Right now

Sometimes life seems hard.  Damn hard. You know the beauty is out there/in here but you just can’t see/hear/smell/touch/taste it. You can still feel but it hurts.  Everything turns to ash. 

And, no matter how much you sleep, you are simply tired, bone tired – physically, emotionally, spiritually.  And you know it’s only you that can change how you feel, even if you cannot change the physical essence of it.

In the past I would probably have drunk or eaten myself to oblivion, or lost myself in TV or trashy books or cried me a river. Now I just meditate.  Nothing fancy.  Just following the breath.  You know – inhale, exhale. Or rather, inhale – pause – exhale – pause. Sometimes longer; sometimes shorter – just quietly observing where it wants to go; not forcing it; just letting it be. Sometimes for hours and hours. And it’s…beautiful.

Am I suggesting you try it if you’re feeling crap; if life is playing dodgeball with you?  Only if you want.  ‘Oh, I would but I can’t meditate…’  I can hear you, y’know.  *smile*  

Then all I can say is maybe try taking it moment by moment.  Once, years back, when I was in Italy, visiting my dear old friend the Contessa, I was consumed, eaten, gnawed at, by anxiety. It was so overwhelming I thought I would die – every minute.  And she said: ‘Take each moment and ask yourself: “Am I alright now? Am I alright this very second?”’ This very second. And, weirdly, I found I was.  And, if you're really honest, you usually are – sort of.

And if you string each okay moment onto the next okay moment, like links on a chain, you…kinda meditate actually. 

Anyhow, there you go. And there you are. Alright?  

Booking holidays is easy - once you decide where to go

We’re going on holiday. Official. After weeks of rows and dark silences we finally agreed that the mid-point between Egypt and Belgium lies in Turkey. So yesterday, after Adrian headed off to the Great British Beer Festival (work, hard work, you know) and I dropped James off to stay with a friend, I marched into the travel agents. Listened to a couple discuss their requirements at huge length for a hugely long period of time. In fact, wrote a feature in the time it took them to decide that, no, Grand Bahama wasn’t quite right for their requirements. Ye Gods. Eventually they left with a swathe of brochures and I slid into the rather overwarm seat the chap had vacated.

‘Can I help you,’ said "Alison" (she had a badge). I could feel the deep soul weariness coming off her in waves but, bless her heart, she had a brave sweet smile.

‘I’m sure you can,’ I said brightly. ‘Package for three for a week, best deal you’ve got.’

‘Leaving?’

‘Friday. Or, at latest, Monday.’

'Crikey. Um, okay.’

She pulled up some details. ‘Um, there’s something to Turkey..’

‘Turkey’s fine.’
She looked suspicious. Read off a few details.
‘That sounds fine,’ I said.
Looked really suspicious. Like nothing in her life is ever that easy.
‘Honestly. As long as it’s got a pool and a beach and isn’t rat infested, it’s fine,’ I reassured her.
‘Well. But hang on…’
Her professional pride was piqued now. She clicked a few more times. ‘Wow. That’s a good deal. It’s all-inclusive, right by the beach…’

I peered over her shoulder. Saw the magic word ‘spa’. ‘Fabulous. We’ll take it.’
‘But, but….’
Bless her, she pointed out all the disadvantages.
Like we’d be sharing a room (no, not with a family of five from Birmingham, you daft numpties). Like the spa was probably a manky sauna and an ancient masseuse with arthritic fingers.
Like the beach wasn’t pure white sand but fine dust-coloured shingle.

‘Honestly, it’s fine,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s great. I like dust-coloured.’

‘The food and drink service isn’t 24-hour,’ she said, desperately.

‘Er, that’s fine. We won’t want to eat 24-hours a day.’
‘Some people don’t like that.’
I bet.
‘Right, let’s book this, huh?’ I laid our passports in front of her and plonked my credit card firmly on top.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Absolutely. Let’s just get this done and, er, dusted.’

So, there we have it. We’re heading off on Monday. Since then Alison, bless her, has rung me three times to point out small details I may have overlooked. I think we’re becoming new best friends. Actually I think she’s still deeply perplexed that anyone can book a holiday in five minutes.

Of course, this may backfire horribly. I haven’t done this kind of package holiday since I was ten. But, hey ho, it will be an experience.

Now then. Promo time. I have ten ton of sun-cream and my trusty Sun Believable self-tan (seriously, this stuff is good, really good). I also have nice new non-sweaty Sea-Bands.

You know these? They’re acupressure bands – like mini-sweat-bands with a pressure stud sewn inside that, if you position it correctly (it’s not hard) presses the Nei-Kuan acupressure point (which relieves nausea and vomiting). Our chemist recommended them when James was getting seriously carsick a few years back and, by heck, they work a treat on him. Research has generally been into their uses post-operatively but, for me, the proof of the pudding was in the not throwing up of said pudding. I get a bit travelsick in the back of a car or on buses, so figure I’ll play safe and take a set for myself too.

My only quibble is aesthetic. The colour choices are pretty glum. Adult ones come in Atlantic Ocean grey. Children’s come in faded pink, faded blue etc. C’mon Sea-Bands, jazz ‘em up a bit. Get funky – chic black (or skull-encrusted for a Goth vibe?); fluoro with daisies for the festival crowd; rainbows; kittens; chic stripes….use your imaginations!

Anyhow, Sea-Bands got in touch, I said I was already a fan and, lo and behold, I have a few spare pairs to give away…mainly children’s but think there’s an adult pair left too. If you’d like ‘em, let me know (no need for your own personal vomiting stories – we will use the trusty sunhat from Israel to pick the winners). 

Packing Asbo (or Jack-in-a-box)

I’m freaking out big time here. All around me I can hear the rustle of paper, the rip of tape, the thump as another box joins the pile. When the first lorry came lumbering up the drive I had a total wobble and found tears in my eyes. It’s been so long coming that I had got to the point where I thought it was never going to happen. Of course the sun had to shine today and the dew had to twinkle on the grass and the rainbows had to dance across our bedroom and remind me of our old cat, Bear, who used to race around hurling herself at the walls, trying to catch them.
That’s the thing, isn’t it, about moving. You leave behind so many layers of memory. Adrian, being Welsh and so (he maintains) genetically inclined to gloom, laments that we will have to leave behind Monty and Bear (our ex-pets) and did actually ponder exhuming them to bring them with us. I didn’t tell the removal men this as I made the first cup of tea of the day.
They are horrified enough already – at the never-ending miles of books and general detritus. I had fully intended to clean out each and every drawer and cupboard BEFORE moving but somehow time has caught up with me and I had the humiliating experience of watching a drawer-full of elastic bands, old bottle tops, fuzz and dust being carefully placed in a box. The shame. Fortunately a friend had reminded me that it is always a Good Thing to pack one’s underwear and any other potentially embarrassing items oneself – so this was achieved last night.
The movers are a jolly bunch. They’re leaving the TV until last so they can watch Tim Henman (why?) but otherwise are dismantling our home with indecent haste. I’ve already had to rescue the coffee pot and poor Asbo’s lunch from a box.

‘Why on earth do you want to move from here? It’s gorgeous.’ One of them said. Not helpful.
‘Bet this was snapped up in a minute,’ said another. At which Adrian and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.
‘Only nearly three years,’ said Adrian.
They couldn’t believe it.

There are four removal men. There is the tall good-looking one who Acts Professional and is clearly In Charge. There is the aged gap-toothed retainer who (bless) put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Are you alright my love’ in that soft impenetrable Bridgwater accent (came out roughly as ‘yralrighmylurrrve’). There is the weaselish dodgy-looking one (who is loitering upstairs – I am SO glad I packed my own knickers) and the depressed downtrodden one who is doing the kitchen.
‘I always get to do the kitchen. It’s not fair.’
After three hours I can sort of see his point.
‘All the flipping glasses and crockery. I hate glasses and crockery.’
Who wouldn’t, given his job?
Not helped by the fact that whenever any of the others find anything remotely glass or crockery-ish they merrily trot it along to the kitchen to add to his pile.
‘You always do this. It’s not fair.’ The poor man will be packing china until midnight.

I should be working. I’ve got the changes through on the book and ought to crack on. But I really can’t concentrate. I’m all mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up. So I thought, what the heck, until they take away the table, I’ll do a blog. Adrian has just gone off to Tiverton to watch James play cricket. Finally, FINALLY, the boy has been picked to play for the team (someone was ill). He was so excited that the school let him call up to tell us as he wanted one of us to watch. Maybe our collective luck is changing…..

Thank you for all your comments and kind wishes. Yes, indeed, should I change the name of my blog? Am I no longer a ‘desperate’ woman? I’d like to think so. Adrian says that, when we move (and how often have I used that particular phrase) we will be calmer, more collected, more easygoing and jolly. We will laugh more, smile more, adapt a more laissez-faire attitude to the vicissitudes of life. Hmm. Can you really see that happening? So, what should it be? Diary of a ????? Woman? Or something different altogether? Answers below please.

PS - relax Camilla, the title is a joke....dear Asbo will come with us (I shall rue the day).....