Sunday started grey and wet in an otherwise beautiful week. I was aware if Hubby getting out of bed to let the Pooch out but I drifted past that realisation into the realm of dreams and let him get on with it. It's Sunday. There's no rush. Clocks and schedules become more plastic …malleable… less rigid.
I don't know how much later I became aware of a tapping noise. Hubby was sitting up in bed with his laptop researching toys to get for his great nephew whose first birthday is next week. He smiled at me. I smiled back at him.
"I made you a cup of tea, but it's probably freezing now."
"Oh thanks Hun." I felt the cup on the nightstand beside me. There wasn't a trace of warmth in it. "Sorry Babe, it's even too cold for me, but the thought was lovely. And I appreciate you not waking me up..."
He went back to tippity-tapping and I opened my laptop and see what'd been happening while I slept. As I checked out blogs and made new friends on Facebook, I kept thinking that I really should get up and do my morning speed-walk. I know myself and my shortcomings only too well to put it off. As Hubby got up and went downstairs and I promised myself I'd just read this one last article and then get up.
Well maybe I'll read this other one too...
Hubby arrived back several articles later with breakfast. I was torn. Part of me was horrified because I really don't like to eat before I exercise. But most of me thought "how lovely of you" - because it is lovely and I'm a very lucky girl. So I ate my breakfast in bed as one or two early bloggers start to post.. I heard the two youngest children playing downstairs. I didn't even know they were awake.
After about a half hour I realised that I had to get on with it. The rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. Much better to exercise in the cold than in the midday sun. It was, by now, heading toward 11am, about four hours past my usual walking time. I like to walk when nobody's around. Speed-walking is inherently embarrassing. It's like fast waddling. Not a spectator sport. But it's Sunday, right? Everyone has a lazy morning on Sunday.
Not my local cricket team apparently. It's not quite Village Cricket season yet but apparently there's an awful lot of preparation to be done in getting the pitch ready. So every indigenous male over the age of 16 was in our Recreation Ground strimming, mowing and rolling the ground while the oldfellas were sanding the peeling paint off the pavillion in readiness for a shiny new coat.
It was like Grand Central Station. Only a really English version of it. Outdoors. And I had to make five speedy, waddly circuits of it.
"Morning"
"Morning"
"You're keen aren't you?"
"Training for the marathon are you?"
"Shouldn't you be lining up in London right now?"
"Can I attach the roller to so you can save me a job?"
I nodded, smiled and quipped back as I waddled past. Then I did it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
There is no dignity in fast-paced walking. I do it because I am carrying way too many extra pounds on a frame that is creaking. My hot, sweaty, red face may be result of my increased heart rate but it could just as easily be a biproduct of my embarrassment. When doing it I'd really rather be ignored. Despite the cloudy sky I wore my sunglasses. I tried to look forward and not engage with them but such coldness is completely incongruous with the polite, friendliness of Village Cricket.
It was a relief to pass them the final time. By now the sun had broken through and I was regretting wearing a sweatshirt. I would normally have just taken it off but I didn't fancy compounding my mortification with flashing my white belly (because tee-shirts always ride up when you're pulling a sweater over your head) and worse still, my ginormous bra for keeping the puppies from jiggling while I'm wiggling. But I soldiered on because I'm committed to this regime and more importantly I told the guy with the strimmer that I was doing five circuits so I had to keep going.
As I left the field and all the industrious cricketers behind I wondered briefly if I was going to be the topic of conversation when they were having their tea and sandwiches later. Never mind I thought, putting it behind me as I marched through the gate, I'll just go straight home and get on with my stretching and toning. My legs were aching and sore and the persistent bugger of a blister on my left heel was giving me gip but as long as I get it all done it'll have been worth it.
As I opened the door to my house I was greeted by Hubby smiling warmly at me.
"Perfect timing Darling. I've just made you a cup of coffee."
My Hubby is just so lovely.
I never did get the rest of my exercises done.
Ah well it's Sunday. Different rules apply on the Day of Rest. It's probably better to adopt a more malleable frame of mind ... y'know … less rigid.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Friday, 23 April 2010
Short Story Competition
What if an experienced and talented published author offered to mentor you for three full months? What if she invited you to come for tea and cakes with herself and Arrow Publishing Director, Kate Elton? What if she offered a letter of introduction and agent feed back from literary agents David Higham Associates? And as if that wasn't enough, £100 to spend on Random House books, your story to be published on her blog/website and a signed copy of her soon-to-be-published novel? You'd be psyched! Right?
Well that's just 1st prize. There's a 2nd, 3rd and five runners up prizes too.
Well the wonderful author Rowan Coleman is having a Short Story Competition to celebrate the release of her latest novel THE HAPPY HOME FOR BROKEN HEARTS (on August 19th 2010).
If you have dreams of being published and you can display your talent in approximately 1000 words under the banner of "Starting Over", then this might just be the break you've been waiting for. The prizes for this competition are OUT OF THIS WORLD! It's open to residents of the UK and Ireland who have not had a novel or short story collection published and/or do not have a publishing contract.
This is is the most amazing opportunity for aspiring writers! Don't stop! - hotfoot it straight over to Rowan's blog and devour it. Who knows it could just be your shot.
Well that's just 1st prize. There's a 2nd, 3rd and five runners up prizes too.
Well the wonderful author Rowan Coleman is having a Short Story Competition to celebrate the release of her latest novel THE HAPPY HOME FOR BROKEN HEARTS (on August 19th 2010).
If you have dreams of being published and you can display your talent in approximately 1000 words under the banner of "Starting Over", then this might just be the break you've been waiting for. The prizes for this competition are OUT OF THIS WORLD! It's open to residents of the UK and Ireland who have not had a novel or short story collection published and/or do not have a publishing contract.
This is is the most amazing opportunity for aspiring writers! Don't stop! - hotfoot it straight over to Rowan's blog and devour it. Who knows it could just be your shot.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
First Day of Term
I went back to work yesterday. Got up and was out power walking my way around the Rec (recreation ground) at seven. I got back, did my stretching and toning, had breakfast and a puddle (that's what I call a shallow bath). I was über-organised. The big kids all got out into school on time. Small Son was fed and dressed and ready for school - with packed lunch and PE kit - ten minutes ahead of schedule (I'm normally leaving 10 minutes after the school bell's rung). We remembered to bring the cardboard Go-Kart he'd made with us and off we trotted. I think his teacher was amazed at my all-round togetherness and efficiency.
I was ready - no psyching up necessary - I was in the zone. Bring it on! Hyperactive children here I come!
I arrived at work only to find that we were having a staff training day. No kids.
So … not exactly as on-the-ball as I thought.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Regime Change.
Two weeks of Easter vacation all but over and not a single extra word written in my novel. I have bought about ten books to read during this time and so far I have read 5 chapters … yesterday.
What the bloody heck have I been doing?
Week 1:
It finished a week ago. I've forgotten.
Week 2:
I have embraced a new exercise regime.
WHAT??
IS SHE SERIOUS???
ENERGY EFFICIENT, SPENDS ALL DAY IN HER JAMMIES JANEY - EXERCISING???
HELL YEAH!
It turns out that there actually is a limit to my slothfulness and I apparently reached it in my first week off, which was so exciting (read, dull) that I can't remember any of it. So I did something unprecedented … I bought myself some running shoes, trackie pants and tee shirts and I devised a new regime.
It turns out that doing nothing not only means that you get nothing achieved, it also makes your brain very dull indeed. I haven't written anything because I have nothing to write. I used to think wonderful, cookie and (sometimes even) scary things in those gloriously slothful times but somewhere along the way I noticed that I started resting my brain too.
Turns out body and brain are all part of the same system.
Who knew?
Thing is, I used to be (a very long time ago now) quite an active kinda a girl. Then I moved to London and I stopped cycling (it's the scariest place n Earth - bar landmined areas - to take your bike out), walking (why walk and get totally lost when you can take the tube everywhere which has maps on every conceivable surface?), swimming (unlike the beautiful part of Ireland I grew up in, London's lakes, canals and rivers aren't really for swimming in - if you value your flesh - and I loathe swimming in chlorinated water), gym/stretching (if I'm honest I stopped trying to bend myself into strange shapes in college but I lost the ability to do it about a year into living in London) and as for running - actually I buggered my knees and ankles up by running in crappy shoes on concrete in my mid teens - so running just isn't an option and hasn't been for 25 years.
So my knees are banjaxed. This isn't just an excuse it's medically verified. They creak and grind when I walk up the stairs. This means that I can't run or do anything high impact eg stuff that involves jumping up and down or turning quickly (so trampolining, most aerobics and racket games) are out of the question. Swimming would be the obvious choice but it too has posed conundrums.
Conundrum 1: head in the water vs head out of the water
Those of you who know me well also know that I am quite the most pigment-impaired woman in the world (who isn't actually albino). Seriously, I have none in my skin and the stuff in my hair started to run out in my teens. Now, in my early 40s my hair is pretty white. It makes me look really old. So I colour it. This makes me feel better. I don't look so old with browny/red hair. However the thing about hair-dye is that it is really susceptible to bleaching out. So exposure to bleaching agents like the sun and bleach is very very bad. Swimming pools are full of bleach. That's what chlorine is - bleach. Nasty stuff. I hate it. When I do the front crawl I have to swim with my head in the water - just turning it to the side every now and then, to breathe. Doing this regularly turns my hair green. Doing the breast stroke properly also means submerging your head under the water with each stroke but it can be done using the old-lady technique which involves holding your entire head proud if the water so as not to muss up yer hair-do. I use this technique.
Conundrum 2: Froggy vs scissors kicks.
I never had swimming lessons. I am self taught. Over the years my inefficient strokes have been further compromised by getting a lot fatter. That whole "fat floats" myth is busted. Heavier me sinks like a stone. I have found that the over-arm crawl/scissors kick option requires a level of fitness I now don't possess. Twenty strokes in my power depletes so that my actual buoyancy becomes negative and I start to drown.
The alternative is breast stroke. This is my stroke of choice because I can do it without drowning. The only problem is that the knee doctor told me that froggy kicks are very bad for my dodgy knees. The lateral movements wear away my cartilage which will eventually necessitate in having to have my joints replaced. I don't fancy that at all.
So to sum up
- scissors kicks good for knees and fitness but negative side effects include loss of life and awful hair.
- froggy legs good for fitness and hair but negative side effects include terrible pain and possible knee-replacement surgery.
So swimming is out too.
How does a fat bird like me actually take aerobic exercise?
I walk.
Fast.
Swinging my arms.
I look re-bloody-diculous. But I can do it. And it's not too painful.
I warm up and stretch out then I walk at a consistently blistering pace for about 23-25 minutes, after which I do a raft of toning exercises before doing my warm down. It takes about 40- 45 minutes in all. So far it's going well.
Unlike all other attempts I have made at increasing fitness, I don't feel like I am going to die during or after any session. The toning exercises are designed to get increasingly difficult over a month so that I am gradually loosening out my taut muscles while also strengthening them. For once I think I may actually keep it up.
A really positive side effect is that once I've done my exercises I don't feel like being quite so energy-efficient. I have actually started to get bored again when I do nothing. Hence yesterday I started reading again and I vacuumed, laundered and generally did stuff. I'm hoping that as I continue this amazing journey my Muse return so I can finish my book.
Something must be working.
I'm blogging again.
What the bloody heck have I been doing?
Week 1:
It finished a week ago. I've forgotten.
Week 2:
I have embraced a new exercise regime.
WHAT??
IS SHE SERIOUS???
ENERGY EFFICIENT, SPENDS ALL DAY IN HER JAMMIES JANEY - EXERCISING???
HELL YEAH!
It turns out that there actually is a limit to my slothfulness and I apparently reached it in my first week off, which was so exciting (read, dull) that I can't remember any of it. So I did something unprecedented … I bought myself some running shoes, trackie pants and tee shirts and I devised a new regime.
It turns out that doing nothing not only means that you get nothing achieved, it also makes your brain very dull indeed. I haven't written anything because I have nothing to write. I used to think wonderful, cookie and (sometimes even) scary things in those gloriously slothful times but somewhere along the way I noticed that I started resting my brain too.
Turns out body and brain are all part of the same system.
Who knew?
Thing is, I used to be (a very long time ago now) quite an active kinda a girl. Then I moved to London and I stopped cycling (it's the scariest place n Earth - bar landmined areas - to take your bike out), walking (why walk and get totally lost when you can take the tube everywhere which has maps on every conceivable surface?), swimming (unlike the beautiful part of Ireland I grew up in, London's lakes, canals and rivers aren't really for swimming in - if you value your flesh - and I loathe swimming in chlorinated water), gym/stretching (if I'm honest I stopped trying to bend myself into strange shapes in college but I lost the ability to do it about a year into living in London) and as for running - actually I buggered my knees and ankles up by running in crappy shoes on concrete in my mid teens - so running just isn't an option and hasn't been for 25 years.
So my knees are banjaxed. This isn't just an excuse it's medically verified. They creak and grind when I walk up the stairs. This means that I can't run or do anything high impact eg stuff that involves jumping up and down or turning quickly (so trampolining, most aerobics and racket games) are out of the question. Swimming would be the obvious choice but it too has posed conundrums.
Conundrum 1: head in the water vs head out of the water
Those of you who know me well also know that I am quite the most pigment-impaired woman in the world (who isn't actually albino). Seriously, I have none in my skin and the stuff in my hair started to run out in my teens. Now, in my early 40s my hair is pretty white. It makes me look really old. So I colour it. This makes me feel better. I don't look so old with browny/red hair. However the thing about hair-dye is that it is really susceptible to bleaching out. So exposure to bleaching agents like the sun and bleach is very very bad. Swimming pools are full of bleach. That's what chlorine is - bleach. Nasty stuff. I hate it. When I do the front crawl I have to swim with my head in the water - just turning it to the side every now and then, to breathe. Doing this regularly turns my hair green. Doing the breast stroke properly also means submerging your head under the water with each stroke but it can be done using the old-lady technique which involves holding your entire head proud if the water so as not to muss up yer hair-do. I use this technique.
Conundrum 2: Froggy vs scissors kicks.
I never had swimming lessons. I am self taught. Over the years my inefficient strokes have been further compromised by getting a lot fatter. That whole "fat floats" myth is busted. Heavier me sinks like a stone. I have found that the over-arm crawl/scissors kick option requires a level of fitness I now don't possess. Twenty strokes in my power depletes so that my actual buoyancy becomes negative and I start to drown.
The alternative is breast stroke. This is my stroke of choice because I can do it without drowning. The only problem is that the knee doctor told me that froggy kicks are very bad for my dodgy knees. The lateral movements wear away my cartilage which will eventually necessitate in having to have my joints replaced. I don't fancy that at all.
So to sum up
- scissors kicks good for knees and fitness but negative side effects include loss of life and awful hair.
- froggy legs good for fitness and hair but negative side effects include terrible pain and possible knee-replacement surgery.
So swimming is out too.
How does a fat bird like me actually take aerobic exercise?
I walk.
Fast.
Swinging my arms.
I look re-bloody-diculous. But I can do it. And it's not too painful.
I warm up and stretch out then I walk at a consistently blistering pace for about 23-25 minutes, after which I do a raft of toning exercises before doing my warm down. It takes about 40- 45 minutes in all. So far it's going well.
Unlike all other attempts I have made at increasing fitness, I don't feel like I am going to die during or after any session. The toning exercises are designed to get increasingly difficult over a month so that I am gradually loosening out my taut muscles while also strengthening them. For once I think I may actually keep it up.
A really positive side effect is that once I've done my exercises I don't feel like being quite so energy-efficient. I have actually started to get bored again when I do nothing. Hence yesterday I started reading again and I vacuumed, laundered and generally did stuff. I'm hoping that as I continue this amazing journey my Muse return so I can finish my book.
Something must be working.
I'm blogging again.
Saturday, 6 March 2010
A New Season
(peeks out)
(sniffs air)
Is it Spring yet? Let's see … daffs are about to open, crocuses and snowdrops are in bloom, snow's gone - all good signs.
What's that thing in the sky? The giant yellow thing? It's awfully bright even as I type I am wearing my shades to protect my poor eyes from the relentless glare. And I'm not sure if it's coincidence or not but since it's started showing up - a week or so ago - I've suddenly felt quite perky. It seems to be having a similar effect on the birds who are making a right royal racket. If I tune my ears into birdspeak it sounds like a thousand chirrups looking for sex.
It's definitely Spring!
Hi there again. I didn't mean to fall off the radar for so long but as I am a slave to the seasons I have found that I am simply less expressive and almost exclusively introspective in the darker months. I have found that it's a time to gather in, reflect and even make plans. What it's not is terribly sociable.
But Spring knocks and so have my friends and as I peer out into the joyful light of the sun I suddenly feel the urge to come out and play again.
Do forgive me if it takes a while for me to find my stride - I've been hibernating for months - my blogging legs are still a bit wobbly.
(sniffs air)
Is it Spring yet? Let's see … daffs are about to open, crocuses and snowdrops are in bloom, snow's gone - all good signs.What's that thing in the sky? The giant yellow thing? It's awfully bright even as I type I am wearing my shades to protect my poor eyes from the relentless glare. And I'm not sure if it's coincidence or not but since it's started showing up - a week or so ago - I've suddenly felt quite perky. It seems to be having a similar effect on the birds who are making a right royal racket. If I tune my ears into birdspeak it sounds like a thousand chirrups looking for sex.
It's definitely Spring!
Hi there again. I didn't mean to fall off the radar for so long but as I am a slave to the seasons I have found that I am simply less expressive and almost exclusively introspective in the darker months. I have found that it's a time to gather in, reflect and even make plans. What it's not is terribly sociable.
But Spring knocks and so have my friends and as I peer out into the joyful light of the sun I suddenly feel the urge to come out and play again.
Do forgive me if it takes a while for me to find my stride - I've been hibernating for months - my blogging legs are still a bit wobbly.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
43
Well I'm 43 now.
It's an odd number, 43 - not only because of it's lack of evenness, but also because of it's all round weirdness. For a start it's a prime number. Nothing goes into it but itself and one. It's like the Billy-No-Mates of numbers. There are no stories that go with being 43. When I was 42 I could console myself that at least my age was the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything. But 43? It feels like it's an in-between number. A thinking about it but not quite sure yet number. A getting there number.
It really fits me.
I love being 43. I'm over the freaking-out-because-I'm-in-my-40s now. I'm suddenly aware that all the experiences I've had up to this point, good and bad, have really taught me a lot and made me a pretty nice person. I'm so glad to be past the wanting-babies age. Of course I am a mother and I love being one but I can see that as my children grow ever more independent I have to relinquish that role. I get to be Jane again. And actually that feels pretty darn good.
What I've discovered in the last wee while is that the best thing about 43 is that it is in no rush. 42 wanted all the answers because it was freaked out by how large a number it was. 42 had me convinced that I was slacking off, letting precious time slip away. 42 thought I was feckless. It was constantly looking ahead making old before my time. Not 43. 43 is calm. It knows that I'll get there. 43 wants me to enjoy where I am right now. It's not odd or lacking purpose. It's just totally chilled out with being 43.
The first day I was 43 I was woken up to the smell of pain-au-chocolat and tea. My wonderful husband and giggling children brought me gifts and cards. Texts came through from loved ones far away. I got messages all day from friends near and far. Later work colleagues showered me with flowers, wine and chocolate and thirty two gorgeous children sang Happy Birthday to me. My eldest child who has been very poorly for the last 3 weeks began to recover. I shared a wonderful meal with Hubby and my children. Then Hubby and I had a bottle of wine and watched When Harry Met Sally. We laughed big fat belly laughs at one of the best written (IMO) scripts ever. It was a really lovely birthday. I think it was the best one ever. Thank you all for that. It's a lovely thing to be wrapped in good wishes.
Today is my third day being 43 and I'm just as happy. You see 43 has given me a great gift - the gift of being in-between. The space to think about it because I'm not quite sure. The knowledge that I'm getting there. I love being 43.
It's an odd number, 43 - not only because of it's lack of evenness, but also because of it's all round weirdness. For a start it's a prime number. Nothing goes into it but itself and one. It's like the Billy-No-Mates of numbers. There are no stories that go with being 43. When I was 42 I could console myself that at least my age was the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe and Everything. But 43? It feels like it's an in-between number. A thinking about it but not quite sure yet number. A getting there number.
It really fits me.
I love being 43. I'm over the freaking-out-because-I'm-in-my-40s now. I'm suddenly aware that all the experiences I've had up to this point, good and bad, have really taught me a lot and made me a pretty nice person. I'm so glad to be past the wanting-babies age. Of course I am a mother and I love being one but I can see that as my children grow ever more independent I have to relinquish that role. I get to be Jane again. And actually that feels pretty darn good.
What I've discovered in the last wee while is that the best thing about 43 is that it is in no rush. 42 wanted all the answers because it was freaked out by how large a number it was. 42 had me convinced that I was slacking off, letting precious time slip away. 42 thought I was feckless. It was constantly looking ahead making old before my time. Not 43. 43 is calm. It knows that I'll get there. 43 wants me to enjoy where I am right now. It's not odd or lacking purpose. It's just totally chilled out with being 43.
The first day I was 43 I was woken up to the smell of pain-au-chocolat and tea. My wonderful husband and giggling children brought me gifts and cards. Texts came through from loved ones far away. I got messages all day from friends near and far. Later work colleagues showered me with flowers, wine and chocolate and thirty two gorgeous children sang Happy Birthday to me. My eldest child who has been very poorly for the last 3 weeks began to recover. I shared a wonderful meal with Hubby and my children. Then Hubby and I had a bottle of wine and watched When Harry Met Sally. We laughed big fat belly laughs at one of the best written (IMO) scripts ever. It was a really lovely birthday. I think it was the best one ever. Thank you all for that. It's a lovely thing to be wrapped in good wishes.
Today is my third day being 43 and I'm just as happy. You see 43 has given me a great gift - the gift of being in-between. The space to think about it because I'm not quite sure. The knowledge that I'm getting there. I love being 43.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
A Modern Day Knight's Tale
So in my classroom the theme for this term is all about Knights and Castles and all things Medieval. During the morning discussion time on our first day back the teacher asked the children to come up with anything they knew about the topic. We had many and varied suggestions about weapons and armour, turrets and princesses, moats and drawbridges. Then there was a loud fanfare and a six foot tall Black Knight walked slowly and purposefully into the room. He was in full regalia - helmet, chainmail, armour, sword - the whole deal. You could've heard a penny drop (silence like this never happens in my classroom). The Knight handed a parchment to the teacher upon which was written a message from the Queen of a nearby moated castle requesting that the children train as knights and go on a quest. It was all very exciting.
After the Black Knight took his leave, the children were put into groups and asked to discuss how they could train to be a knight. I overheard a boy nearby tell his group...
"Did you know that Mr T. is a Knight?"
"Is he?"
"Yeah - coz he wears all that golden armour?"
"Isn't that just necklaces and stuff?"
"NO! It's coz he's a Knight!" The boy was very forcefully making his point and just make sure that there was no doubt about it he added, "Aaand not only that - he's ackshully the Queen's bodyguard. For real."
I don't know about you but my immediate image was of a blacked-out van screeching up to the door of Buckingham Palace. The door flies open in front of the waiting monarch. When a voice from the front yells,
"What you waitin' for? Get in the van fool!"
That had me chuckling all day.
After the Black Knight took his leave, the children were put into groups and asked to discuss how they could train to be a knight. I overheard a boy nearby tell his group...
"Did you know that Mr T. is a Knight?"
"Is he?"
"Yeah - coz he wears all that golden armour?"
"Isn't that just necklaces and stuff?"
"NO! It's coz he's a Knight!" The boy was very forcefully making his point and just make sure that there was no doubt about it he added, "Aaand not only that - he's ackshully the Queen's bodyguard. For real."
I don't know about you but my immediate image was of a blacked-out van screeching up to the door of Buckingham Palace. The door flies open in front of the waiting monarch. When a voice from the front yells,
"What you waitin' for? Get in the van fool!"
That had me chuckling all day.
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