No more shit...

Life really does delight in biting you in the bum sometimes. So be careful. Don’t tempt fate. J

You know how the other day I was saying that you really should never ever ever share a bathroom when you’re detoxing?  Well.  I was due to head off to check out another detox in a few days’ time – this time not so far from home, in Somerset even. And it looked great.  A week of juice fasting – you know, just my game. Lots of yoga and Pilates and meditation. Yum.  Conveniently forgetting the twice-daily colonics bit.

And then, I get back and the PR gives me a call. It's kinda hard to concentrate cos Asbo is barking in my ear and wafting foul breath over me so I'm twisting in some kind of yogic contortion to get away from his sphere of influence.

But eventually I made out this:

‘Umm, we’ve been having feedback from journalists about this and, I should warn you…’ 

Er, yes? 

‘Well, you’ll have your own room of course…;

Er, yes?  Oh what?  WHAT? No! You know what’s coming, right?

‘But, see, you’ll be sharing a cottage.’

‘So, cutting to the chase, I’ll be sharing a bathroom with a stranger?’

‘Er, yes, basically.’

‘And this is the place where you’re supposed to do colonics on yourself twice a day, right?’ 

See, I can’t get away from the shit.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that; you’ll have your own board.’ 

Er, right. Just like I had my own rectal nozzle. Life is generous.

‘You’ll make a schedule. It’ll be fine.’

Well, I fear, to my shame, that I had a bit of a prima donna moment.  I mean, it’s one thing sharing a bathroom if you’re going to a budget b&b or camping or wotnot. But at a place that charges around a grand for a week?  Er, I don’t think so.  And, when you’re supposed to be toddling off every morning and afternoon to crap?  Great.

So I came off the phone and fired off an email to the organizers saying basically WTF?  And, hey ho, they got back to me and said… ‘Well, we were hoping to upgrade you but, as it happens, it’s all off now anyhow as the owners of the property have decided they don’t want any more journalists coming.’

So, that’s that. No more shit.  And at first I thought, there you go Jane – all your own fault for being such a fecking spoilt bitch.  For putting on airs and acting the big I Am.  Cos really, I never do that assertion stuff.  Ever.  Usually I’m just bloody grateful for whatever I get given.

But then again, who knows, maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe it’s for the best. The idea of twice-daily colonics was doing my, er, head in.  But I can’t help but feel a little disappointed.  Cos, no matter how much you tell yourself you can do the juicing at home, and the yoga and Pilates and meditation too, no problem – when it comes to it, you don’t, do you?  Not properly.  The dog barks, the phone rings, you have to work and clean the house and wash the clothes and so on, and then you fart around on the Internet and before you know it, your child’s home from school and priorities shift all over.  Then again, maybe that’s the challenge, huh?  

So so so...

You have to laugh right?  I go to Italy to become all cleansed and pure and I find myself mired in shit. Again.

I should have known.  Everything moves in cycles and I had been feeling buoyant for quite some time. Buoyant despite the disasters surrounding me on a material level.  Buoyant yet…maybe a little negligent of my spiritual thingy.

And when that happens, something always tends to come along and stir things up.  As someone once said: ‘Alchemy makes a mess of the kitchen. It’s embarrassing.’  Damn right.

So I find myself, in this smart spa, in a beautiful part of Italy, just empty, totally blank. And cold. And, above all, lonely. So lonely. And, you know me, I don’t do lonely.  I usually relish being on my own, having my own time to think and meditate and be.  Not here. Not now. I can’t meditate. I can’t ground myself.  So, at first, I just keep busy.  I walk; I do all the classes, the qigong and wotnot; I listen to the lectures and take notes; I dowse myself in water and dry myself with heat.  But then, because avoidance clearly isn’t on the cards, I manage to injure my knee – doing qigong. Doing qigong???  For feck’s sake, nobody injures themselves doing qigong.

life-number-9.deviantart.com

So I can’t walk, can’t exercise.  And so I feel sorry for myself.  ‘Are you okay?’ someone asks and I say, petulantly. ‘Not really.’ But she doesn’t rise to it.  In fact I try the trick on several people. What am I hoping for? That one of them, any of them will say, ‘Oh poor you. You poor love.  Come cry on my shoulder. Come sit and tell me all about it.’?  Yeah, I guess so really.  But nobody did, and thank feck for that.  For, really, nobody can save you.  And where’s the point in pity?  I’m responsible for how I feel; nobody else. And this is just another part of the process.

So I go to my room and cry.  Sob for hours. And then, when I’m all cried out, I basically hide away and rot for a few days. Feeling worthless. Feeling old and wrecked and dried up and hopeless.  And then I cry again.  And I start to recognize where I am. Fermentation. ‘The dark night of the soul’. Again.  Because that’s what we do – we go through the same cycles over and over again, every time (hopefully) getting just a little more sussed.

I guess you think, oh for pity’s sake, you spoiled bitch. You’re staying free in this posh spa and you’re…fed up?  But, really, we all know (truthfully) that it’s not where you are or what you have that matters but how you feel.

And, to prove the point, I came back home and it was…pretty much the same really.  Just colder. J

'There will be no miracles here'

And so I hear you say, well, why on earth not just watch TV or read a trashy book or get blind drunk?  But those old distractions don’t work any more. And what is more unsettling is that the new distractions don’t work either. I used to escape into the inner world, losing myself down astral pathways, journeying into strange states of unbeing. Yet if I try now – the doorways are firmly shut in my face.

It’s classic stuff – I’m nothing special. Just feeling like another human alien.  Or alien human.  Or whatever. 

Anyhow, life just goes on, the way it does. The tide will turn again, the wheel will rise once more.  Presumably. And, in the meantime, I just...breathe. 

I wrote this a while back but haven’t posted it before because it’s not a call for sympathy. I’m fine, really. It’s not depression either. It’s just…something to work through. Writing things down, putting it in black and white, somehow is useful.  And, who knows, maybe in some funny way this might be useful to someone else. So… 

What's the etiquette on having a crap in front of someone?

I don’t like colonics. Never have.  Took my first one purely in the name of research because I figured I couldn’t slate something I’d never tried. 

‘You’ll love it,’ said my pal Sam. ‘You’ll feel great afterwards, all clean and glowing and energetic.’

So I duly went and had the crap taken out of me by somebody in Mayfair, if I recall, and it was deeply unpleasant and I felt like…well, crap afterwards.

But it’s an intrinsic part of the detox process here at Ti Sana so…when in Rome… (or rather when not far from Milan).  But still, I asked, why?  And Erica, who owns the place, said that it’s just the most effective way to irrigate the colon.  But, I said, why does the colon need irrigating in the first place?  Surely, if you eat the right stuff – enough fibre and so on – your colon will cleanse and irrigate itself quite happily alone.  And what about all the beneficial bacteria that you’re flushing away?  She replied that those get replaced.  Which always seems a bit bonkers to me – why take something away only to put it back?  And then again, the other thing that bothers me is the whole ‘squeaky clean’ aspect.  You know, a lot of people become addicted to colonics, enemas, wotnot – because they don’t like the idea of going round with a colon full of shit inside them.  But hey, that’s what we are, right?  That’s the divine joke, the great leveler.

We may be gorgeous as anything on the outside but inside, we’re all shit.  J

Anyhow.  Erica promised that their system was different.  That I’d love it.  Hey, it even had a nice name:  The Angel of Water.  And, who knows, maybe there's something in me that baulks at letting go, at letting it all...hang out. Maybe it's psychological shit.

So there we were, Lizzie and I, sitting in the medical spa reception, looking sideways at one another.

‘I’m really not sure about this,’ said Lizzie.

‘Me neither,’ said I.

'I've never had one before,' said Lizzie.

'Not even an enema?' She shook her head.  'A suppository?' She shook her head dolefully. 'I've never had anything stuck up my bum.'  

Before we could bolt, Virginia came out and said briskly, ‘Right then. You (pointing at me) don’t like colonics and you (pointing at Lizzie) have never had one.  So let’s go!’

We looked alarmed. ‘Together?’ We said, pretty much in tandem.

But no.  Turns out this is all very discrete.  You have your own room and your very own Angel of Water – a kind of giant couch-cum-lavatory.  ‘The rectal nozzle is completely new…look,’ said Virginia, unwrapping a plastic package and waving the thing around.  Well, there’s a relief…anyone for a second-hand rectal nozzle?  

She plugged it in.  No! Not to my arse!  To the relevant pipe on the machine.  Then she stuck some lube on the other end and said, 'All you have to do is sit yourself down and slide it in.’

The rest of the instructions kinda passed me by really so, when she left the room, I sort of fumbled around and hoped for the best.

To be honest, it was a bit like a gynae exam – feet not quite up in stirrups but not far off, with unspeakable things going on down below.  The water started and a few minutes passed.  Ow…ouch…ahhhh…eeee….aaaghhhhhhhhh.  Hellfire, this was torture. I felt like my guts were on fire.  Shit, shit, shit.  Except…

I pushed the panic button and Virginia appeared, all calm reassurance. ‘Everything okay?’

Of course not! I screamed – to myself (so British).  ‘Should it really hurt this much?’  I said, to Virginia, my face contorted.

‘Have you evacuated?’

‘No. Not yet.’

She smiled.  She SMILED, for pity's sake.  And told me to just ‘let it all go.’ 

Holy cow.  It’s the weirdest feeling; basically sitting on a couch having a crap every so often.  And, what’s more, you get to watch it cos they kindly position a mirror so you can see what’s coming out through the tube.  Ruddy hell, it was like human geology, going back through the strata.  I could shit you a rainbow – no kidding.  It was fascinating…to a point and then it just got a bit boring. Plinky plonk music and the permanent swish swish swish of the water.  The same old crap basically.

Virginia came in every so often to check on progress, constituting another point of etiquette one never thinks about in normal life.  Do you just carry on merrily crapping when someone’s in the same room?  Or do you politely pause?

Anyhow, eventually it was over and I removed my nozzle with great relief and had a shower.

‘You enjoyed it, yes?’ Virginia beamed.

‘Er…’  Let’s not push it, huh?

A bit later I met Lizzie and we swapped notes.  Yup, she liked it as little as I did.  Yes, she’d held it in every time Virginia came in (so it’s not just me, but maybe it’s just British?). No, she didn’t have multi-coloured crap, including day-glo green.  That was all mine.

So, there you have it.  The Angel of Water… fully explained…nothing held back. No bullshit. 

How do I feel?  Well, to be truthful, right now I feel like seven shades of...yeah, you got it.  But tomorrow?  I'll keep you posted.  

Never detox with a lover...

Right. If you’re gonna go somewhere to detox, go alone.  Seriously.  I often think, when I go away and stay solo in these lovely hotels with fabulous rooms and ginormous beds that it’s all a…bit of a waste really.  But, y’know, if you’re gonna do a serious detox then, just trust me on this one, you really truly don’t want to have your ‘other half’ with you.  

Can I just pause a moment here to ask whether any more disgusting a term exists? Other than ‘better half’ which is plain vomit-inducing.  Boyfriend? Yeah, fine if you’re a teen. Partner? All a bit worthy somehow, a bit old socialist, a bit ‘Brighton’, if you get my drift. Honestly, the main reason Adrian and I got married was because of the whole ‘what do we call one another to other people’ thingy once we moved out into the country to a village that really didn’t ‘get’ the ‘partner’ thing. And the word 'lover' was used in a totally different context. J

And, if you’re in a new relationship?  Excuse me while I choke quietly on a linseed cracker. Er…no.  Just…no.  I don't often tell people what to do but...

Why? Because detoxing ain’t pretty. It really ain’t.  Unless you’re so squeaky clean that really, you don’t need to be there in the first place, you’re going to look and feel like total shit – at least for the first few days. 

‘Oh God,’ said Lizzie (the other journo here, who arrived yesterday and is still in shock). ‘Is it just me?  All this juice is giving me the shits something rotten.’

‘Nah, it’s not just you,’ I said, sipping another pistachio green concoction and feeling my guts gurgling afresh.

‘Phew.’

Right there you have it. I don’t need to give you more detail, right?  Would you really want to be squitting for England (or wherever) while, not only your beloved, but anyone at all is lounging on the bed next door?  I suppose it’s always an issue when you stay in any kind of hotel: the etiquette of how not to listen when someone is having a crap a few feet away from you.  But, seriously, it’s way worse when you’re detoxing.  Most detox places don’t even have TV to mask the symphonics (to be fair, Ti Sana does).

So? You're totally sanguine about the shit side of the equation?  Okay, so let me warn you that you get spots – even people who don’t get spots (like me), get spots.  Added to which you get crashing headaches, and I mean real stompers.  I don’t drink coffee so I figured I’d be fine. Wrong. Oh so wrong. Yesterday I had the roadworks on the rush hour M25 going off in my head – it was pounding so badly that I couldn’t even face supper.  I just crawled back to my room at 8pm and shivered under the sheets until sleep decided to take pity on me.  And now you're thinking, yeah but, y'know, spots, looking like crap, that sounds like how I am most the time, so...so what?  

Well, of course, some people just go a bit mad. ‘I tell ya,’ said Lizzie, as we waited for our ‘Angel of Water’ treatments (I’ll spare you that right now). ‘I am Evil. Evil. Bitchin’ evil.’

‘Huh?’

‘Hungry and hormonal? Not a good mix.’

‘You didn’t make the rebounding class. What happened?’

‘Hmm,’ she said with a guilty grin. ‘Mario was in danger of getting a smack in the gob if he’d tried to get me doing anything.  I needed to go to my room and just BE ALONE.’

Yeah, I hear you, girlfriend.  We had a little whine and a laugh and then went off with our respective therapists. 

But she had it right.  Truly. No matter how much you love your 'partner', no matter what kind of squalid slob you are at home. No matter what...detox solo is best.  Cos, above all, regardless of the spots and shits and all, the last thing you need is sharing a room with someone going through the same stuff as you. Solidarity?  Nah. There is no solidarity when you have to race for the bog. 

Yes, it’s great to have a laugh and a bit of empathy going with other people who’re going through it with you but – in a small spa at least – you’ll usually find the other guests are all too willing to share their anguish and boast over the level of misery they’re enduring. But sometimes you just absolutely have to hide away and feel deeply sorry for yourself.  So, if you absolutely must go in tandem, take a good female friend (one you already know looks as bad as you do without makeup while severely hungover – cos, believe me, that’s how you’ll be looking).  But, even so, never ever EVER share a room.  

Okay. So.  Glad we’ve got that sorted.

Agree?  Or not? 

PS - I should point out that I'm not remotely hungry...Lizzie is starving cos she's on a juice fast and normally eats EVERYTHING. I am being fed so much food I seriously can't finish it.  I tell ya, if you're scared of being hungry on detox, this is the place to come.  

You have the right to remain silent...

So the SP and I were walking in the woods, the way we do. And the leaves are turning now, starting to sigh into Autumn. They’re not quite falling…except for those which seem to want to immolate themselves, tumbling perfect to lie stark, graphic splashes of saffron, vermilion and chestnut against the dark mud.  And all my usual medicine walk messages popped up – oak leaves, blackbirds (male), grey feathers. But I always want more. 

‘Y’know,’ I said to the SP, who listened intently, his eyes bright, his tail quivering.  ‘We haven’t had a sign lately. Not a big one.’  And he agreed, licking my hand with quiet intent.  And then, as we walked down the very steep bit at the end, coming back towards town, I saw something bright on the path right in front of us.  As in really bright pristine white.  With big pink lettering.  And a zip.  And it said:

YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT

Huh?  I picked it up. It can’t have been there for more than a few moment – it wasn’t even damp. Yet there was nobody around.  And I thought about how that applied to me and pondered.  But then I thought. Hmm, it’s not always about you, Jane, you spoiled greedy little bitch. J  Cos it was a leaflet from Amnesty International.  An organisation for which I’ve always had time and respect.  And it took me back to what I was saying the other day about how there’s nothing much we can do about stuff – y’know, about Syria and all.  But, hey, I figure maybe we can do a little bit, by supporting organizations like this. 

Anyhow, what did it say, this sign?  When I opened it up…

* When a 13-year old girl in Somalia is buried up to her neck and stoned to death.

* When peaceful protesters in Syria are arrested, beaten and murdered simply for voicing their opinions.

* When a woman is sentenced to 20 lashes and three years in an Iranian prison for wanting the same rights as a man.

* When a family in Nigeria is violently evicted from their home to make way for corporate development.

Whenever and wherever a fellow human being is persecuted, tortured, oppressed or abused you can have the right to stand silently by.

Or, of course, you can help people like Amnesty who try to help people like this. And I thought, shit yeah.  We don’t know we’re born, right?  Because so many people can't speak - they really can't. And it's not just places like Syria, and North Korea and Somalia. Look at Pussy Riot, look at what's going on in Russia and Belarus. Look at what's happening on the Internet. Check out Amnesty's campaigns - they might open your eyes to a little of what's going on.  

But what good does it do, for me to raise my puny arm here on this little blog?  Isn’t it just a case of making myself feel better, of feeling less guilty about swanning off to some lovely spa, while people are rotting in cells, while children are starving in Africa, when people are being tortured, FFS?  Well.  I feel like this.  If everyone who read this sent a donation to Amnesty or, if you really can’t afford a tenner, wrote about it and encouraged others to do so, then I guess it could make a difference.  Hey, it’s worth a try, huh?   Just remember…that while you have the right to remain silent…

YOU ALSO HAVE THE RIGHT TO SPEAK OUT 

PS...they also have a nifty shop... :

That's the badger! 

Blissful beauty in Bampton

So the phone rang and, to my utter amazement, I picked it up.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello, stranger.’

My friend Nicky. My cohort in extreme exercise crime. Except since cracking myself on the nose I haven’t seen her for…weeks.

‘I’ve left you tons of messages,’ she said. I glanced at the ansaphone and winced. Thirteen messages? Eek.

‘Shit. Sorry.  Er, wanna coffee?’ I said and we both laughed cos we don’t ‘do’ coffee. We usually ‘do’ three hours of Zumba or killer Pilates with weights and wotnot. Come to think of it, I don’t even drink coffee but hey…

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘But let’s go to Bampton.’

So we went to Bampton.  Lo and behold a parking space right outside my mum’s old house. Sigh.

And we toddled over the road into Toucan, which is this really nice café/bistro on Front Street.  When Mum was alive it was her second home – she loved the place.  So Nicky and I shot the breeze and then she said, ‘Come and have a look at this…’ And she pulled me up the stairs. 

Huh? She wanted me to go to the loo?  But it seems that Toucan has a brand new beauty room, all beautifully clean and fresh and kitted out in tones of cool grey and zingy lime.  Soft music playing - Rumer.  Aromatherapy candle burning - possibly fig. 

Well, blow me down with a feather - it turns out that Nicky’s daughter, Charlotte Richards, is setting up shop as a beauty therapist here.  Now this is seriously good news if you live in or around Bampton.  Cos Charlotte is good, damn good. Actually more than damn good.  She doesn’t do healing and wotnot but if you want really professional, effective beauty treatments, she’s your girl.  I used to visit her a lot while she was training and she’s a total natural.  Firm assured touch, lovely manner and she doesn’t feed you any bullshit.  Yes, she’s young but don’t let that put you off – it means her training is up to the minute and she’s fresh and enthusiastic.  And, to be honest, she’s way better than the majority of people who’ve been doing it for years. 

What can I recommend?  Well, all of it really.  She uses Dermalogica products which are pretty nice. Not my absolute favourite but still...they ain't half bad.  She’s given me lots of facials and they were all really good. Her body massages are divine. Pedicures and manicures are the business.  Eyelash and eyebrow tinting?  Yup. And the girl’s a whizz with the wax.  Let it be said – very clearly – she was NOT the one responsible for the butchered badger – no sirree. She does a very neat bikini line - and makes you laugh at the same time, which is no mean feat. 

Anyhow…check it out.  Book yourself a treat or buy a voucher for a friend. Go see her and say hello from me.  She doesn’t know I’ve posted this so hopefully it will come as a nice surprise. J

Brook Street Studios, Toucan Café, Brook Street, Bampton, EX16 9LY

01398 331777  www.toucanrestaurant.co.uk/

Who's reading your private messages?

Yesterday I received an email from GotJuice.com, an ‘online reputation management consultancy’ (Jeez, now there’s a hole in the market that was ripe for plugging).  It said this:

“Facebook Users Private Messages Made Public
Facebook users report that private messages from years 2006 - 2009 are being displayed on users timelines”.

And I’m like, er…wow.  Really?  So all those bitchy comments you made off your public Timeline, on private message, could suddenly show up all over the shop?  Oops. That could be embarrassing.  Or, as GotJuice pointed out, in a more business-like manner, private details like credit card details and addresses and so on could be ‘out there.’

You’re all looking – aren’t you?  I mean, right now?  Checking out your FB timeline, huh? :)

Relax. I looked into it a bit more deeply and it appears the scare started on Monday after French newspapers reported private messages mysteriously popping up on timelines.  But really it’s all a bit of a storm in a teacup, something about the formatting of wall posts reading like direct messages – so it’s now easier to locate previous wall-to-wall interactions.

But really, are you that surprised?  Everyone (surely) knows that whatever you do online has the potential of just leaching out there, endlessly wafting around cyberspace. Even if, like me, you delete everything pretty much as you go along?  Why should we be surprised that things like DMs on Twitter or private messaging on FB should be any different?  The possibility that they will seep is always there.  It’s probably safest if you assume that nothing is ever truly private.

But that’s awful, I can hear you say. Yes, it’s pretty crap that social media companies can’t keep your privacy assured.  But then, is it really their responsibility to keep your peccadilloes, your bitchiness, out of the public domain?  Your private details?  Well, that’s not so great but hey, there is email or phone for that.

Sometimes it amazes me, the huge underbelly of social media.  Up atop, the ocean ebbs and flows, the odd big wave but generally it just swells along.  Yet underneath, ye gods, there is a whole other world seething and moiling and erupting. 

I’m no angel – I’ve been swept along with it from time to time but generally, I try not to feed it though and I don’t like gossip.  Unlike Adrian, who is an inveterate lover of news, the more salacious the better, I simply glaze over when I hear about who did what or who said what. That’s other people’s business – unless it directly affects me, of course. And even then, half the time, it’s still not my business. 

Social media is a great networking tool; it’s huge fun; keeps you in touch with friends and family and can certainly help drive business too. There’s a lot I don’t like about it – like the way it gathers information about you (hence my probably futile deleting) and also the way it does seem to foster a culture of gossip and snide bitching.  Not to mention the sheer timesuckery of it. But hey, it’s all in the nature of the beast. 

Anyhow.  Most of us online are old enough and ugly enough to know what’s what.  But, on the very unlikely off-chance that anyone young and naïve is reading this (hey, Christian – that would be you!) I asked GotJuice what we should learn?  And their chap Mark Hall said: "Individuals need to think twice before sending any messages, posting status updates, sending a tweet or writing on forums or blogs, as on the web private information is not so private, and it just may come back and haunt you one day.

"Every time you update your Facebook status, upload a photo or send a tweet the information becomes public information. Even if you delete the photo or remove the tweet, it’s more than likely that a problem won’t go away, a friend could of retweeted the information, a photo could have been copied onto another site or a multitude of other things may happen. The end result is the same, things tend to stick around for a long time in cyber space.

"Your online actions could be used against you in later life, such as university admissions, recruitment managers, even potential dates. They will be able to view this information and form an opinion of you without having met you or having any further knowledge."

All I can say is, thank feck I’m unemployable.