and-bubble drawings), having the Sous Chef test me on concepts, names, theories and discussions, (although mostly he just criticised my handwriting) and I learned one thing - I can practically memorise a page of mind maps by remembering their physical locations on the page. that doesn't say much for my understanding of the psychological concepts but it means I can regurgitate facts and figures on demands by thinking "now what was in the top left hand corner next to Piaget's 3 mountains experiment?"

Then it was three weeks of bad sleep, 2 hours of butterflies, 1 hour of disconcerting serenity and calm and then the actual exam, which was three hours of sitting in a room, listening to the delicate sound of biros scribbling on paper as other people produced works demonstrating their great erudition while I idly chewed a pen, trying to remember what was in the top left hand corner next to Piaget and having the funny feeling it began with a P... or D or a T or at least had a T in it. I think.

The worst part is that beginning bit. You're sat down, the invigilator is going through the procedure - fire exits, what to do if you need more paper, what to do if you've finished early, what to do if you need to ring the Samaritans midway through (not allowed apparently) and you can see the exam paper in front of you. the questions it currently hides might be the one chapter you know lots about or one of the others where you're more than a bit shaky and will have to blag a bit.

"you may begin"

Those three words then to cause my brain to crash. Where before I had been a human being able to communicate and think and construct ideas, now I am reduced to something with the intellect of a rubber duck, only less articulate. I read all the questions. I must answer one from each of three sections but all of them seem equally bad. I can think of a few things with each but enough to write an essay?

ok, the first I wrote a near-ok essay. For the second hour I wrote another fairly decent essay with a bit of a rubbish conclusion and then I attempted the seen question. The easy-peasy one. We had all been sent this question some weeks ago and were to prepare an essay for it. What I did was read the relevant chapter two days before, had skim-read the peer-reviewed articles and scribbled down some notes on them and then put together an essay plan and wrote a rehearsal. It meant I knew what I was going to say, where in the essay it would go, how it linked with the other points and finished with a damn fine conclusion. What happened in the exam though was a total shambles. I completely incoherent jumble of points, vital evidence glossed over and a conclusion that said nothing. What happened?! Where did my plan go? Nothing like a grand finale to make you feel worthless at the exam, eh.

Now I have to wait until December for my results. Hopefully I'll have forgotten all about it by the time the letter arrives.

2007-10-08T11:13:00.000-07:00

I'm not meant to be blogging until my exams are over, but I couldn't help share this news story.

Scientists have invented a semi-conductor that can use sunlight to split water into hydrogen and oxygen and do so more cheaply and efficiently than conventional methods. This makes hydrogen fuel that little bit more of a realistic possibility.

What had me excited though is this was done where my dad works. (Yes, he's a scientist. Must be where I get my boffin-like tendencies from). For years that place was famous only for inventing the plastic that washing up bowls are made of and now they've done something a little more environmentally friendly. HURRAH!

(dad isn't part of the team who did this. He plays with lasers all day and drinks lots of coffee but he does work at the same institute)

When I was little, mum and I used to pick him up from work and we'd wait downstairs for him. in the lobby downstairs was all manner of weird things but most intriguingly, a large container of water. Large and deep enough for a child (such as myself) to swim in comfortably but not big enough for grown ups to do the same. It was about 3-4 times the size of a bath. I always wondered what is for so one day, I asked. Dad explained it was for emergencies. If a fellow scientist in the building were to accidentally set themselves on fire or get covered in a burning chemical, they're to run downstairs and throw themselves into this pool.

Despite my sincerest 5yr old's hopes and despite wishing really really hard everytime we went there to wait for dad, this never happened.

Bayern

2007-08-16T11:18:00.000-07:00

Wir sind ab morgen in Bayern mit den Fahrrädern unterwegs. That means, as of tomorrow we'll be in Bavaria on our bikes. I might persuade the Sous Chef to buy some Lederhosen while we're there. On the right legs they can look damn fine inded. If there's one thing he has, it's outstanding legs.

but he might insist I get myself a Dirndl.

and if there's one thing I do have it's the suitable accessories to go with it.

I jest but that style of clothing (called Tracht) is still worn in Germany and is not unlike the kilts of Scotland. I don't feel German enough to wear a Dirndl (the skirt, apron, blouse and bodice that women wear) nor indeed have the funds to afford one, but I do actually like them (and not all as low cut as the one pictured above. I'm thinking the girl in the picture does not rely on her witty conversation to keep people's attention).

I'm especially excited about this trip because we're getting there by train. There is a sleeper train from Paris to Munich and we're booked into a double cabin and should arrive in Munich, refreshed (or dishevelled, depends what we get up to) at 8am Saturday morning to cycle from Munich in the South to the Ruhr district in the North.

Despite being born in the land of thigh-slapping, beer drinking, sausage eating (ok, enough cliches) people I have actually seen very little of the country. I've never been as far south as Bavaria and I'm not even sure I'll be able to understand what they're saying through the thick Bayerisch accent or that they would understand me with my (now British accented) Ruhrpott German.

I'm also clueless regards the different beers, having left there at about the legal age to drink and I'm not likely to be trying the 1200 varieties or so of sausage (I made that number up. It might well be far more). In fact, I'm not sure I'm going to be much use if Landlord was hoping I'd be able to act as a tourguide. I can say " We're lost. Where is the nearest pub and when is it likely to stop raining" (though I might be giving my Britishness away by talking about the weather. Germans tend to make smalltalk about their health problems; their circulation and blood pressure being the most popular topics)

We're back 3 weekends from now. Hopefully with lots of pictures.

trews news

2007-08-07T11:31:00.000-07:00

Trouser shopping. Hands up who enjoys trouser shopping. Hmm thought as much. Well when you're the freako pearshape that I am, you hate it even more because no one makes trousers that don't make you look like you have chicken drumsticks for legs. (They are rather chicken drumsticky but I don't want trousers that advertise this fact)

But I am in need of zip-off trousers for taking with me when I cycle the length of Germany later this month.

Field and Trek and Millets were my first attempts. After trying on at least 12 pairs of women's trousers, I had worked out that I am in fact a size 12 and three quarters. Twelves were a bit snug for cycling in but the 14s seemed to be made multi-purpose with built-in parachute in the area where the fly is and the crotches hung low while the hems swung at ankle height. Who, exactly, are these trousers made for?! There is a team of short-legged big-bellied women in garment factories, adapting the patterns to what they think a normal shape is.

Having gone through the women's selection I started on the men's trousers. I seem to be a 32" on a man's trousers and these did seem to fit better (at least in leg length) but still I found my mirror image to be too awful to look at for too long. At the first few you blame the cut but after trousers number 20 you start to blame your figure and think yourself the freak. Why, it's almost enough to make me want to eat less and exercise more!*

After an hour I gave up and went back to the office. Back home, I fell into the arms of the Sous Chef and lamented to him how hard a day I had had, trying on trousers after trousers (I even tried on some shorts and a skort that had me laughing until I cried - or was it the other way around?)

He comiserated as much as he could (having just bought three pairs off the internet, all of which fit nicely, spending about 2 minutes of some simple mouse-clicking), so I went upstairs and tried on his nicest pair.

THEY FIT!

and look better than any other I had tried that day. You spend an hour trying on men and women's trousers and begin to lose the will to live. Then you try on the first pair that are sitting around at home and they are good enough you'd buy them.

so today I am heading shopwards to get meself a pair - men's zip off trews in dark grey with a bazillion pockets and zips in all manner of places.

*what, and give up cake? you must be joking. And anyway - I've been stick-thin before and I end up just being a thinner version of the same shape. I still couldn't find trousers to fit

saddle news

2007-08-01T11:41:00.000-07:00

It's been a sore week all in all.

yes I thought that would grab your attention. But ignore the young lady (and that isn't me, by the way - I'd kill for an arse like that) Note the lovely saddle. so take your eyes off the lady for a moment and look at the saddle. The bit on the bike. I said, stop looking at her and look at the saddle.

ok, maybe this illustrates it better

That is a brooks saddle. Brooks have been making leather saddles since 1866 and deserve to be bestsellers. Those are real copper rivets in there and while it is a heavy saddle, it's worth the weight. The leather softens to make a perfect imprint of your bottom and is much more comfortable than you'd think just by looking at it. There is a reason brooks saddle users are passionate about these little babies. Beautiful, traditional, comfortable.

Heavy-hearted, I have to put aside my lovely Brooks saddle, even though I really really love my Brooks and I've never had saddle sore from it. But alas it seems that Brooks saddles are designed for men, who have movable parts that allow a nice even spreading of weight. I don't have the luxury of being able to move anything out of the way and so I'm sat on, well... I'm squashing bits I don't think are meant to be squashed and cutting off blood supplies to some very sensitive equipment. Equipment I'd rather have continued use of ta very much. Going uphill makes this worse as the saddle tilts to the hill and I'm sat even more on areas that are, um, delicate - not to mention important.

To compensate for the squishing I have tended to tilt my pelvis forward so I am sat more on the fleshy part of my rump - this means I am curling my lower back round. Several hours of this makes me ache, especially at the back, shoulders and neck.

So, sadly I've bought a new saddle. It's an ugly saddle. It looks less like something crafted and more like something manufactured.

It has an indentation and special gel padding in areas that the sit bones go. The manufacturer promise that this one really is made for women and isn't just a man's saddle with more width.

Surprisingly it works. My delicate areas are well protected AND I don't have to curl my back and tilt the pelvis, I can actually sit on my sit bones and keep a straight back. The difference is amazing. I can sit like the Sous Chef does on his saddle.

However, this means breaking in my sit bones anew and that means saddlesore . This saddle is nice on my soft bits and not so nice on the hard bits. What I also didn't expect was the new posture that means I am using completely different (untrained) muscles for cycling. I can tell because I ache in areas of my legs I've never ached before. When I started out cycling my quadriceps built up and ached. Now my hamstrings feel like they've taken a beating. These areas correspond with the scrummiest, sexiest, well toned parts of the Sous Chef's cycling legs so I know I am now using the right sets of muscles but they are untrained so I have to build these up.

so it is a shame that I put my brooks aside. It is such a lovely saddle. aesthetically pleasing, fine on the arse but unfortunately not fine for other areas and my thighs would like to know why they can't have the Brooks saddle back.

Hair today...

2007-07-24T11:50:00.000-07:00

I always dread going to the hairdresser because it is rare that I step out of the salon with a smile on my face. More typically I am grumbling under my breath about the length (or lack of), am tucking overstyled bits behind my ears or am sporting a large poofy monstrosity because someone was a bit overzealous with the hairdryer and styling brush. Serioulsy, I came in to get my hair cut, not to be your showcase for gravity defying hair.

But the hairdresser I went to last time has had me impressed twice in a row. I even tipped the hairdresser and that's unheard of (for reasons, see above) so I figured that maybe, just maybe this salon might actually know what it's doing, so I went again.

When I arrived, my name was nowhere in the book, however. Flicking through the pages and the girl could find no sign of my name and yet I remember seeing her write it in.. She's flicking through the pages trying to find it and is getting increasingly frustrated because she also remembers putting it in -but what is this? my name has been rubbed out and someone's full head colour pencilled in instead. WTF? so a wasted journey then. Marvellous.

But ok no biggie. I said to the girl that I could come in next week. She was very apologetic and somoene above her had bumped me off the bookings (and not told her, making her look a right numpty)

So the following week I went back to have the wonderful hairdo I have come to expect from this place. I had even made sure I had enough for a tip on me.

What part of "I am growing my hair" sounds like "cut it off in great chunks"? My hair is now shorter than after my cut 10 weeks ago - in other words, she's lopped off everything I'd grown since last time and then some.

I had also explained to her that whatever she did, the sides HAD to be long enough to tie back into a ponytail, because when I'm cycling I can't have it flying in my face (dangerous, you know). The last hairdresser kept checking while cutting to make sure the sides were long enough but this one didn't, so when she was cutting hair to my earlobes I mentioned this request again. She looked at me with a pained expression and pulled my hair back into the worst ponytail I've ever seen (sort of a half-hearted grip behind the head) and... the sides fell out. And now they keep falling out. I tried to be positive and say I could clip it but frankly the sides falling out is Driving. Me. Nuts. Especially on my bike because I keep getting my hair in my eyes when I'm trying to assess how close that four ton truck is to me.

Also, it is now so short that my hair is light enough to take on the random direction change it really goes in for. When it''s long it's heavy enough to stay straight but at this length it can never quite make up it's mind which way to wave so often tries all directions at once.

stupid sodding hairdresser. Stupid sodding hair. Too short to tie back, constantly in my face, can't even tie it into cute little plaits and have to wait months to get it to its old length again.

but on the positive side. I was sat in the chair and saw the be-tinfoiled headed lady next to me and pondered: hair colour. Wonder if I should try colouring my hair *. It looks kinda drab. But I don't know what colour.

But as my hair was drying, all these golden tones came out and the natural highlights showed through and I thought: hey wow! I love my hair colour. Why would I want to change it?

so I hate my hair cut but I like my hair colour. That would be a consolation if my hair colour weren't something I already got for FREE

hmmm... *fume*

*I think I must be the only woman in the western world never to have coloured her hair, not even temporarily

2007-07-17T11:54:00.000-07:00

he's home at last and all mine. And appears to have missed me every bit as much as I missed him. Aaaw. Having been separated and missed each other's company during the small things (cleaning our teeth together, eating meals together, doing the grocery shopping together and other minor things that are actually nauseatingly special between us) I find myself unable to get enough of him. The scent of his skin, the smell of his breath, the curve of his neck, the sound of his laugh. When will these things become boring?!

His return is great but he also seems to have brought with him a plague of mosquitoes. They must have followed him home. The nuisance that they are is why I was woken at 4am and treated to the sight of the Sous Chef, completely naked, jumping up and down swatting anything that looked vaguely insect-shaped. Seeing a naked man jumping up and down to hit things on the ceiling is much undervalued comedy.

Anyway, as a guide to our mosquito probelm, I've got 24 mosquito bites, all over me. In the shower they start to itch like crazy. However, after the bloodbath as a result of the Sous Chef's great hunting prowess, I should be left alone. Perhaps we should have the more intact exemplars stuffed and mounted.

the nice lacy blue ones

2007-07-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

Nothing is more tragic than waking up on Christmas morning and realising you are not a 5 year old child.

I can't remember who said that but it rings true with me. Until now.

I've got this funny feeling. It's butterflies mixed with an intense anticipation and joy. It's like knowing you're about to pick up your lottery win. It's like being told that in a moment the universe's secrets will be revealed, it's like Christmas eve at age 5. There's an almost palpable magic. And it's all because he's home tomorrow evening and I get to wrap my arms around him and plant soft little kisses on the curve of his neck. I'm practically giddy with excitement. Just to be able to smell his breath.

Of course he won't have missed me nearly as much. He's been off doing exciting things, cycling all day and spending the close of each day filling up his tanks on beer and having a laugh with the boys, his cycling companions. Each day will have been new and different and loaded with novelty and surprise, while I've been at home, only too aware of his acute absence in these familiar surroundings.

But my time alone has not been monotonous. I've been studying like crazy and am catching up on my lapsed studies. Last chapter was about how baby's learn to understand and speak their native language (it's fascinating). I couldn't get the mower to work so had to resort to cutting the grass with shears (oh my aching back), I made all manner of edible goodies that are now in the freezer or fridge, I had my sister round for some in-depth man-talk and spent last night at the Foragers celebrating c-side's birthday. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY C-SIDE!) and today I'm going to clean the oven and change the bedlinen for my true love's return.

I'll also be wearing my best pants.

2007-07-06T11:59:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening, the Sous Chef finally crossed the border and is now in the land of cricket once more. This fact alone should make his heart more glad but unfortunately his body is not doing so well. He's cycling 70 odd miles a day with tendonitis in his knee. One of the party is a qualified physio and has been dosing him up on super strength painkillers. Call me old-fashioned but I really don't think it's a good idea to cause more damage to your body and just medicate the pain. He should be resting it not causing perhaps irreversible damage. This might put his South America plans into perspective though. I may be slow and less able to put in many miles when we cycle together but at least this slow coach stops him knackering out his body (save that for later, teehee)

oh and in other news (how overused is that expression in a blog?!) I've just discovered that all my cycling, has done some serious damage to my jeans, not to mention my reputation. The friction of cycling has meant I have invented the world's first crotchless jeans. We have a fairly relaxed dress code in this office but having your arse hanging out is a mite too far. "oh just buy a new pair" you might say, but have you forgotten what torture it is to buy jeans? Once I have the courage to attempt this quest, I'll be trying on 70+ pairs of jeans, none of which I'll be happy with and the purchase will happen only once my spirit is broken, my soul is destroyed or my patience has run out. Next weekend, I bite the bullet. The agony of the experience will take my mind of Landlord being away.

2007-07-05T11:01:00.000-07:00

The house is very quiet without him and I've still got two weekends to get through without him. Contact opportunities are few and far between but yesterday he managed to charge his phone until full so we had two, TWO conversations. He had to stay outside to get a strong enough signal but also had to keep walking about to avoid the legendary kilt-wearing highland midges that had identified him as food. I'm touched. He could have stayed in the pub or gone straight to bed but instead he chose to ring me and put himself at the mercy of the local wildlife.

Apparently he is aching all over, having done 85 miles yesterday. I could never manage that sort of mileage in one day, especially if I had to get back in the saddle for more the following day and I'd probably not manage to phone home while walking about a field.

He's my hero. And I want to kiss him all over. And he's too far away.

2007-06-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

No Sous Chef. For TWO WEEKS!

Seems he and some school chums he is still in contact with had set a plan for a big trip to mark their 40th Birthdays (which all fall in the same year). This is why he and four other men of his age are currently (I reckon) in the nearest pub to John O'Groats and in about a fortnight's time (give or take two days) they will be in a similar establishment at Land's End, having cycled the bit in between (assuming they don't have to wade or swim across the North of England and the Midlands).

To be sure the Sous Chef knows I don't begrudge him the trip in any way, I sneaked a little card into his luggage telling him to have a wonderful time and that I'll be looking forward to his return. I shall be thinking sweet thoughts of him and some of them might even be clean. He'll find the card when he has his first hangover-curing fry-up because it's tucked behind his plate.

Oddly though, I'm not missing him as much as he probably thinks I am. I love him to bursting, but I'm also very happily self-contained and can spend many happy hours in my own head, enjoying the ~~cavernous space~~ intellectual thinking.

It also means I can catch up on my OU work because I'm only, y'know 5 WEEKS BEHIND! (eek!) but I did get 70% in my last assignment which isn't outstanding but it's certainly not bad, either.

I have instructed him to by all means phone me when he can but not to fret if he can't (I know what it's like. You're cycling all day and it's not necessarily easy or convenient to ring home every day). I won't be at home tapping my foot and thinking there is something wrong with our relationship if he doesn't call. Although, if he fails to ring the entire time he's away I'll be forced to have the locks changed. I'm not sure I said this because I'm so very secure in our relationship that his not phoning isn't something I'll be reading much into or because I know damn well he's not likely to phone me every day and I want that to be an ok thing for me as much as for him.

Someone slap me

2007-06-22T11:08:00.000-07:00

This blog post is going to have some of you worried about me. Not content with eating garden pests (snails) and cycling hundreds of miles in the pouring rain or giving away the car and giving away the TV, I'm about to show you I can go one fruther than you thought possible and become even MORE like the good life. And you're not going to like this.

A colleague of the Sous Chef's has been shooting cute little rabits because they've been eating his vegetable patch. It doesn't seem quite fair to me (to kill over a carrot, c'mon it's not like your survival depends on that root vegetable) but he shoots em and that seems like a waste to me. I believe if you're going to kill an animal, you should eat it rather than chuck it away. And if you kill an animal you should eat as much of it as you can because wasting meat is an insult (to the rabbit, to life). I do know of people who buy an entire chicken and only eat the breast - forgetting that something DIED for that. At least make more meals from it!

The Sous Chef had asked me before whether I'd like to try rabbit and I said yes, expecting us to put an order in at the butchers, not for him to come home with a dead one in his rucksack.

so there we were, faced with a rabbit on the chopping board. Cute as a button. Dead as a doornail. We googled about how to gut and skin it (apparently you don't gut a rabbit, you 'paunch' it) and found some gory looking pictures but actually it looked pretty easy so he had the knife while I had the laptop.

The first thing that surprised me was the smell. It wasn't a bad smell but it was very, very rabbitty. The other thing that surprised me is how lean a rabbit is. There really isn't much meat on one. Skinned it looks like an extremely thin cat, but then I guess if it were chubbier, the fox would have had it before us. The final surprise was how hard it is to get the smell of rabbit off your hands. Five scrubbings later and there is still a residual smell.

There must be something wrong with me. I just relish these sorts of new experiences: snail eating, growing food in the garden (flowers don't interest me at all. I have no enthusiasm for a plant unless I can eat bits of it) gutting a rabbit, making homemade fermented soy products, making my own cheese and yoghurt. I'd love to have a go at beekeeping and keep chickens (too many foxes though) and use a smoke-house to smoke my own fish/meat/cheese/rent out to people who can't quit by 1st July.

In my head I'm some sort of backwoods survival expert but I live in a terraced house near Brighton for goodness sake and couldn't live without regular hot showers (actually what am I saying, I HAVE lived -for some years even- in a house with no hot running water) ok I couldn't do without shampoo... and conditioner. See how stupid I am?

Some people you see walking about you know that in their heads they are actually some chic femme from St Tropez with their fashionable sunglasses and cute little handbag which matching high heeled sandals. They are almost dressed up in a particular costume to show this is who they want to be. Other people think they're some grungey rock chick and dress accordingly. Me, I seem to think I'm Grizzly Adams or something. I mean, paunching rabbits. What next? leaving my first born to the care of wolves? Deplumbing the toilet to shit at the bottom of the garden?

Lasagna and laughter

2007-06-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

That is just what I needed and thanks to c-side it's what I got. She came with wine and ice cream, which I traded with homemade lasagna and garlic bread.

C-side brought over Haagen Dazs - I refuse to umlaut it. It's a fake foreign name and with an umlaut it would be pronounced Hey-ahgen Datz-s which is silly - or maybe I'm just too lazy to put in an Umlaut. Actually that's more plausible. Well umlaut or not, what matters is how it tastes (divine) and my poor, swollen, healing gob did very much like the coolness of the creamy ice cream. I'm not sure my hips and thighs are so enamoured, but who asked them anyway? Some things just call for ice cream and tonsils out and dental op are top of the list (just beating 'being dumped', 'having PMT' and 'it's Tuesday')

A sultana

2007-06-21T11:14:00.000-07:00

Or maybe a prune. Or maybe I'm more like a dried Apricot, all shrivelled up.

This past week I know for a fact I've not been drinking enough. I think I've been drinking about two cups of something (tea or water) per day. Two cups, no more. I keep remembering that I've not been drinking enough but then forget again and go the whole day having drunk almost nothing.

So today, at work, I decided to fill up a 2l bottle of water and make sure I drink it before hometime. It is not yet hometime and I've just finished the last bit. Most worryingly: I haven't been to the loo yet today. I've drunk 2litres of water and haven't weed once. That's how dehydrated I was.

but if you'll excuse me.....

2007-06-16T11:21:00.000-07:00

Finally - today is the first day I don't feel like bursting into tears and I feel a bit more like my old self again. I don't yet look quite like myself but I do feel a bit more like the old me.

The face continues to heal. I am still swollen around the cheeks and top lip and more bruising is revealing itself, such as some new faint blue patches under both eyes and at each side of the mouth. I still feel like I have a snout rather than a mouth and the stitches/swelling make speaking difficult but I feel more like me. At the cinema last night I felt extremely small and timid. I felt like my mouth had been sewn shut and I could only look about with large, scared eyes. Maybe it's having been couped up at home for 48 hours, too. I was actually slightly agoraphobic - the world looked terrifying.

Not being able to pull any facial expressions might be contributing to how I've been feeling. If you can't smile you end up looking glum all the time, which makes you feel glum. And the world seemed so alive and vibrant and big but inside me I seemed so small, so timid, so fragile.

Thank God I'm getting the old me back now. It's almost certainly because the swelling is reducing and I am getting some of my movement back. I can now flare my nostrils, I can pucker up a little - not enough to whistle or even kiss but nearly there. I still can't laugh but I'm getting good at chuckling.

Speaking and eating remain difficult and so I guess it's no surprise I've lost almost a kilo since the op. And why I'm still in low spirits. I can eat strawberries if they are cut up. Good job they're in season. Strawberries cheer me up.

To cheer me up further (and because we can't go off cycling anywhere) The Sous Chef and I will be spending tomorrow afternoon having a picnic on the beach. I might make a cake - that should bring the kilo back.

To be honest, I am totally surprised by how I've reacted to the operation. I expected to be swollen, bruised and want some tlc for a few days. I did NOT expect to turn into this fragile little creature that cries at the drop of a hat. I did not expect to have any emotional response other than perhaps relief.

The bruising and swelling is no big deal - it's not that I think I look hideously disfigured (the swelling is actually less than I expected and I reckon I got off quite lightly with the bruising - all in all I don't look that bad) it's been how I feel.

I don't know. I can't explain it.

2007-06-15T11:23:00.000-07:00

I can almost smile now but it pulls my stitches so I'd better not. I still burst into tears at stupid moments and I really don't know why. I should be glad right? The worst part is over with and I should be happy but I still can't think back to the procedure without getting upset. Guess I shouldn't dwell on it. There's no point letting myself be traumatised by something in the past that is actually a positive thing.

And the Sous Chef is being fantastic. We can't kiss but he's very forthcoming with the cuddles. I just don't know how long his patience will hold out. I'm not being a star girlfriend right now. I can't laugh, I can't kiss, I'm down a lot and I keep bursting into tears at random moments. I should just get over it.

Anyway, to cheer me up the Sous Chef and I will be going to the cinema tonight. I look like he's been beating me up but I can't stay home every day. It remains to be seen whether I can manage to eat popcorn. I doubt it somehow.

So today I've been busy plugging away at my TMA and it's 90% done (needs to be sent today and it WILL go before midnight - I promise!) No more fun and games with a router, laptop and drunk IT expert.

2007-06-14T10:27:00.000-07:00

It's the day after the op and I look funny. I seem to have someone else's mouth. All the bone and membrane that sits right under my nose is pushing my top lip forward and my bottom lip disappears beneath it all. I feel I look like a mouse. It's definitely a snouty look. It also feel incredibly tight and is still a bit numb.

I cannot smile. The best I can manage is to pull the sides of my mouth a little and do a Mona Lisa. I also cannot laugh. I can chuckle but that's it. Sneering is totally out. In other words, facial expressions are extremely limited and consequently I don't quite feel like myself at the moment. Not being able to laugh at all is what I miss the most.

There is slight bruising but a lot less than I was expecting. I wasn't expecting to lose my mouth, though. Even speaking is difficult as I'm trying use muscles that seem to be unavailable at present and my lips are not where my body thought it had left them. Ps and Fs are especially difficult.

I'm really not liking the looking like someone else. You get so used to what your own mouth looks and feels like and in the mirror it's like someone else is staring back. Someone altogether more stupid looking. I hope it's just swelling (temporary) and not the bone implants (permanent) but the dentist did say it would gradually reduce in size as the bone is absorbed - a 4 month process.

Anyway, because I can't wear my teeth without some discomfort (and it would interfere with the healing) I've asked to work from home this week. Unfortunately this does not mean sitting in the garden with a tequila sunrise in each hand, as I have rather a lot of stuff to get on with. Tons, in fact.

I don't know why but everytime I write or talk about this I start to cry. Stupid huh? I don't even know what it is I am cryng about. It's all over, right? Why the wussiness now?

Why can't they just unscrew my head and I'll pick it up when they're done?

2007-06-13T11:29:00.000-07:00

I finally did it. My Big Challenge ™. I had a clear idea in my mind how bad the dental surgery was going to be and that clear idea was truly awful. I know, I know. Often you work yourself up about how bad it’s all going to be and when it’s over you have to grudgingly admit it was a big fuss over nothing.

I was definitely being a baby about the impending procedure and I’ll admit it (on my blog, anyway). The guys at work all know about my op and someone asked what I was having done. “something horrendous” I said (not wanting to go into detail). “oh wisdom teeth is it?” he asked, naively. “no, worse than that” and his forehead scrunched as he tried to imagine what could possibly be worse than having your wisdom teeth out. In the end, having nothing to go on but their imagination’s limit of wisdom tooth extraction, they gave me the sort of advice you give to someone who is having wisdom teeth out and told me it’s not as bad as I’m expecting. I know what having teeth out is like, I’ve been through that four times and it really is nothing too bad. It’s a few jabs with a needle, some pushing and shoving and then some bleeding and swelling. This really WILL be worse. Or will it? Am I not working myself up for a big anti-climax?

Well ladies and gentlemen, this was EVERY BIT as bad as I expected and maybe even a little bit worse. Wisdom teeth do not take nearly two hours, nor is there scraping, nor three types of drilling, some wrenching, some hammering, some more drilling, more hammering, some screwing in, some packing in, some sewing up and an A4 sheet of paper detailing what you can, can’t, must and must not do for the next few weeks and more pills than I’ve ever taken in my life.

I got there early and felt rather calm. When I sat in the chair I was nervous but still relatively calm and my beloved Sous Chef who’d insisted on coming with me made a great difference. He was positive and supportive and being a real gem. We chatted and joked until I kissed him goodbye and stepped into the surgery.

First task was to swallow about six pills. The dentist took me through what each was for (paracetamol, codein, some antibiotics etc). I took the cup, chucked the lot into the back of my mouth and took a big swig of water. One gulp and gone. No problem. It’s a gift.

The anaesthetic is the first necesary evil. The first jab was painless, the second less so, the third smarted a bit, the fourth brought tears to my eyes and I started to get much less calm. I’m always a little bit scared the anaesthetic won’t quite cover some parts they’re about to work on and I’ll do a vertical take-off from the dentist chair. This has never happened yet but y’know. It might. And maybe this time.

So after about 6 injections I started to get that very familiar elephant-man feeling around my face. I was given some solution to swill around to get the bitter taste of local aneasthetic out of my mouth and this was when I noticed how much my hands were shaking. I threw some water down my front and then managed to get some into my mouth. Or thought I had. I’d by now lost all sensation in my top lip now and dribbled all down myself. Fortunately the dentist and nurse were busy gowning up and didn’t notice the dribbling idiot in the chair.

After a short time to allow the aneasthetic to work and for me to start shaking more and sweating a little, they put some easy music on and I started my task of staring most intently at the one light in the ceiling that was off. Over the next two hours I got to know every detail of that light fitting. I reckon I could pick it out of a line up if I had to.

The dentist prodded and pushed about and there was that strange sensation of not feeling any pain but still knowing exactly what is happening. I tried to treat this as though he was working on a piece of wood I’m holding in my teeth rather than actually on the bone in my skull. It worked mostly - I spent the next few minutes concentrating on the sensation in an almost zen like way. It was painless but fascinating. I felt oddly calm now, even without any sedation.

The first part involved cutting the gum and peeling it back from the bone. Nice, huh? With some people (he cheerfully told me) it falls away easily but in my case it was stuck pretty fast. My gum is like superglued carpet that some bodger had glued to the floor. He seemed pleased it was this tough ( ”very healthy tissue" ) but found it hard going. As did I. The lightfitting was failing to hold my attention, the fascination was still there but I still wished I were somewhere else.

This scraping and cutting seemed to take ages and was more cringeworthy than uncomfortable. I’m not sure how long it took but I’d guess 5- 10 minutes. He then warned me about the drill. It whined the way dentist drills always whine. It’s more psychological than anything else, though.

He made pilot holes on each side, next to my canines and that was about as awful as having a filling. “okay, this is fine. I can deal with this” so I relaxed, listened to the music and pondered whether this was going to be an anticlimax after all. Now let’s see if I can make out the writing on that lightfitting…

He drilled a bit further and then switched to another drill. He’d warned me about this one, too. It vibrates and is to make the drilled hole a bit wider. I didn’t know what to expect but I didn’t expect it to feel like someone was trying to tune a radio with my head. The varying pitches of white noise were deafening. I was expecting radio Luxembourg at any moment.

While it drilled, it also sprayed copious amounts of water everywere including over me. With the fine spray was a lot of dust. The dusty bits must be bone. My bone. I’m swallowing my own bone. It tastes funny. Maybe that’s the water. How many other people have tasted their own bone? The drilling continued and the vibration made my eyes go funny and I lost that lightfitting in the blur. It wasn’t painful, but I still wanted it to stop.

Again I tried to take myself back to the ‘they are working on a piece of wood resting against my teeth’ image but frankly, with the drilling getting deeper into my head (figurately and literally) that was harder to do.

Is he going to fit the implants now? No. Now comes the tapping. One screw and one small metal hammer and he’s tapping it into my head. tap tap tap Tap Tap Tap TAP TAP TAP (wiggle tapped thing about to make hole wider) tap tap TAP TAP TAP TAP (wiggle thing about again, pull it out) tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP (wiggle thing once more) At least seven or eight times this went on. He apologised and said that some people’s bone is like balsa wood and all it takes is a little push. Some people’s bone is like marble. Guess which I had.

So while Michaelangelo continued hammering into my head, I closed my eyes and pondered the almighty headache I was going to be having later. It also very much put any hangover into perspective. No more claiming it’s like someone used to my head as an anvil. Hangovers don’t even come close.

As he turned away to pick up the next drill in his arsenal, I noticed that one of my canines was throbbing. “Is it meant to throb, d’you think? when under anaesthetic I mean. Does this mean I’m getting sensation back now? Is this going to hurt?” I thought.

He came back with a different drill and it was a little bit hurty. Not much, just a bit stingy, like when you’ve eaten something too cold. I put it down to my imagination and stayed quiet. Then he pushed with the drill and it hurt a bit too much. He commented I was being a perfect patient. They always say that, don’t they? All I have to do is lie here with my gob open and move as little as possible. It’s not exactly difficult.

He switched back to the hammer oh no, please not the hammer, that’s the worst part!and after just a few taps with that I realised: “no, this is hurting. I ain’t numb” so with a raised hand and reasonably well articulated “ung, a’ uh a ‘ih” he stopped, noted that the anaesthetic must wearing off and went for the needle again. It went in painlessly on one spot and wincingly in another (yeah, thought I wasn’t numb enough) and a few more that weren’t too sharp and work continued.

Now that I was numb again I could go back to looking at that lightfitting. It was halogen and set into the ceiling. All the others were on, but not this one. That is why I was looking at this one. I could see the details, it’s edges frilled out in a pleasing pattern but I really couldn’t make out the writing around its edge. Nice light though. Almost like it’s keeping me company. Looking back down on me.

I glanced up to the dentist and saw the implant. Hooray, the main event, the headline act, the one we’ve all been waiting for!

It has a thread so needs drilling but after all that tapping the drilling’s pretty harmless. I can take the whine or the white noise but hold on… what’s this? This sounds like a home drill and someone is screwing a piece of furniture together. I’m the furniture. It’s coarse and growly and it’s going straight into my head!

and in it went…ngrrrreeerrrreerreeeeeyaaaaa [stop] (oh thank god). Then there was this little ratchet thing, like you’ve got in your toolbox. I love those. I like the clicky noise it makes. Unless it’s doing it in my head. Then I like it less much.

Everyone then breathed a sigh of relief, including the dentist who’d played the “ok, everything looks fantastic and it’s all going smoothly” part very well. The nurse asked how I was and with a numb lip and no front teeth my replies were somewhat limited so I said: “harp way!” and made a thumbs up gesture.

I was relieved. Relieved that I’d got this far though I knew I was about to go through the same thing all over again on the other side. Also, mental note: if anything throbs, say so.

The next implant was easier. More bone to work with. For this reason the whole thing went a lot quicker (or maybe it just seemed to). The tapping was awful. The drilling was unpleasant. The vibrating made my eyeballs shake about in ways that I no longer found so distressing and the lightfitting did its part to take my mind off things. When the dentist got in the way of me and my lightftitting I moved my attention to the brick wall I could see through the window. I could count 32 bricks from here. The bottom two row of bricks were slightly different. The colours varied enormously but worked well as a whole. Nice bricks. Bricks - let me introduce you to - the lightfitting. You’ve not met I believe.

The next implant went in. I could feel it’s form being drilled into my head. There it goes. Good job I can’t feel a thi…. oh eck, why does it sting there? why can I feel the suctiony thing over there?

He packed some bovine bone into the gap, kinda giving the ossification a kickstart and I guess cow bone is easer to harvest than my own. My hobbies now include Cycling, Dancing and chewing the cud. Haha that’s funny. I must remember to blog that.

Over this goes a membrane to keep it all neat and together and I’m just about done. Stitches next. Still that stinginess but surely I don’t need a top up this late in the game. But after about the fourth stitch it really was a bit too sore. I made a series of vowel noises to get the dentist’s attention and it worked, so more anaesthetic was added. It stung, too. Dammit, why didn’t I inarticulate sooner so the needle wouldn’t hurt again? There were far more stitches than I’d expected so just as well as I didn’t hang on.

I sat upright, was offered some water to rinse my mouth but I remembered my attempts with that last time and declined. My top lip felt about 3 inches thick and numb. It’s kinda funny to be so numb. My bottom lip felt everything fine so it’s nerves were having a bit of a one way conversation with the top lip.

The surgery done, I walked to the front desk. The dentist and nurse asked if I was ok - not dizzy or anything. Fortunately no - I was well prepared for this and wasn’t going to go into shock again this time. I felt fine. Numb, swollen, a bit sore but fine.

Over the reception desk I handed over my debit card to have £2500 lifted from it. When that transaction was processed you could almost hear my bank going into a dead faint. I don’t spend more than £30 on anything. The sum of money about to leave my bank account is more than I earn in two months. This is quite the unusual transaction so once my bank had been administered a dose of smelling salts and come to, they needed me to verify some details to allow the transaction to go through. I did and pondered that I’m spending 2.5 grand one something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

After an x-ray I was free to go so with my beloved’s arm around me we trundled to the station to catch the train home. On the train I regaled him with some (not all) the details of the procedure. All the other passengers will probably have been wincing and I had the swelling and small amount of blood in the corner of my mouth to verify my story. What I didn’t know (since I was numb from the eyeballs, the cheeks down to the top lip) was that a small trail of snot was running out of my nose and I was totally unaware. THIS is why it’s important to have your nearest and dearest with you.

We got home, I discovered that soup for dinner was a bad idea. How do you get soup from a spoon when you’ve lost all sensation and mobility in the top lip? Answer: you don’t. You end up eating bread and cheese instead - cut into chunks to pop into your mouth.

So now, here I am. Still numb, still swollen blogging about the worst surgery I’ve ever had and with a rumbly tummy. I’m about to go to bed and I’m worried I’m still numb. I also have to avoid wearing my teeth. This means I can not say anything with the letters S, SH, CH, J, T, V, F. This makes me a poor conversation partner and even worse on the phone. Thank god for text messages. I know have some titanium screwed into my head and in a few month’s time, I’ll have proper teeth, like you have. Look after yours, folks. Seriously.

2007-06-11T11:39:00.000-07:00

I can’t believe how fast the time has gone. It’s ‘the’ week. The one in which I have someone decked out in sterilised green cutting my gums open, packing powdered bone into my skull, tapping holes into my bone and making the gap wider and then screwing in some titanium screws like I’m some wardrobe, before sewing me up again and sending me home. It sounds fun and exciting, right? It doesn't at ALL make me want to run screaming from the room. Nuh uh.

Anyway, I’ve got my prescription for one mega-dose of antibiotics to take an hour before procedure which I’ll get from the pharmacy today. The Sous Chef has transferred £1200 into my acount to help pay for this first part of the procedure (I’ll be putting in my PIN for a £2200 transaction on the day - gulp) which I’ll pay back to him once the insurance company have reimbursed me what they’ve agreed to contribute. My bills will by then have amounted to £2700 (which the insurance company’s contribution will cover). The rest is due in about 4 months time when the final stage of procedure is complete (once the implants have integrated with the bone and teeth can be attached). The amount for that is sat in an ISA in my name. It’s only through my beloved Sous Chef's help (who pays all the bills, the mortgage and council tax for us both) that I could afford to save all this money. I’ve never had £5000 in my whole life, ever. Never even owned anything of that value never mind having it in cash.

Actually, right now all my assets are cash. I own no house (nor part of) no car, no TV, no computer, no electronic goods worth anything (specifically I am thinking of my stereo I inherited from a boyfriend when I was 18 and a basic mp3 player I bought off ebay 2 years ago) . In fact, the most valuable item I own is a second hand desk I bought for £75 a few weeks ago. (A lovely desk with a leather writing surface and drawers so deep you could put a bathroom in each and call them spacious studio apartments)

I don’t know whether I’m glad to be so uncluttered with possessions and how wonderfully zen all that is or sad that I’ve little to show for my 30 years on this planet.

2007-06-06T03:43:00.000-07:00

My dental op is a week away and the anxiety dreams are already starting. I'm such a baby!

It's not going to be nice but it's not exactly a life-threatening procedure, I really should just get over it.

The Sous Chef was telling me about a colleague whose wife is having heart surgery and is understandably crapping herself that she'll die on the table. (I say understandable, though I know the odds of dying are small. I still think it's understandable since for the person in question, it's an outcome that's pretty final if you do happen to lose the bet).

I have a week ahead of me now of anxiety dreams and really poor sleep so maybe by Wednesday afternoon there'll be no need for sedation as I'll be zonked out as a result of sleep deprivation.

Digestion

2007-06-02T11:44:00.000-07:00

I got 70% in that TMA, so that's a good result in my book but of course I'm now working on the next one. This one is about identity and how it is formed and I'm to code some audio interviews and write a report comparing the two self-descriptions. One is by an 8yr old and the other 16 yr old.

The 8 year old is very cute to listen to and says things to amuse her interviewer. She sounds typical of her age in how she describes herself. The16yr old is trying to be intellectual and impress the interviewer with how mature she is but that's not what my report can be about (shame, I find that more interesting)

But enough of my OU work. I'm here to talk about digestion.

The Sous Chef eats tons of food. I mean when he recounts to me what his lunch looked like it's like he's feeding the five thousand and when they come around with the baskets to pick up the crumbs, he's still eating. His day's lunch equals mine for the week.

We went cycling at the weekend (it rained, I froze and now have a cold to show for it) and I really tried to keep up with his eating but dammit how can his body take in so much food and still find space for his vital organs and stuff? As far as I can tell he still has them all including both kidneys and an appendix.

Well after some scientific research and interview questionnaires and some observations on my part, I think I know how he does it: He not only has the metabolism of cheetah which stops him turning into the human hindenburg from the calories he consumes, he also does not hang onto his food for very long.

What I'm saying is, the Sous Chef, not to put too fine a point on it, has a pretty impressive eat to poo ratio (I bet he's SO glad I keep a blog for this stuff)

I reckon when I eat, the food goes into the murky depths of my stomach, sloshes around a bit like a lazy wash cycle and then makes it way to the bowel department at the speed of a shuffling OAP in the tinned foods aisle at Asda. It then lounges around for a little bit longer as each last shred of nutrient left in the food is removed, processed, reprocessed, processed some more until nothing, literally nothing but useless waste and maybe a marbel I swallowed when I was four, is left.

The Sous Chef's food doesn't even touch the sides. His digestive tract is like a big dipper. It's speed is determined by momentum and gravity. Before it's started it's finished and is ready to look for the exit. I predict the Sous Chef has poo so untouched by digestion that it's had almost nothing taken from it (certainly no calories). In fact, it is probably so nutritious still, Gillian McKeith would consider stirring it into her Miso soup. (I do hope you're not eating your lunch while reading this).

This is why the Sous Chef always remembers every curry I cook. He loves tucking into a hot (or hottish) curry and savours every burning mouthful, but when he goes to loo (amazingly soon) afterwards, it's still curry and every bit as hot as his mouth remembers it had been. I on the hand won't become reaquainted with it until my stomach has pretty much split the atom and broken the curry down into quarks and leptons before releasing anything into the wild again. It makes me a super efficient food processing unit and I never suffer ill-effects from foods I eat. I may even have extra stomachs like a cow does. I certainly feel I have a dessert stomach on standby even when the main course has filled me up. This means I don't need to eat a lot to feel full or to keep me going for ages.

anyway, to test this theory to its fullest, we're cooking a hot vindaloo for dinner - a curry with the works: pickle, chutney, poppadums, chappatis, naan and my special lip-dissolver of a vindaloo recipe. I'm keeping a loo roll in the freezer for him, just in case.

Too Much Anxiety

2007-05-22T11:48:00.000-07:00

MA - stands for Tutor Marked Assignment. Anyone doing an OU course will know and dread those three little letters, as much as a hen-pecked man dreads the letters PMT or the sole-trader dreads VAT.

In the old days, when the world was black and white, we used to put our printed out TMAs into these things called envelopes and put a little sticky label onto it that proved we'd paid for it's safe carriage to a designated place. For me, there was usually a flurry of panic as I'd try to print it out at work, lose the pages, find the printer to be out of toner or paper or the pages jam and I just about have an annuerism. Even if it prints out ok, I still worry about getting to the post box before the last post. I made it my business to know which post boxes have a later 'last collection' than others (best bet is the one on the corner of Palmeira Square, which is a short cycle ride from home and collects at 7pm).

So when they brought in the e-TMA system, where you can submit your Word document and it gets delivered instantly, I rejoiced. No more printing it out, no more rushing for the last post, no more having to finish it a whole day ahead of the deadline to allow for Royal Mail. Marvellous. This is going to make mylife easier. Truly the Open University are an enlightened organisation.

And now, dear reader I will relate to you the saga of my last TMA, Due midnight, Friday 18th May:

I spent an anxious Friday at work, shuffling paper about knowing I had a much more pressing task to do that I can't do on work time. I finished late (gah!) and dashed home to boot up the laptop with a view to tidy up my references, write the conclusion, tinker with the latter third of the essay, reread the first half, that sort of thing.

At about 10pm or so I felt I was more or less finished... except oh no! I'd missed a chunk I'd written at work but not emailed to myself. What an idiot! Ok, no biggie, I can rewrite that bit. I have my notes right here.

so I typed away and in some ways improved parts of it, others I remember had been better but that hardly mattered now, as it was nearing 11pm and I thought it best to send it. That was when I realised my references were not alphabetical so cut and paste, cut and paste, reformat, count words and it's ready to send.

I was in the living room, and the laptop (on which I was typing it) had difficulty connecting to the wireless (I of course mean the router, not a 1940s radio). It had been having trouble all evening but I hadn't been overly concerned, this happens sometimes but sorts itself out after a while and anyway, it gave me a chance to give it another read through, tinker with the introduction,change the font. I still wasn't keen on the conclusion but by 23.30 it still wasn't connecting. I decided to do no more to the TMA and this 'extra time' was perhaps not so useful after all.

I tried connecting but it still wasn't playing ball. I tried configuring this and that but still nothing. I tried to connect directly (by cable) but this just brought the laptop to a complete standstill. By this time, the Sous Chef came to see what all the swearing was about. He works in IT so I trust his judgement. He was going on about me not supposed to be putting the cable from the router straight into the laptop (like I've done countless times before) and it was about now that I realised he had been on the wine and was VERY pissed. He was slurring and talking slowly and ..... taking reeeeallllly... long... thinking... pauses. He was just too drunk to get any sense of urgency but since he knows what he's talking about in regards to computers I deferred to him - except I didn't have TIME for the booze-sozzled words to come burbling out of his mouth, particularly when not all of it was important. It was a this point that I realised I just wanted to kill him because he was talking about ports or something and the computer had crashed. I can hide the body after I've sent the assignment, I thought to myself.

I was looking at a blank screen and the drunk man was trying to speak: uh, you...er.... um... well. zhyou don work 'n IT ssso can'd know that...er..... look [hic] wo' I'm tryna essplain izh...

I look from him to the screen to my watch - it's 6 minutes to midnight and I don't know whether he's about to provide me with an answer to my problem or give some lengthy IT lecture about ports. The laptop looked very dead. Suddenly the loss of internet connection seemed trivial in light of potentially losing my TMA entirely! He tried again to collect his thoughts but managed only to utter some very long pauses accompanied by a bit of gentle swaying.

I decided I didn't have time to listen to any of his wisdom so I just went about restarting everything. I switched the router on and off and then tried to bring back the laptop when he suggest we try his work-laptop. YES! You're a GENIUS! It connected (!) and I logged into the OU website (ooh the excitement!). But, uh, that still left the problem of getting my TMA off one laptop and onto the other. Wait! We have a USB floppy drive! I plugged it in and again the laptop crashed (NOOOO!!!!) and I tried restarting it. This time it wouldn't log into windows - all I had was a blank screen and vast amounts of cortisol in my bloodstream (3 minutes to midnight). Turning it off and on again, I finally had Windows but before saving it to the floppy, the Sous Chef's one sober braincell fizzed into life and reminded him that the USB on his laptop had been disabled so it wouldn't work anyway.

By this time I was beside myself, because I had no internet connection, the laptop that was crashing as soon as you did anything to it, couldn't connect when it was running and it now had a hard disk that sounded remarkably like a percolator! The Sous Chef has often said that the laptop could die at any time. I berated myself for not having emailed myself a copy of the (at least almost done) TMA the day before so I could retrieve that on the other one! The dying laptop's drive was making louder noises now but it did connect (1 minute to midnight). The OU website took an age to load but as soon as I clicked any links, it seemed unable to bring up the next page. I opened a new explorer window as the old one really had hung and finally FINALLY it sent

BUT

I got a note to say the cut-off date had passed and that the tutor is not obliged to mark it. The time stamp received was 00:01, 19 May 2007.

2007-05-16T03:53:00.000-07:00

I seem to have got a bit out of practice with this blogging lark. It's been a time issue more than anything else. And also, now that The Sous Chef reads my blog (well he doesn't, but he knows where to find it)I can no longer use this space as the place to say the unsayable, utter the inutterable and blather on about stuff safe in the knowledge that on one but a very forgiving few are going to read it.

But it seems that having told himabout my blog, he is most keen I keep blogging. For someone who doesn't read my blog, that sure is a lot of interest.

But aside from that I'm actually here to tell you about a little bit of news.

I have my appointment with two dental implantologist next month. I've seen the scans of my skull, I've learned about bone deterioration and seen how much I've lost. Been told I'm am about as borderline as they get for needing bone grafts. He asked me whether I would prefer bone grafts. Well now let me see... correct me if I'm wrong but don't you put me under a local anaesthetic, then remove both my lower wisdom teeth so you can harvest bone matter from underneath, to fill out the ridge of bone right behind my top lip. This will mean a fair amount of 'discomfort' for up to a week afterwards and also will move the location of my four front teeth forward slightly.

Trying to get images of Janet Street-Porter out of my mind, I asked whether that would change the appearance of my face and of course I already knew the answer. I also don't want to have an overbite and a top lip that won't cover it so the pain, bone harvesting, wisdom teeth extraction and did I mention pain? aside, I'd rather not go through all that, but if not having the bone graft makes the implants hard to place then I'll just have to bite the bullet as it were and go through with it. He did offer that I could be sedated for the grafting, since it is rather an unpleasant procedure apparently (no kidding?). It might seem a little extreme to be sedated for an anaesthetised dental procedure but I have very vivid memories of the last time I underwent an operation.

[wiggly screen effect]

I was fifteen. I had lost one tooth 3 years previously from unwisely breaking my fall with my face in the school playground and again 3 months later while trampolining during P.E. The gap didn't bother me too much as I wore an acrylic denture. It was a pink plastic U shape with a tooth attached to the front. Looked rather comical. It fitted fine but sometimes I would unintentionally whistle with the letter S. These things are not conducive to being a happy well-adjusted 15yr old but then at 15 your life is ruined by everything anyway.

The original plan to cap the neighbouring tooth as if it were front tooth and allowing my wisdom teeth (when they come through) to push the teeth and close the gap was abandoned when it was clear I had no wisdom teeth to come through at the top. I had wisdom teeth in my lower jaw but none at the top.

Worse still, the x-rays also showed grey blobs above three other teeth. Seems the impact of the accident had caused cysts to develop at the roots of these three and these would need removing.

So an appointment was booked. I was to have three teeth extracted. An d'you know what? That is really not so bad. I was even struck by how not too bad it was when the dentist got a little curved pick and started to scrape around (loudly!) in the cavity. I noted the small, pink bag of fluid hanging from the dental pick as he put it in the tray, as I got ready for the next unmistakable sound/sensation of having someone scrape metal around in your tooth cavity just below the nose.

After a while, he sewed me up. Stitches reached from one canine to the next and up into the top lip. Quite the beauty queen. Mum went to reception to book my follow up appointment. I stood up out of the dentist chair and my knees wobbled a bit. Shakily I made my way to the receptionists desk when the world suddenly went a bit grey. The room was disappearing and I became acutely aware of my breakfast, which was currently announcing its plans to exit via my mouth. I couldn't actually see as something had happened to my vision so I said:

"mum, I think I'm going to be sick"

yes, 4 o'clock will be fine, she can...

"mum, I'm going to be sick"

yes, in a minute, I'm just ...

"mum, I'm going to throw up RIGHT NOW

at which point the receptionist dashed out from behind her desk and showed me where the toilets where, instructing me not to lock the door. I lent over the sink and splashed water on my face, crouched against the wall and waited for the room to come back out of the grey haze. It was like the headrush you get from standing up too fast but not nearly as much fun.

That was the last time I was ever ok about going to the dentist. My dentist phobia is not like your dentist phobia.

So my memories of the last major procedure do not exactly fill me with enthusiasm for the next. Especially when the procedure sounds even worse. Here is what they do (people of a squeamish disposition with a good imagination, read no further):

They cut open the gum and pack out the area at the front (behind the top lip) with bovine bonemeal. I am assured this ground up cow is a) not the same stuff you put in your garden t help your roses, b) easily accepted into the body and c) won't give me grass cravings.

Then the drill two holes into the bone at opposite ends of the gap. Here is where I might experience some 'discomfort' (read: pain). They will be tapping into the bone and then use a vibrating device to seperate the bone to make the drill hole wider. This is because (due to bone loss) the ridge of bone holding the implant has shrunk to not much wider than the implant itself so they stretch the gap instead. Turns out it's not just a case of drilling a hole and putting in a rawl plug and screwing some teeth onto it. Oh and the best bit is I'll be fully conscious the whole time. Isn't that great?

Hopefully this time I won't go into shock and throw up all over reception.

The Sous Chef has offered to hold my hand which is sweet but he'd only be sitting in reception worrying and I want to be able to look a little less like the bride of Frankenstein before I see him again.

After the procedure I will be £2500 poorer so if the procedure doesn't have me pass out, the bill might.

The new teeth don't get attached for another 4 months so I won't know whether I'll be Janet Street-Porter or not until then and frankly that's the easy part.

And then I'll have teeth again like you! So remember folks, take care of your teeth. The less a dentist has to do to you the better for everyone (except the dentist). Don't ever take them for granted. And if you ever fall of a trampoline, try to hit the floor with something other than your front teeth.

2007-04-08T03:59:00.000-07:00

I ain't dead. honest.. I'm just too busy to blog. yes I know that's but honestly - I'm fighting a battle to get someone hired to help me out. No one does what I do and my manager wants me to gather evidence for my heavy workload.

In other words, another job to do on top of what I already do. It's only me providing admin for a project that has exploded to several times its original size and the processes required are more complex and paperwork per person has tripled.

My manager wants me to keep a note of my overtime (like the 7pm I stayed until and the 6pm regulars) but frankly I don't WANT to do overtime. It's not that I have a gorgeous man to rush home to (ok, it's partly that) I also have a degree to do dammit! I used to be two weeks ahead of my OU schedule and now I'm one week behind. I get home so upset and so frazzled I have to decompress and once I have, it's bedtime.

I had a week off work last week (cycling holiday, will tell more when I have the time) and to be honest the stress of being back with the backlog is actually no worse than the day to day firefighting I've been doing for months anyway, but that might be because I'm not looking at more work than I can take, so I haven't even read my emails yet, as I have plenty of other things to do already without loading even more into my lap.

That week of cycling was topped off with two days at home doing nothing but cooking and OU (and a bit of cleaning but not more than I felt like) and it was WONDERFUL. I cooked for nearly 4 hours yesterday. and I don't mean I spent 30 minutes preparing something and then put it in the oven for 3.5 hours, I mean I was chopping, dicing, grating, blending, boiling, frying, washing up, chopping, blending, soaking, washing, boiling, slicing, measuring, chopping, stirring, grilling, washing up, blending, stirring, frying for three hours. I didn't sit down until I'd put the rice on right at the end. I made about five different curry pastes, two for two types of steamed fish, one for grilled chicken, two beef curries, a cucumber dish, a chilli dip, a soy sauce dip, deep fried prawns in batter, prawn crackers and plain, yes PLAIN rice because I couldn't face any more chopping of ginger, slicing of chillies or grating of nutmeg. The cooking was stressful at times but in an entirely manageable way, unlike my office job.

When we'd finished, the Sous Chef asked a bit gingerly: "it's not a special anniversary or anything, is it?" panicking that I'd gone to huge effort and he might be walking into a trap.

no, the celebration is being away from work that's dragging me down and having the freedom to create in the kitchen.

Strawberries with blueberries and whipped cream to finish.

I wish I could quit my job.

2007-03-22T04:01:00.000-07:00

ok, I know i've been slack with the whole blogging thing so it's an entry in list format. I apologise.

1. my silence is mostly caused by my workload. I've got too much to do and although I now have a temp, it's not actually diminishingmy workload one bit as I still have to train her, supervise and check her work on top of all the other stuff I'm meant to be doing. I'm in the process of updating my CV because this job is challenging in all the wrong ways. The new 'team' I joined is no team. It's me stuck in a corner at a desk that's too small with no drawers. No one knows how to do what I do or offers to help so it means I carry the responsibility for it all alone. and frankly I'm not paid enough for that. I've loads of holidays owing that I can't take. This job is challenging in all the wrong ways.

Solution: updating CV and will contact agencies in near future. Although possibly not until I'm up to speed with my OU course.

2. my OU course is interesting but a struggle. I'm a week behind and somehow have to catch up and get two weeks ahead so I can go away for Easter. An assignment is due the day I get back so that has to be done and sent before I set off, too. I'll likely take my textbooks with me in my bicycle panniers and do some studying in a tent with a headtorch.

Solution: Had the good fortune to fall in love with a good cook who tidies away after me. He's supportive and I have drawn up a timetable to get this ou stuff done so I can spend more time with him and less with Piaget and other psychologists.

3. I got my first TMA (assignment) back and got only 60%. That's my lowest ever score and it depressed me. After all the pain and struggle it seemed like too little return.

Solution: I've since given myself a slap and explained that it's still a decent pass mark so get over it and stop the whining already.

4. I got the results from last year's course in the post yesterday (the crappy experiment and terrible write up I did) and was eager to see whether I'd passed or not, I learned that not only had I passed but that I'd done rather well, too: A grade 2 pass with 77%. Marvellous. That cheered me up again.

2007-03-13T04:03:00.000-07:00

The Sous Chef's been given the go-ahead to browse my archives, even the bits I cringe a bit at now (there are quite a few of those, but hey historical context and all that)

And so it turns out that the Sous CHef likes my blog. Well considering I spent a sizeable proportion of my time revelling in how utterly gorgeous he is and can write lengthy prose on what makes him such a marvellous human being - not to mention calling him 'Gorgeous Landlord' from day 1 of meeting him, it's no surprise, really. Heck I wish he had a blog where I could go to read about how wonderful he thinks I am. Damn why couldn't he have set up a blog when he was mulling over whether to make a move on his Gorgeous Lodger or not and then spend blog entry after blog entry dreaming about how much he wants to say he loves me, eh? I could do with some light reading.

I did blog a while back about how there isn't necessarily a need to say " I Love You", and that sometimes the understanding that you do can be just as nice and in a way even more important. Neither he nor I come from a family where love was said out loud a lot. It was there, an understanding between everyone but without necessarily being articulated. This explains why I feel uncomfortable when it is. I've always had a close relationship with my mother but we don't go around saying "I love you" all the time. not because we don't, but because we just know we do and I like that - knowing it is more important than hearing it.

The Sous Chef comes from this school of thought too, which is why he's not been blurting out those words that I've been tying myself in knots over. He liked that we very openly show how much we care for each other in hundreds (thousands) of ways without speaking in cliches. I find I agree and "I love you" can seem like a just a cheap copy of what it's meant to describe anyway - far better to feel love than to hear it. Far better to express in ways that cannot lie. This explains why he's been so silent on the matter during all the times when I thought: "does he? I feel like he does but does he? I mean seriously! He does doesn't he? Oh man, I can't assume he does, but does he? I know I do and this is how I behave when I do but does he?"

Even so, I'm glad I've said it now. it's a weight off my chest, like a big secret to tell and it's now out there. He definitely knows and I know and you lot all know (well you lot have known for ages) and I feel like something in the universe has been set right. Finally.

to tell or not to tell

2007-03-09T04:07:00.000-08:00

The Sous Chef asked me about my blog. Apparently last week mum said to him "take care of her" and that seems to have put the wind up him a bit. Does she know something he doesn't?

I offered to send him the link. I mentally ran through my old post of when we were a new couple and the nightmare leading up to that fateful day evening in November and assess what damage they might do.

I've told him before: I am reluctant to share my blog address with him not because of what it says about him, but what it says about ME.

He asked me to tell him what the most embarrassing thing in my blog is and then it's the worst thing out of the way and I can share the blog address calmly. But I was looking at him over a bowl of chips in a smoky pub - how do I tell him I'm hopelessly in love with him but haven't yet managed to figure out how to say it without a) bursting into tears and b) having it sound too corny?

We went home, snuggled up in bed. I wanted to tell him. I burst into tears in anticipation of telling him and then it seemed he'd dropped off to sleep, so I'd missed my chance. Damn, why is this so hard?!

Also, he sort of admitted he did try looking for my blog some time ago (somehow I didn't like that. I liked feeling I could trust him) and so now I'm pooing my pants that he's already found it, and is just after my express permission to read it so he can clear his conscience.

I think I should just give in and tell him. What do you think?

EDIT:

I was right. He's looking to clear his conscience. It was the space vegetable that tattled on me.

2007-02-26T04:08:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed that I've not been blogging much. This is mostly because I'm actually expected to do more work than is physically possible

M job is easy, it's so easy that I can enter a trance-like state, which I believe is a safety-mechanism my brain has developed to deal with things dangerously high in tedium. See, I pretty much just shuffle paperwork. Forms come in, I log them, bit of data entry, dispatch various pages of form to different places, log that, compile the info and bits of paper each month, submit a financial claim, submit a statistical analysis of outcomes achieved, photocopy, fax, file, open envelope, data entry, photocopy, fax, file.

The most interesting part of my job is when my colleagues get it wrong, submit stuff too late or wrong or signature are missing or some halfwit can't understand the concept of "sign here" before sending something off to me.

I used to provide this admin support for 5 full time staff. We now have more than doubled our full time staff and yet they have somehow failed to double me. I took two days off last week because I've still got so many and can't carry more than 5 over, so HAVE to start using them but when I got back to the office, I had such a pile of envelopes stuffed full of paperwork that it took me til today (4 working days later) to get through it all. That's just the new stuff, never mind the backlog!

It got so bad, I burst into tears at my desk on Thursday. And then because that wasn't enough, I burst into tears at home, too. The Sous Chef was most helpful (providing a shoulder to wipe my nose on) and proceeded to tell me to ditch my job, use my brain, get the hell out etc.

The following day he started nagging at me again - and even said "Just leave, I'm sure I could support you til you find something better" which is jolly nice of him, but I can't take him up on that - I know me, I hate looking for work and if I'm at home all day like some housewife, he'd start wanting me to do stuff like ironing (I know where the iron is kept only because I knocked it off its shelf once)

I'd like to get into teaching but I don't have my degree yet or the 240 minimum points to at least get started training (I'll have 225 at the end of this year).

Maybe I'll go to part time on this soul-destroying job and part time in a school to get a feel for whether that would be any better.

2007-02-15T04:11:00.000-08:00

Get Carter is meant to be one of those cool movies everyone is supposed to have seen. The Sous Chef brought home a DVD of the Michael Caine version and we watched it while trying to occupy the same bit of sofa.

The basic plot is of the Caine character heading up north to find out why his brother was killed. He uncovers some nasty unpleasant truths, lots of lies and ends up meting out justice to all the parties involved.

I never know what to think of Caine as an actor. As Carter he is meant to be cool but his 'cool' acting just comes across as psychopathically emotionless. There is one scene where his bottom lip wobbles a bit but otherwise each line is delivered in a 'speaking-clock' type monotone.

You can tell this movie is made by men, since none of the women in this film have personalities, brains, emotions or identities. They're just meat; something for Carter to shag (and he seems to do that a lot for no reason at all - and although ok, maybe he doesn't need a reason, but I really can't see why the women let him cos he's got about as much sex-appeal as a parking meter). The women are all pouty, silent, breathy creatures in exceptionally short skirts. In fact in one part of the film he gruffly tells his latest shag to get dressed and then leads her to the car looking like he's not let her put her trousers on. I know minis were in, but not everyone could wear them so short. I mean, you know something's not right when the prostitute in the film is the one in the longest skirt, for goodness sake! Mind you, they did have the legs for it. Everyone in the film had the sort of legs I'd kill for (but not give up doughnuts for, you understand - let's not get drastic).

There's quite a lot of gratuitous nipple showing (honestly, I can see this'll get men to watch the movie and everything but it started to get a bit of a joke) and rough justice showing that Carter has either no mercy or no brains since he made absolutely no plans, or precious few. He just got angry a lot.

It seems very clear to me that the sixties were a definite but not assured shift in women's sexual identities (oh God, here comes the half-baked intellectualism, but stick with me here). The pill meant girls were sexually liberated but it's very clear from Get Carter that no one really knew what that meant. Free sex is great, but it seemed to be entirely on male terms. Show us your goods (legs, norks) and it shifted the power balance further toward men (you've got no good reason to say no). I always assumed that the sexual power balance lay in female choice. There's nothing wrong with advertising your sexuality or sexual availability but it goes both ways. If women are sex objects, then so are men but they didn't dress or behave like it. Get Carter was male fantasy and nothing for the ladies. In the ones scene were you sort of see him having sex (with his landlady) it looks like someone trying to look like they're not having sex. Or like it's his first time or like he's the most rubbish shag you could possible imagine. I guess you have to sleep around if no one'll sleep with you a second time...

Ok, moving away from the feminist bits, I just would like to add that what with a new pair of breasts bared about every third scene or so, I did notice that they all seemed a bit, well, small. I asked The Sous Chef if they were avarage size to his eyes (I'm assuming he's seen a greater variety of knockers in his lifetime but his shocked expression says maybe not or perhaps he'd rather not talk about it) cos if so, then average is a whole lot smaller than I realised. I look at mine and reckon they're y'know generous but not OUTSIZED. I don't have people pointing and staring or find I can't see my feet for example but in the film they seemed rather miniature. Did women in the sixties have smaller busts or is bust-size in modern advertising exaggerated? What exactly is the average bust size these days, anyway?

uh so anyway, yes. Get Carter - um, lots of boobs, women who know their place as sex objects and some ultra-cool guy who's bent on avenging his brother (and niece) but is apparently extremely bad in bed.

2007-02-13T04:14:00.000-08:00

The Sous Chef had brought two DVDs home. He borrowed them from a colleague and so we set up the laptop, lit a fire in the fireplace and got the dinner on.

While cooking, he kept asking me whether I’d seen Brief Encounters (no) and reminded me that it is considered one of the greatest British films ever made (really?). He said it was very romantic (I never thought you were the romantic type) and we would watch it tonight, cuddled up on the sofa (aaaaw, what a sweetie).

If you’ve not seen it, I won’t spoil the ending but essentially it follows a happily married middle class woman (Laura) who goes to town every Thursday to do some shopping, change her library books and go to the pictures. It’s a bit of ‘me’ time for her. You meet her husband briefly and he seems a rather sweet if predictable chap. Not a bad sort, just a bit dull.

In between all the Rachmaninov, her Thursday ritual includes sitting in the railway cafe until her train arrives and one day she gets some grit in her eye and a stranger (a doctor) removes the grit and she thinks nothing more of it - until they bump into each other the following week. He invites himself to the cinema with her, they chat in the railway cafe afterwards and he insists they see each other again.

The following week she goes to meet him and this innocent Thursday rendez-vous turns into a love affair. She is tortured by the guilt but the passion and excitement is too much. Their love can’t be denied but they are both married (just not to each other).

I watched the film and am sad to report that I didn’t find it in the least bit romantic. It must be the cynic in me but I didn’t trust the dashing young doctor (Alec) one bit. He bunks off work and invites himself the cinema, he insists they see each other, he pressurises her into saying ” I Love You”. In one scene, he takes her to a fine restaurant and as he pours himself another glass of champagne I can’t help but think: You bastard! what about your wife and kids back home?! Do you buy her champagne, too?

I can see what gets the naive Laura so hooked. She’s the archetypal bored housewife and the Thursday affair is a break out of her dreary life. She feels alive again, is the centre of someone’s interest and it’s all so neatly contained in a time and place removed from her everyday existence. The affair is excitement, it’s escapism but the one thing it is not is love.

Throughout the film, each step toward a deeper affair is initated by Alec, and of course for the sake of plot I can see wy this is done - it preserves Laura’s innocence, that her character is not to blame and that this ‘just happened’ but unfortunately to my cycnical eye it just looked like Alec does this sort of thing a lot and was only trying to get his leg over. I found him selfish, insensitive and extremely manipulative.

In one scene he tries to lure her to a friend’s flat he’s got the key to it while his friend is out of town. She’s daft enough to go but being an old black and white movie nothing happens, as the out-of-town friend comes home early.

Of course Laura is a decent person and is wracked with guilt. She tries to do the decent thing and being sensible is all she can think of.. She tries to end it but Alex won’t let her. The film is all about this inner battle but frankly what she was feeling was not love, it was infatuation, a craving for feeling desirable - as to Alec, he didn’t love her or he’d have listened to her. He seemed unaffected by her anguish over the guilt and being so torn - all he wanted was to keep her hooked.

As the film neared its end I remembered Sous Chef’s words that this was a great romantic classic and so I tried to put my cynicism aside and I found if you you really tried you could sort of pretend that this was love and I managed to squeeze out a little bit of sympathy for the characters in the final scene but really that was only Celia Johnson’s superb acting skills.

You know how in black and white movies the acting is so over-the -top. Each line is delivered in perfect diction, with emphasis on the second or fifth word, with furtive twitches of eyebrows or distant, brooding looks just off camera , but Celia plays a genuine naturalness in her acting that I’ve never seen in a black and white film before. Her performance was the only thing worth noting in the film. It’s not a romance, it’s a warning. Love played no part in it and by the end of the film I was feeling about as gooey as a lump of granite.

Next film review: Get Carter

pay no attention to that man behind the curtain

2007-02-12T04:21:00.000-08:00

I love meeting bloggers. Maybe it's for the same reason I love behind-the-scenes stuff or taking a watch apart - it's all about seeing the mechanism behind something fascinating and realising it's all the more fascinating, the more you see of it.

Yesterday I was due to meet the mastermind behind a blog I've read regularly ever since I stumbled across it more than a year ago now; that of the irrepressible Lance of Liars and Lunatics and I have to admit I was a rather nervous. I'm an introvert by nature and knew I would be intimidated, but hey, he promised he'd play nice.

Turns out, he's an absolute sweetie and remarkably easy to talk to. I assumed he'd dominate the conversation and I'd sit quietly, nodding but we ended up delving into all sorts of topics and he allowed me to rudely interrupt a number of times (sorry about that, LC, I was nervous) and I realised this this chap is intelligent and genuine more than he is bitter. Not that that doesn't come out on the blog, but he is actually a whole lot more grown-up than he'd like you to believe.

We talked about lofty things like travel and cultures, we talked of less lofty things I'll not go into right now and the time went by all too quickly. He then went off to meet some old friends in Hove and I had to get home to return a dog the Sous Chef and I had been dog-sitting (one whose bowel movements were more 'pool' than 'stool' and on our kitchen floor, too)

I'm so glad to have met the face behind the blog. Only thing is, I didn't have the courage to ask to inspect his rear or his biceps, so I'm going to have to take his word on the near perfection he's achieved so far. Next time I'll be sure to check though ladies, and will give a full report.

2007-02-03T04:23:00.000-08:00

In our veg box this morning (we get ours from the milkman. Expensive but we like the surprise and the inclusion of vegetables we normally would never buy)

The Sous Chef retrieved the box from our doorstep, came back to bed and told me what was inside.

we've got some potatoes

red onion

swede,

Parsnips,

a leek

carrots,

and some space vegetable from the planet Zorg.

bearing in mind the Sous Chef has previously been unable to identify either Kohlrabi nor turnip, I wondered what common or garden vegetable he could possible think is a space vegetable from Zorg.

turns out, he's right. Here is what we got:

space vegetable

staple of the Zorgian diet

2007-01-29T04:25:00.000-08:00

The Sous Chef and I have acquired a heart rate monitor. This is because my resting heart rate is about 70-80 beats per minute and his is about 50-60 bpm and both of us have training goals (he is doing John O'Groats to Lands end by bike, and I want to cycle across Germany without dying somewhere around Stuttgart). I'm so unfit, I have the heart rate of a gerbil and his heart is so strong it can beat at a more leisurely place because each beat gets the blood round further.

So I've been wearing this heart rate monitor when we run and when we cycle. We did a two and a half hour bike ride on Saturday. Nothing outrageous, I think it was about 20 miles all in all (so less than half of what we sometimes get up to on a weekend) and went up Ditchling Beacon (long, infamous hill of London to Brighton fame) and I kept an eye on what my wee fist-sized pump was doing.

Well about two thirds of the way up Ditchling Beacon my heart was practically vibrating at 186bpm and even on the flat bits I was in the 150s. It wasn't till we got back to Brighton and dropped by the Butcher's for a nice big lump of beef that I checked my stats (Average bpm, length of time within pre-set aerobic zone, calories burned, % of which fat) and I had burned nearly 900 calories, 48% of which coming directly from my arse! Amazing! (not to mention fantastic!)

This and the fact that we'd skipped lunch because we had two punctures and didn't get home til mid afternoon explains why I shovelled an entire 12" tuna pizza into my trap while he was still reaching for the first slice. This more than replenished what I'd used up getting up Ditchling Beacon. I nearly ate the plate! But ahh it felt so gooooood.

Sunday's run was a revelation, too. Seems I run too hard and it's using up more sugar than fat. I was hoping I was using the prime rump energy store I so conveniently carry around behind me, but turns out it's just building leg muscle (and bulk is what I so don't need) but as I get fitter my heart rate will come down and that means better use of what I'm made of (I've got the body composition of a very marbled piece of Sirloin*: Delicious but won't look good in a mini skirt.

*What's with all the steak references in the blog today??!

2007-01-19T04:28:00.000-08:00

I'm such a swot. My next OU course doesn't start until 3rd Feb and I've done a week's work already. Swotty swotty me. I'm going to be ahead of schedule for this course

Actually I'm doing my OU stuff, because I'm meant to be writing a letter submitting my treatment plan for my teeth to the insurance company in Deutsch, so I'm actually procrastinating over that. Heck I'm genius! I can get so much stuff done just by setting up new tasks to procrastinate over!

Right, I'm so going to patent this idea tomorrow.

2007-01-18T04:30:00.000-08:00

The Sous Chefand I watched Casino Royale last night. I actually got a bit scared, not from the movie, but from the fact that Daniel Craig did nothing for me. He's not a patch on the Sous Chef (honest!). There was not one moment of the film where I thought: hmm I wish the Sous Chef had his physique/charm/wit/eyes/smile/little finger. The Landlord already has supremely blue eyes and I've never been keen on men who've taken that one step too far from being toned to being muscular, especially when they've done a few too many bench presses and get that stance where the arms no longer hang down, they sort of hang at an angle away from the body. And large pecs look ridiculous to me. As sexy as James Bond is meant to be, he still wasn't anything like how I see the Sous Chef. And that's plain scary!

Anyway, so I'm mostly aghast that Daniel Craig as Bond totally fails to impress me (except where he finds her crying and gives her a hug, that was very sweet and did make me feel a bit wibbly) but I'm also aghast at how unconvincing the bond girl is. Throughout the film there are references to how beautiful she is but I somehow could not see it. I just couldn't see anything but a rather plain girl in a poor choice of lipstick colour. She had an overbite that she seemd to have difficult getting her lips over and a voice that went croaky as a very blatant attempt at acting. And her accent - what was that all about? She needed a better voice coach, I think.

Throughout the movie, I wanted to comment to The Sous Chef about her overbite but thought: no, her overbite is ruining the film for me, I'll mention it afterwards.

My movie experience is often somewhat ruined by continuity errors, or more often, minor details you're not supposed to notice. In one scene a suited man answered his mobile phone "why is he wearing kneepads under his suit trousers?" I thought, just before he was shot and fell to his knees. Right, wish I hadn't noticed that.

Acutally, Eva Green is not ugly by any means, but she looked a heck of a lot better without the eye make up and lipstick (whoever designed the make-up needs shooting), and the wardrobe department's choice of clothing for her was frankly unkind. One dress she wore made it look like her boobs were attached midway between neck and navel.

But Judi Dench was brilliant (she always is). She plays M who is such a no BS woman who manages to give off an aura of power, respect that has been earned and intelligence and yet also managed to display that M has always had a soft spot for Bond.

Anyway, once we got home both of us started to criticise characters. I made no mention of the fact that I found Bond less desirable than the Sous Chef despite him criticising how he ran (karate chop running for example, which I hadn't noticed) and how he moved, spoke etc. I was busy criticising the Vesper Lynd and her overbite and croaky acting and it dawned on me: are we trying to undermine the attractiveness of the rival screen sex symbol to each other?

I brought up a recent study that shows women's perception of a man's attractiveness is influenced by how attractive he seems to other women. The study shows images of two men deemed (in previous studies) to be about the same level of attractiveness but in each case, a smiling woman was shown facing one of them. Women tended to rate this man (the one smiled at) as more attractive. Show the same picture to men and the reverse is true. Men will deem this man to be LESS attractive.

Anyway, I came sooooooooooooo close to telling the Sous Chef I love him. So close. I lay in his arms and felt all gooey and glad that I had found someone I find this irrestible AND that he's all mine - but of ourse, I chickened out of saying it.

my usual blog

2006-12-13T01:57:00.001-08:00

My real blog is here

EDIT:

oops, the link didn't work. My real blog is now here (yes, here... I mean HERE on Blogger.)