Who's Jane Alexander?

the real Jane Alexander

Someone online recently described me as a ‘60-something Tibetan nun with a 36-year old son and an arthritic hip.’ Kinda interesting. Where on earth did he get that from? So I Googled myself. Absolutely fascinating. Who knew how many weird and wonderful Jane Alexanders there were out there. So, without further ado, let me introduce you to some of my many and various alter egos.

I’m an actress. Well, I knew this already. When I was young I went to see the bloody gloomy movie Kramer v Kramer with a bunch of friends and, as the titles came up, so did my name. ‘Hey, I didn’t know you were in this, Jane,’ quipped one pal, rather loudly. Within five minutes the buzz had gone round the cinema and everyone was looking round. Apparently I am “Angular in features, reserved in demeanor and more-or-less plaintive in appearance.” Good fit?

I’m a bishop. Wow, I didn’t know that. Cool. A bishop in the Anglican Church of Canada. Get those robes.  Actually, I love the idea of being some kind of prelate. In another life, mebbe.

I’m a South African sculptor and an artist. Oh, God, I LOVE this Jane Alexander. Her work is amazing. She is SO damn cool. She is also, apparently, infamous for her silence.
I could learn a lesson or two from this me.

I’m a wedding photographer based in Surrey. I’d show you my images but apparently I don’t allow reproduction.  So this is a generic pic.

I’m a brave woman who was institutionalised for mental illness and treated against my will. This Jane Alexander has written a book called Possessing Me: a memoir of healing, detailing a seventeen year battle with mental illness. Well, well. That one brought me up short. I wondered for a moment if I really had written that book. If you know me (me me) you’ll know that I am a fervent believer in outing the shame around mental illness. So, bravo, Jane Alexander – bravo. You can read more here.

I’m an illustrator and a marketing officer who loves 8th century Irish balads.  Oh good choice, marketing me....  here's a snippet...

"You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!"

I think that’s enough. A few other clicks gave my anti-virus program several jolts of adrenalin and firewalls came hurtling up at the speed of light. So I obviously have a fair few skeletons in my cupboard too. But there you have it. The many faces and skillsets of my online alter egos. Will the real Jane Alexander please stand up?  Sadly, not a Tibetan nun to be found.

How about you?  Ever Googled yourself?  Who are you - as well as being you?  And then again, who is 'you' anyhow?

Maybe I need to shoot zombies

Ah, how can one feel sad on such a beautiful day? How is it possible to feel so low when nature is so high on life? My mood ricochets so fast I go dizzy; my heart expands and then tightens; my soul soars and then plummets, in freefall.
Is this the price one pays for being a writer; for living in one’s mind, in the imagination, so much? Does it leave dissatisfaction with the mundane world of everyday, of dust and dinner, of routine and responsibility?

I am struggling right now. I’ve had the contract for a project sitting on my desk now for the last five days. Last night I made myself sign it and felt a chill breeze of despond flutter the pages. What is the matter with me? Why does it feel such a big deal? It’s just a book. It’s just a job. It won’t even bear my name; nobody will know. Since when did I become so precious? It’s not even as though I have any great literature in me yearning to push itself into the world. Ah, maybe that is it. Maybe it’s the futility of it all. The nonsense of ego that craves attention. The foolishness of middle age. The sense that time is hurtling by and I’m being swept along with it.

Maybe, as I said yesterday, the sticking plaster over this festering sore is to get out the mind and into the body. Yesterday I punished myself with an hour of kettlebell class. It was tough; my muscles whimpered but it felt good. I slept for once. But still I couldn’t dream.

This morning it was yoga. Out in the air, on the grass, the sun beating down. I opened my eyes and gazed at the sky, so clear, so blue. Felt the earth under my body. Felt so strange, an insect Velcroed to the planet by gravity, a speck on a speck spinning in space. As we fell into pranayama, I fell into the sky, dropped away. Normally it feels good; normally the universe feels like a comforting place. Today it felt like I was spinning into a void.

‘Are you alright, Mum?’ said James later as I stood at the sink, washing up in a daze.
‘Of course I am, love,’ I replied.
‘You don’t seem it,’ he countered.
Oh hell. I try to keep my mood dips away from him, I really do. I guess I don’t always succeed.
‘When I feel low, I lose myself in a game,’ he said, patting my back as if I were the child, he the parent. ‘Black Ops is pretty good for that.’

Ah so. Maybe we all do it in different ways. Some with television or games; some with food and alcohol; some with pulp fiction; some with sport and exercise, with adrenalin or endorphins.

Maybe I just need to shoot me some zombies.

Bacchanalia

I think I may be developing a bit of an exercise addiction. Since my boot camp experience, I’ve found I become a little ‘twitchy’ if I sit still too long. I’ve discovered that getting a serious sweat on is a pretty effective way of banishing my natural tendency to gothic gloom and over-thinking.


Meditation is good, it really is – but it tends to encourage my inner dippiness. Whereas seriously tough aerobic exercise puts me into clear ‘no thought’ territory which, in my head, is a seriously good place to be.

I walk the dog, I’m a regular at the gym; I do yoga. I go to Zumba class on Friday night and shimmy and shake. Last Friday I was talking to Nicky, who really does have a hardcore exercise habit.
'If you think this is wild, you oughta come to the Wednesday class in Tiverton,’ said Nicky. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully.
I’d heard about that class: it was legendary. 80 wild women crammed into one small hall; sweat dripping down the walls; more tattoos than a ship-full of sailors; 90 minutes of wild abandon.

‘Anyhow,’ she continued. ‘There’s space in the car if you wanna come.’ Hellfire. It was a challenge.
‘Okay,’ I said with a shrug.
‘Don’t wear too much,’ she added. Oh shit.

Way-hay! The hall was heaving and, as the music started up, off we went – one huge rhythmic surge of abandoned female energy. I’m not a huge team-player; I don’t usually like being one of the crowd, but there’s something weirdly mesmeric about moving in perfect sync with the shoal. A wild whoop rose up from behind me; followed by a chorus of cat-calls and wild whistles. Bloody hell, it was turning into a Bacchanalia. Were they really only swigging water?  As the sweat started to pour between my shoulder-blades, as my feet salsaed and merengued and calypsoed all by themselves, I found myself fighting the urge to click my teeth and shout ‘Ayyyyeeeeee’ and even ‘Ole Ole!’

‘C’mon, into a large circle,’ yelled the instructor, Debbie, who has to have the most mobile hips I’ve ever seen on a skinny woman. She was going for it something mental, tugging women in to dance with her.

‘Hey girls, we have a man in the house,’ she yelled. Holy shit! One guy amidst 80 women? He had some balls. A roar of approval went up from the rank and file. Jeez, they were going to tear him limb from limb. But Debbie pulled him into the middle and, fair play, he got down and dirty with his hip thrusts to shrieks of approval.

‘Well, that was fun,’ I said, as we got back into the car and tried to clear the steam from the windows.
‘That was insane,’ said Ellie.
‘I tell ya, that’s gotta improve your sex life,’ said Nicky.
We burst out laughing and then, grinning broadly, retreated into our own private reveries for a bit.

As we spun off the valley road, Nicky broke the silence.  'Hey,' she said. 'There's a four hour charity Zumbathon coming up.  With alcohol.  Anybody game?'

Holy cow.


Why is Zumba SO good?  Cos you get to dance to stuff like this....



 

Adrian does yoga

I can’t remember when I didn't do yoga. My mother was really into it and so I think I was able to do a lotus position before I could even crawl. But I’ve rarely done classes – mainly because it’s so damn tough to find a really good teacher.

I’ve usually given up after one or two attempts. One teacher was so off with the fairies that she had to ask the class which asana we were in, halfway through. Another (Iyengar-style) pushed me so over-enthusiastically that I ended up with a frozen shoulder.

No such worries with Paul Cartwright. When my pal Trish asked if I wanted to join a group of runners for a private yoga class, I jumped at the chance. Paul is a simply fabulous teacher – he’s studied a whole range of types of yoga and incorporates elements from several styles into his classes. But the teaching is very pure – no fancy gimmicks. I’d never been able to get to his standard classes so this was fate giving me a helpful nudge again.

Last week we were blessed with a perfect sunny day. We met up on the cricket ground and laid out our mats on the grass; saluted the sun which shone on our upturned faces. It was pure total heaven.

Today it was overcast and gloomy so we were squashed (ho ho) into one of the squash courts. But, as a friend pointed out, you can be anywhere you choose in your mind. So I closed my eyes and visualised the warm soft grass under my back and the gentle sunlight on my face – and I was off. Except for the fact that someone was huffing and puffing next to me like an asthmatic train. Adrian had decided he would come along.

Now Adrian has never done yoga. He runs and cycles and is very fit in a typically blokeish way but he sure as hell ain’t stretchy. He refuses to breathe through his nose and has zero tolerance for anything remotely holistic or spiritual (‘I’m an atheist; I don’t hold with weird stuff’). Sooo....

‘What do I wear?’ he asked. Crikey, I thought only women asked that question. I suggested tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt – he pitched up in shorts and several sweatshirts. And trainers.

‘You won’t need those. You do yoga with bare feet.’
‘What?’ He looked horrified. ‘I can’t do it then.’
WTF? Transpired he was worried about the state of his toenails (or lack thereof).
‘Don’t be a numpty. Nobody will look at your toenails. You keep your eyes closed most of the time anyway.’
A look of total unabridged terror passed over his face.

I confess that, halfway through I was getting a tad worried. I can go into pretty deep meditation doing yoga but his gasps and sighs and crashes were so loud I had to open the odd eye to make sure he hadn’t died mid-stretch.
‘Are you alright?’ I hissed, as we paused in Crocodile. He just shook his head, wild-eyed, limbs shaking.

I honestly thought he’d get up and walk out but no. Aftewards as we pulled on our shoes outside, I turned to him. ‘You hated it, didn’t you? You won’t be coming back.’
But he shook his head. ‘Nah. It was really tough but really good. I think I need it.’

Well, stone the crows. And, as he cooked lunch (for him); breakfast (for me) he was high as a kite. ‘This energy thing? Is that normal with yoga?’
I nodded, smiling. ‘Sure is.’

‘I can’t get the mind stuff though.’

‘It’ll come. It’s hard when you don’t know the asanas. But, once you do, your breathing will take you into the mind stuff. Or rather the non-mind stuff.’

I thought he’d sniff and pooh-pooh it but no. Bloody hell, whatever next?

‘That bit at the end? Was that a prayer?’ he said suspiciously.
‘No, dear. Just a nice stretch for the upper arms.’
Namaste. ;) 

A different story...

A few days ago I received an email about Mother’s Day that took me back twelve years to when James was born.


Like many first-time eager-beaver parents-to-be, Adrian and I went to NCT classes. We did quizzes about pain relief, stifled giggles as we watched breasts being constructed out of bits of ribbon and beading and practiced panting. We discussed water births, pondered the perfect aromatherapy oils with which to welcome our baby into the world and drew up birth plans with stern invectives against nasty drugs and rotten old doctors intervening. And I’m sure that, for many people, that works just fine and dandy. Not for us.

It went pear-shaped. Pear is probably the wrong word as I simply don’t have child-bearing hips and James, it transpired, was one gargantuan baby (12lbs 8oz). It was an equation which, frankly, was never going to balance. To cut a 14-hour story short, he got wedged, we both got into difficulties and I ended up being hurtled into surgery. I remember clearly being annoyed that the surgeons wouldn’t let me watch my own C-section. Adrian, meanwhile, turned several shades of green. I had transfusions; James had a ridge round his head but, by heck, we were alive and, really, that was all that mattered.

But I do wonder. What if? We lived in a very remote place back then. If I hadn’t been in hospital? Would the air ambulance have got to me in time? Would we be alive today?

And then, this email. From AMREF, the African Medical and Research Foundation, asking if I could help raise awareness of the 280,000 mothers who die each year in pregnancy and childbirth in Africa because they lack basic medical care. What does that mean? We’re not even talking about mothers like me, who needed rapid surgical intervention, but hale healthy normal women who died from lack of basic midwifery and hygiene. I ponder charity requests very carefully but this one chimed and friends in Africa said that, yes, AMREF do great work. So I asked them to tell me more – and they sent me a matchbox. Yup, a matchbox. In it were the items needed to deliver a baby safely. 

• A piece of plastic sheeting to lay on the floor.

• A sliver of soap and cotton wool for hygiene.

• A piece of string to tie the umbilical cord.

• A razor blade to cut the cord.

• Matches to sterilise the blade.

That’s it. That and a trained birth attendant.  The keys to saving a mother’s life and that of her child. All it might take to turn a potential tragedy into a happy ending.


I’m not going to pontificate. If you are interested, check out their website 
It's not just about seeking donations.  It's about spreading awareness and they’re running a campaign at the moment called Status of Africa - linking in with Facebook and other social media. You choose a mother or midwife with whom to share your Facebook status for five days – twice a day the app will update your status to show theirs. By lending your status, you can let your followers know what it’s like to be a mother in Africa.

So, this Mother’s Day, I’m going to be grateful for being a mother. I'm going to be grateful for being alive and for my strapping very much alive twelve-year old. I’m going to be grateful to the midwives and nurses and doctors and surgeons who helped me and my baby. And I’m going to be finding out what it’s like to be a mother in Africa.  What it's like giving birth without all those people on hand...but hopefully with trained midwives and a matchbox of hope.

Easy-to-open gussets

So, I’m sitting at my desk literally weeping with laughter. Adrian pokes his head round the corner. ‘You okay? Are you crying?’
I take a deep breath. Except – shit – I forgot, I can’t.
‘I’m fine,’ I gasp. ‘I’m laughing at Twitter.’
‘You sound very odd.’
‘Yeah, well that’s because I can’t breathe properly.’

Let’s retrace our steps a little eh? Got an email from a PR asking if I wanted to check out the Trinny & Susannah range of 'Original Magic Knickers' Remember Trinny and Susannah? The two fashion journalists infamous for kneading women’s breasts on makeover TV? They used to rattle on about ‘Magic Knickers’ all the time.  About the need for the 'right foundation garments' - hmm.  Turns out they have a whole range of the things - if you've got a 'problem area' they have something to squeeze it into submission.

‘Oh, go on then,’ I said. I’ve lost three stone lately and am exercising like a demon but, hey, a bit of extra firming never hurt. I’d tried variations on the ‘magic knicker’ bit before and, frankly, they were a joke. The damn things just rolled down into a thick uncomfortable expensive wodge.

Anyhow, I’d forgotten the whole conversation until yesterday when they arrived. The Magic Tummy Tucker Vest (‘reduces fat rolls and smoothes out the silhouette’) and the All in One Body Shaper (‘creates a slimming effect for buttocks and tummy’).

I was chatting (um, doing business) on Twitter at the time. So, what the heck, I thought I’d try them out live.

They are tight, darn tight. It took me about four minutes to wriggle into the Vest and, once on, I had a moment of total panic. The damn thing was so snug it felt like an iron lung (or how I imagine an iron lung might feel). I was hyperventilating within minutes and going quite light-headed. But after a bit, it actually felt quite nice – sort of like being hugged on an ongoing basis. Okay, that sounds a bit sad and needy, doesn’t it? More pragmatically it was warm. Definite plus.

Onto the Body Shaper. The descriptions for this one had me weeping with laughter all over again.
• ‘Allows you to wear your own bra whilst keeping the breasts in place.’
• ‘Banishes saddlebags and lifts the bottom.’
• And, my favourite....‘Easy-to-open gusset with double flaps that close automatically’

Okay, so now it was sounding like a very strange kind of sex outfit. I told Twitter about it.

@JDRevene: Good lord, now I'm going to have to Google that.




@BigFashionista: Say WHAT!!! Sounds like a plane with bomb doors underneath

@LindaSJones – sounds like heaven
@keatsbabe – but where does all the stuff you push around actually go? It has to ooze out somewhere
@belle_lulu: You have automatic double gusset flaps? You whore! ;)
@BigFashionista: Shudder. Although could be handy with unwanted advances. Get too fresh and it cuts your hand off.
@PolFreeman: Oh the visuals
@vwallop: can you wee in it?
@ElsieAnderton: *unfollows*

I told them that the gusset is a unique concept apparently; ‘created especially for T&S’. See #3 on the image - handily highlighted in red.  They didn’t give a toss.

@JDRevene: do you have a camera?
@belle_lulu: you know what’s coming don’t you? TWITPIC
@milla64: oh come on, get the camera out.
@JDRevene That’s a no on the camera, I take it!

Got it in one, JD!

@PolFreeman: You’re serving drinks? Cool

Okay, so my attempt at serious on-line real-time journalism had descended into a spectator sport - with popcorn. 
@ShoutyDad: Gusset is the most detumescent word in the dictionary. If a woman ever wanted to cool a man's ardour, just whisper it in his ear

Detumescent? Really? I thought I looked quite hot in it actually. I wandered into the kitchen where Adrian was making coffee. ‘What you reckon?’
‘Oh My God.’
‘Oh My God in a good way?’
‘Um, no. No. Just no.’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno. It’s like girdles. Your mother’s girdles.’
‘My mother didn’t wear a girdle.’
‘No, not YOUR mother. My mother.’
‘Right.’ So not going there in my imagination. ‘So you’re not into the idea of the easy-to-open gusset with double flaps?’
He shuddered. I swear to God the man shuddered. ‘It’s....it’s.....detumescent.’
That not being a word that tinkles readily off my husband’s lips, I wrinkled my eyes in suspicion. ‘You been following my Twitter feed?’
He looked abashed. ‘Yeah, well.’

So. There you have it. The Body Shaper is not a sexy turn-on (not in this house anyway). What? What? Oh, it’s not meant to be? My bad. Okay, so the serious review.

To answer the questions, no you don’t get bits popping out. Does it ‘pull you in’? Sort of. Put it this way, my leggings are baggier than usual. Is it comfortable? Actually and surprisingly, yes. Though I wouldn’t wear it for yoga. Nor, come to think of it, for a hot date. Yes, it might smooth out your figure but, trust me, you couldn’t shimmy out of this bugger in one sultry move. And, as we’ve already ascertained, the gusset issue is a no-goer. ;)


Original Magic Knickers come in 9 different styles, in a range of colours, starting from £26.
Trinny and Susannah website is down right now but you can buy from Debenhams

Mothers and gifts

I know it’s not Mother’s Day. Not yet. But I figure I’d better blog this now as I tend to get a bit emotional on the day itself. My mum died several years ago and her birthday is also coming up, so it’s a funny old time of year for me. She was so totally a spring person – up until her last illness she was always the epitome of optimism; a ‘can do’ person.

She believed in positive thought, in karma, in God, in gods, in the unseen, the ineffable, in synchronicity and miracles. She loved her children, her dogs, her garden. She adored yoga, tofu, mushrooms, watercress and gin. She listened to Bach, Enya, Loreena McKennit, Leonard Cohen and The Rolling Stones. She danced around her kitchen; she sang; she primal screamed.  She kept a copy of The Course in Miracles by her bed and devoured Rudolf Steiner. She was a sucker for sexy underwear and luxurious nighties. She always kept a glint in her eye. She had cold feet, a warm heart and a will of steel.

She left school at 14 and worked pretty well solidly all her life. She trained as a homeopath in her fifties and ran a business in her 60s and 70s. When the business crashed she merrily sold everything she owned and said ‘Ah well, nobody died. It’s just stuff.’

Having said that, she did love stuff. She was terribly vain – with reason as she was beautiful and had a cracking figure (even at 80). She loved nice clothes and adored gorgeous beauty products. Buying her presents was always a delight. I do miss that so much. So I figured, what the hell? Mum, if you’re around or about, here’s what I’d be thinking about getting you this year...

Something body-licious...  She would have adored ila-spa as she would only use totally organic products on her skin.  She would love pretty much the entire range, I think - though maybe the rose scents the most. I'd get her a couple of CDs too - she'd lap up the chants.  And probably throw in some incense - as she loved that as well.

Aromatherapy Associates was an old favourite of hers - I'd get her the skincare range as she would appreciate the natural yet powerful anti-ageing effects of their creams and oils. 
Come to think of it, she would also love Skin Science - it's a new range and their Bio Active Quicklift Mask would appeal - it's dubbed the 'Lunch break lift'. She was always in two minds about cosmetic surgery - this get-out clause would probably make her smile.

Mum felt the cold - she was a chilly vata type - so I always looked out for lovely warm scarves and cosy slippers and so on.  She would adore one of RoseBlack's gorgeous velvet-edged cashmere scarves - beautiful and warm!
These really are just the best.  I have a ton of their velvet scarves in every colour under the sun and one of these days I'm going to treat myself to one of the cashmere ones too... 

I think Mum tried every kind of natural face stuff.  She made friends with the beauty therapist who worked a few doors down from her and was her guinea-pig for every new fad going.  She would have been well into Eva Fraser's facial exercises and would have practiced assiduously - once she got into something, you couldn't pull her off it.  So I reckon this DVD from Victoria Health (one of her all-time favourite companies) would have made her smile....and grimace...and pout....
I'd probably nab her some hyaluronic acid and some HEAL cream while I was shopping there...maybe even a Duckula from the gift section.


  
She would have ADORED a Prana Mat from Fushi.  TApparently it helps in boosting the body’s natural energy flow by stimulating the body’s acupressure points. Allegedly it "wakes up" your body and directs blood flow to the organs that need it the most. The tiny lotus spikes stimulate active nerve centres and intensify the local blood flow and lymph circulation.

Yeah, essentially it's a bed of nails.  But, see, she would have loved that.  Hardcore stoic, my mum.  Actually she would have loved everything at Fushi - if you're into natural health and wellbeing, it's packed with goodies. 

Ah, how I'd love to send Mum to my favourite facialist, aromatherapist, acupuncturist and all round lovely healing person ever, Annee de Mamiel.  Annee is unbelievable.  Honestly.  She lives in NYC now and her client list is pretty well jam-packed for her visits to London but, seriously, if you can somehow sneak your way onto her couch, you will think you've died and gone to heaven early.  I would have LOVED Mum to have experienced this nourishing, healing, soul-affirming treatment.  Oh, and you come out looking ten years younger too! 
But, if you can't manage it, check out her seasonal oils - they aren't cheap but by heck they do incredible things to your skin.