I began this blog in the Springtime as the little leaves were budding outside my room, the daffodils formed a carpet in the shadows of the trees in the garden and the days grew longer and milder and promised a warm and bonny summer ahead.
This morning we turned our clocks back an hour and now we see out the summer with all the crazy commercial madness that Halloween has turned into over the past few years in the UK. Outside, the leaves are yellow and red, orange and brown; most days there is rain. The skies are often leaden, but the oppression of the grey is still elusive. There is still enough daylight and warmth to keep those sensations at bay. For now amidst the excitement of tricks and treats and then fireworks next weekend for Guy Fawkes night, then the (7 week) rush to Christmas, it will be some time before the winter really gets us down.
More significant perhaps than the details of the festivities of this particular season - the costumes, the pumpkins, the sweets - is the passage of time; the never-ending cycle of our lives that brings us once more to an Autumn.
There is a magic in the showers of rain that impede our outings. There is a frisson in the morning air. The crunch of leaves and the peril of uncollected dog droppings squelching beneath them is always exciting. The fairy lights and Christmas lights herald a joyful anticipation (and a huge anticlimax) as we approach the "holidays" and no matter how nostalgic or sad the short days and chill evenings may leave us feeling, we can always head to the shops for our fill of commercial and capitalist glee and purpose.
It is hard to be cynical when everyone else is so moved, so excited. The radio reported that 30% of the nation have begun stocking up on food for Christmas - spreading the cost - they said. (That's not all they will be spreading, thinks Springgirl.) The Off-Spring caught the Halloween bug in the communal garden some weeks ago. Long before October began, but shortly after the shops began selling the orange and black wrapped sweets and cards and faux spiders' webs (early September when the back to school shelves were depleted and the kids were off our hands once more), the collective imagination was seized by the notion of dressing as ghosts and ghoulies and asking the neighbours for sweets. Springgirl is not poo-pooing the occasion - hey, each to their own. It is just that celebrating without understanding the underlying meaning of an occasion always feels purposeless and wanton. Perhaps it is my convent upbringing....
So I explained to to two of the Off-Spring (well all three were present but one is not attending the trick or treating and sausage sizzle due to some naughty behaviour for which Springgirl is secretly grateful as she can also miss out...) that Halloween comes from the Celtic festival of Samhain (the end of the harvest and beginning of the "darker half" of the year) and the Christian holiday of All Saints' Day.
In that way the Off-Spring were warned that the sweets symbolised the end of the plentiful "light half" of the year and should thus be consumed sparingly (not all within 10 minutes tonight) and saved to cheer the dark days ahead.
"Oh come on Springgirl, lighten up," you may think. "You are always telling everyone to lighten up. It is just a bit of fun, some dressing up, some laughs."
Indeed.
I do have sympathy for our Parish church which sent a plaintive suggestion in the last two newsletters - a valiant attempt to shut the gate after the proverbial horse, firmly behind the cart, had strayed - that children might like to dress as saints.
Nevertheless, but for the communal garden, that richest source of community, entertainment and education in an urban landscape of anonymity and consumption, we would not be traipsing into this new territory. Unless one is constantly taking one's children shopping one can avoid much of the hype, after all. So I am grateful for this opportunity to inform them about times gone by and the union of the pagan with the Christian and the endless cycle of the seasons and man's courageous attempts to shackle and control the environment through marking such occasions, while I book a check up at the dentist.
Seriously though, I have always loved Autumn in the UK. The colours of the leaves and the crispness of the air are restorative and invigorating. The streets seem fresher despite the day's fall of leaves. The air seems purer despite the huddles of smokers drawing warmth from their cigarettes. The stars seem brighter, when one can get out of the city to see them. While much of the natural world prepares for sleep now, still more of it seems to teem with life and purpose.
So with renewed purpose and motivation I collect conkers and make apple crumbles and cobblers, soups and stews. I hunker down of an evening with rich pickings of programmes to catch up on. I baton down the hatches preparing for the storm of preparation for the seasonal celebrations at school (PTA busy season just around the corner) and I revel in the spring that comes into my step as the cool autumn winds blow out the cobwebs in my mind.
I have a new book idea to work on now, having finished "Tom's Dreamflight" and created a colourful and if I do say so myself, delightful, calendar of "Tess and the Seaside Girl". Turning to marketing them - well, what better to do on a cold grey Autumn Sunday than settle down with a good book (specially targeted at 8-11 year old boy readers). And how better to prepare the little ones for 2011 and all that lies in store than with a beautiful calendar of original prints depicting a little girl's seaside odyssey?
Best of all, it is raining now! As we prepare to venture to the country to visit friends we relish the prospect of donning the Wellington boots and splashing in puddles and squelching through mud (rather than dog-do), of sitting by an open fire perchance and sipping hot drinks brewed with love.
Alas, no trick or treating if it rains though...
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Sunday, 10 October 2010
Change is hard
I have been unable to commit my thoughts to a post for some days now due to fear. Yes, that's right, fear. Fear of what might happen if I were to open the proverbial flood gate and let pour forth the torrent of negative feeling that was building within.
What is she on about, now, you are thinking.
Those of you who have experience in student politics, or indeed real politics will perhaps relate to these sentiments. And no, I am not running for office or kicking off a campaign, though I have been contemplating my suitability for such, I have to admit.
Rather, as many of you know, in July, I naively, if not wantonly and crazily, volunteered to co-chair the Off-Springs' School PTA. I did this with the best hopes of helping raise money for the school in these times of budget cuts and rising prices, and to do so with a sense of humour and some fresh ideas that would hopefully bond together our community of wonderful parents, staff and children. You see, by the ripe old age of X, one tends to know what one is good at. And so I thought I had something to bring to the table. I am a lead by example sort of person. I am passionate and creative yet highly practical and grounded. I roll my sleeves up and get stuck into any and all tasks while steering my ship with self-effacing positivity and optimism. I like people and I like concepts. I like trying new things out and surprising people. I am an effective communicator and a person of the people. No ivory tower keeps me aloof from my team - I am right in there amongst them, getting things done. I am big picture and details, I am analytical and reactive. Yet, I can take on too much, reluctant to ask for help. Nevertheless, things usually turn out well because, eager to do my best, I am not a perfectionist. I am definitely a subscriber to the 80:20 rule or indeed in many cases (like cooking for the Off-Spring), the 60:40 rule. Best, of all I have loads of energy and capacity and relish a problem to solve. Indeed, last week a recruiter asked me to describe my ideal job or workplace. I had to say - being on The Apprentice day in and day out, and getting paid for it. Given an insatiable desire for challenge and hurdles, I saw the PTA as potentially a walk in the park.
And yet, after just one month, I am seriously rethinking this strategy and wondering just how many screws were loose in the my brain when I thought this was a good idea. You see, I forgot that solving problems, implementing ideas and overcoming challenges in a job or in one's private life are generally compelling or enriching experiences, or both. Doing the same for free in the "lives" of 200 other people is a whole different proposition.
On the bright side, I have strengthened some great friendships with my co-chair and some of my committee. I have learnt loads about communication and facilitation and used many of my favourite skills such as listening, project management and writing. I have even been a fantastic critical friend to myself. I can honestly say, hand on heart that I have no concerns that my ideas are not well-considered, sensible and cohesive, indeed unified by a rational and community spirited philosophy that will stand the test of time. So the problem is not the ideas per se. Nor is that I have any trouble communicating them.
No, the problem is that I was so arrogant and bold, so dazzled by the opportunity to make a difference and to implement those good ideas, and so eager to get stuck into a new challenge, as to overlook one of life's biggest truisms - People do not like change.
Where was my grounded-in-reality-common-sense when I needed it? Where was the pragmatist coach who "got" people? Where was the disillusioned writer still waiting for all the 5* reviews to materialise from her friends on Amazon? You see, these parts of me had been silenced by the Voom, the Big Ideas and the Change-Is-As-Good-As-A-Holiday hype I had sold myself when the inner cynic was whispering sweet nothings in my ear all summer.
And that is why for two weeks I have wandered lonely as a cloud with a face of grim determination and a notebook in my hand in which to record my every thought. That is why posting a blog before now would have been a mistake. That is why I realised mid week that I had not laughed in days. By way of aside, the realisation came when I texted a parent who had signed up to cook with Year 4 (a curriculum linked cookery initiative of the PTA) to dissuade her from cooking on her suggested theme of Halloween. The parent may have felt this was an appropriate seasonal topic but I wanted to encourage her to work with the topic of the Tudors (for which a lot of material had been collated and made available to parent cooks, and which ties in directly with the children's history lessons). My newish smart phone, my gormless texting and its officious anticipatory text function, sent my message as: "we suggest you work with the topic of tumors this term", whereupon I collapsed in mirth and merriment out of all proportion to the provocation. But my sense of humour had abandoned me for some time such that I knew that I was in no place to commit my thoughts to this semi-public forum. Indeed, my thoughts were not yet clear. Had I attempted to articulate my frustration at the overwhelming negativity with which our ideas were being met, I might have said things I would later regret.
But now - clarity has returned. For you see, I now realise that using the PTA as means of unifying disparate peoples is an idealistic and perhaps unattainable goal. I realise that expecting support and positive encouragement was naive. And I realise that the phlegmatic and relaxed countenances of former chair people are not attributable to better skincare regimes or a superior capacity to deal with stress. Rather, former chairs know what we are in for, know they are well out of it and know they survived to tell the tale.
I have grown and developed in myself and for that the whole to-do has been a worthwhile experience.
I could blog endlessly about criticism and negativity and fear and change. This is not new or interesting though. We all encounter resistance to change at some point in our lives - whether it is the response to our new chic, short hair-do, or the change in brand of coffee we buy. We also know that negativity at the suggestion of something fresh or un-explored.
So, for me the compelling things are four fold.
First - one needs to keep sight of the big picture and accept that while change is hard, and cannot happen overnight etc, at the same time, humans have an amazing capacity to morph and evolve, to reach new heights of achievement and to explore new horizons.
Second - to fear change, to feel confronted and threatened and negative at the thought of a new experience must be, at the very least, discomforting, and perhaps even, terrifying and paralysing.
Third - in the face of seemingly unwarranted criticism, all one can do is manage one's own reaction.
Finally - negativity can seem stronger and louder than is is. Left unchecked it can become contagious and poison us. In managing our reactions, it would be worth remembering that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but a new wheel is better yet.
Ultimately, then, building on these points, I have come to a new and amazing revelation - Advertising is truly a worthy profession.
Through it, people come to do and buy things far stranger, scarier and more risky than anything my and my co-chair's self-conscious and gentle little initiatives would appear to involve.
So I will put it out to tender:
Wanted - PR/marketing/advertising professional with VOOM to donate time and energy to clear up after crazy, maniacal PTA co-chairs with as much grasp of reality as the Cat in the Hat.
Hold on - I know someone who could do that job!
What is she on about, now, you are thinking.
Those of you who have experience in student politics, or indeed real politics will perhaps relate to these sentiments. And no, I am not running for office or kicking off a campaign, though I have been contemplating my suitability for such, I have to admit.
Rather, as many of you know, in July, I naively, if not wantonly and crazily, volunteered to co-chair the Off-Springs' School PTA. I did this with the best hopes of helping raise money for the school in these times of budget cuts and rising prices, and to do so with a sense of humour and some fresh ideas that would hopefully bond together our community of wonderful parents, staff and children. You see, by the ripe old age of X, one tends to know what one is good at. And so I thought I had something to bring to the table. I am a lead by example sort of person. I am passionate and creative yet highly practical and grounded. I roll my sleeves up and get stuck into any and all tasks while steering my ship with self-effacing positivity and optimism. I like people and I like concepts. I like trying new things out and surprising people. I am an effective communicator and a person of the people. No ivory tower keeps me aloof from my team - I am right in there amongst them, getting things done. I am big picture and details, I am analytical and reactive. Yet, I can take on too much, reluctant to ask for help. Nevertheless, things usually turn out well because, eager to do my best, I am not a perfectionist. I am definitely a subscriber to the 80:20 rule or indeed in many cases (like cooking for the Off-Spring), the 60:40 rule. Best, of all I have loads of energy and capacity and relish a problem to solve. Indeed, last week a recruiter asked me to describe my ideal job or workplace. I had to say - being on The Apprentice day in and day out, and getting paid for it. Given an insatiable desire for challenge and hurdles, I saw the PTA as potentially a walk in the park.
And yet, after just one month, I am seriously rethinking this strategy and wondering just how many screws were loose in the my brain when I thought this was a good idea. You see, I forgot that solving problems, implementing ideas and overcoming challenges in a job or in one's private life are generally compelling or enriching experiences, or both. Doing the same for free in the "lives" of 200 other people is a whole different proposition.
On the bright side, I have strengthened some great friendships with my co-chair and some of my committee. I have learnt loads about communication and facilitation and used many of my favourite skills such as listening, project management and writing. I have even been a fantastic critical friend to myself. I can honestly say, hand on heart that I have no concerns that my ideas are not well-considered, sensible and cohesive, indeed unified by a rational and community spirited philosophy that will stand the test of time. So the problem is not the ideas per se. Nor is that I have any trouble communicating them.
No, the problem is that I was so arrogant and bold, so dazzled by the opportunity to make a difference and to implement those good ideas, and so eager to get stuck into a new challenge, as to overlook one of life's biggest truisms - People do not like change.
Where was my grounded-in-reality-common-sense when I needed it? Where was the pragmatist coach who "got" people? Where was the disillusioned writer still waiting for all the 5* reviews to materialise from her friends on Amazon? You see, these parts of me had been silenced by the Voom, the Big Ideas and the Change-Is-As-Good-As-A-Holiday hype I had sold myself when the inner cynic was whispering sweet nothings in my ear all summer.
And that is why for two weeks I have wandered lonely as a cloud with a face of grim determination and a notebook in my hand in which to record my every thought. That is why posting a blog before now would have been a mistake. That is why I realised mid week that I had not laughed in days. By way of aside, the realisation came when I texted a parent who had signed up to cook with Year 4 (a curriculum linked cookery initiative of the PTA) to dissuade her from cooking on her suggested theme of Halloween. The parent may have felt this was an appropriate seasonal topic but I wanted to encourage her to work with the topic of the Tudors (for which a lot of material had been collated and made available to parent cooks, and which ties in directly with the children's history lessons). My newish smart phone, my gormless texting and its officious anticipatory text function, sent my message as: "we suggest you work with the topic of tumors this term", whereupon I collapsed in mirth and merriment out of all proportion to the provocation. But my sense of humour had abandoned me for some time such that I knew that I was in no place to commit my thoughts to this semi-public forum. Indeed, my thoughts were not yet clear. Had I attempted to articulate my frustration at the overwhelming negativity with which our ideas were being met, I might have said things I would later regret.
But now - clarity has returned. For you see, I now realise that using the PTA as means of unifying disparate peoples is an idealistic and perhaps unattainable goal. I realise that expecting support and positive encouragement was naive. And I realise that the phlegmatic and relaxed countenances of former chair people are not attributable to better skincare regimes or a superior capacity to deal with stress. Rather, former chairs know what we are in for, know they are well out of it and know they survived to tell the tale.
I have grown and developed in myself and for that the whole to-do has been a worthwhile experience.
I could blog endlessly about criticism and negativity and fear and change. This is not new or interesting though. We all encounter resistance to change at some point in our lives - whether it is the response to our new chic, short hair-do, or the change in brand of coffee we buy. We also know that negativity at the suggestion of something fresh or un-explored.
So, for me the compelling things are four fold.
First - one needs to keep sight of the big picture and accept that while change is hard, and cannot happen overnight etc, at the same time, humans have an amazing capacity to morph and evolve, to reach new heights of achievement and to explore new horizons.
Second - to fear change, to feel confronted and threatened and negative at the thought of a new experience must be, at the very least, discomforting, and perhaps even, terrifying and paralysing.
Third - in the face of seemingly unwarranted criticism, all one can do is manage one's own reaction.
Finally - negativity can seem stronger and louder than is is. Left unchecked it can become contagious and poison us. In managing our reactions, it would be worth remembering that the squeaky wheel gets the grease, but a new wheel is better yet.
Ultimately, then, building on these points, I have come to a new and amazing revelation - Advertising is truly a worthy profession.
Through it, people come to do and buy things far stranger, scarier and more risky than anything my and my co-chair's self-conscious and gentle little initiatives would appear to involve.
So I will put it out to tender:
Wanted - PR/marketing/advertising professional with VOOM to donate time and energy to clear up after crazy, maniacal PTA co-chairs with as much grasp of reality as the Cat in the Hat.
Hold on - I know someone who could do that job!
Friday, 24 September 2010
How to feel like a Spring Chicken
I celebrated a semi-significant birthday last week which may account for my lack of motivation to write a blog post for over two weeks - a personal worst. Not that I was actually celebrating for the whole two weeks. I had hoped to make a weekend of it but decided that a day was in fact sufficient - and some credit stored up for a time when needed would in fact be a better way to play things. As it happened, the birthday coincided with a busy time in my journey back to paid employment. I am still on the proverbial dock as it happens, casting about for any vessel that I might be able to set sail on - but that is a time consuming process nonetheless. I am also settling into my new role as PTA co-chair. My natural proclivity to get stuck in early, leave nothing to the last minute and to do as much as I can before asking for help means that instead of blogging I am spending time drafting newsletters calling on parents to give this and that and volunteer for this and that, and searching the web for the foods enjoyed in Tudor times.
However, I feel that from today I need to step back from the job hunt and the petty pedagoguery and practice what I preach about authenticity and playing to strengths. Unless I can monetise the PTA role somehow, I need to find time for my writing. When I do eventually persaude someone that I am not a huge risk to their organisation and start earning an income I want to have some manuscripts to pay to publish.
While it is very enjoyable to have the amazing outlets of the gym, the communal garden and the school mothers, my inner life has been on hold. Many of the distractions one busies oneself with when one is a person of the world - in the world and part of the world - are afterall in large part, ways of quelling those inner musings. Truth is I do miss my quiet rants in this forum...
So given that twenty-something blue-eyed, rosy cheeked recruitment consultants are not nearly as warm and supportive as they look, I turn to my dear followers (and hopefully a large number of new patrons) to regale you with my thoughts on ageing.
While I have the beginnings of a post on "how to live the cliché" turning around in my head and hate to move off the topic - again - I have to admit to succumbing to the predictably trite state of being somewhat perturbed about this particular birthday. Naturally, it was in the weeks leading up to the birthday that I noticed myself turning the corner into a new place of agedness. Since last week I can confirm that these things loom larger in our imaginations than they ought. As with most things, entering the next decade was worse in the anticipation than the reality. Nevertheless, the process of ageing and coming to terms with it is so universal and unifying as to be worth commenting on.
The fact that one is getting older is an omnipresent one. We never escape it. Even at three we realise there is someone cuter and sweeter and more attention grabbing than us. At seven we learn that we have to remember things for ourselves. From then on we journey ceaselessly towards a place of self- knowledge and self-reliance, until one day we stand alone before the mirror, only too conscious that we hold the lives and happiness of others in our hands. Aware that what we eat for breakfast impacts another, how we speak may have more than a transitory impact on a young life and that with each year we travel inexorably onwards clinging to the last vestiges of innocence, idealism and blue-sky dreams. Or it just me? Sometimes life is like the travel-ator at the airport - we want to stride along, virtually bouncing in our rush to reach the end as quickly as possible. Sometimes we stoically avoid it and walk alongside it - all the others racing each other and arriving sooner as we plod doggedly on, thinking the exercise will do us good. Other times we stand still on it - moving, yet not really going anywhere under our own stream. Then again there are the times when we joyfully chase our families and luggage as the walkway moves in the opposite direction to that in which we are stumbling...
I am reminded of a comment I made to Mr Springgirl when the eldest Off-Spring was a few weeks old. I said that I felt sorry for the little guy. Mr Springgirl asked me why - no doubt fearing I knew some terrible secret he had yet to discover about the little pet - and I said that it was too bad that he only had me and Mr Springgirl to guide him. We laughed, naturally, what else could we do; we were neither the first, nor the last parents to realise what a lottery it might be - and we just got on with it. Now - a dab hand at so many matters of parenting, those weeks all seems a long time ago. Which brings me again to the theme of time passing.
For most of us, the body goes first.
Mine has been going for a while, admittedly. I am not so vain as to conceal that from myself and others. I am so vain as to fight it valiantly though, especially in matters of fitness and exercise. I can live with the grey hair re-growth at the temples. I cannot miss the gym class. If you knew the gym instructors you would see why...
I am delighted to notice that despite my seniority, I am in great company at the gym and my strength and fitness is improving. I am complimented on my push-ups and core strength and I have a sneaky suspicion that if tested in a shipwreck (in calm, non-shark infested, warm waters) I could stay afloat and calm for a good long time before giving up. I also suspect that in a survivor type "mockumentary" scenario my keen sense of direction, sense of humour and stamina would stand me in great stead (finding and enduring all those classes paying off immensely).
All of which is to say that exercise and fitness are the key to feeling fab. And at risk of repeating myself, feeling fab is the key to life. The gym or other substitute must be the font of youth (a decent sense of purpose and some great relationships can't hurt either, granted). But exercising the body (and mind) need involve no one else and can sustain us through all sorts of trouble and stress.
Now I am not going to rest on my laurels here. In order to ensure I can keep all the bits in good working order I am also joining a bridge club, extending my social circle and trying new things.
One of the new things I considered committing to was always speaking my mind. That lasted about seven minutes. I have to admit that changing habits is never easy. That is another post in itself. So clearly, trying something new is best done when something old does not need to be drastically altered first.
So by new things I mean watching different tv programmes, taking a different route to get places, trying a new brand of chocolate, wearing a different colour, breathing deeply before losing the plot over something trivial, and so on.
Another new thing is eating dinner outdoors and walking and chatting in the windy early Autumn gloaming, searching for foxes with the Off-Spring.
Another is trusting my instincts. By my age they are well-honed. Stand up comedy and singing solo in public are also on the list.
Anyway, all of these musings will be boring you, so I want to share some I prepared earlier - indeed when I was a couple of years younger. I have extracted below some ideas from my book "Spring to Mind" which set out my vision of the ideal gym - a space where mind and body can be exercised and nurtured.
Investors are welcome to email me directly.
(NB - as this is a long post - feel free to return to the rest tomorrow - that way my visitor stats will look healthier - to me, anyway...)
.......
Spring to Mind Spa
However, I feel that from today I need to step back from the job hunt and the petty pedagoguery and practice what I preach about authenticity and playing to strengths. Unless I can monetise the PTA role somehow, I need to find time for my writing. When I do eventually persaude someone that I am not a huge risk to their organisation and start earning an income I want to have some manuscripts to pay to publish.
While it is very enjoyable to have the amazing outlets of the gym, the communal garden and the school mothers, my inner life has been on hold. Many of the distractions one busies oneself with when one is a person of the world - in the world and part of the world - are afterall in large part, ways of quelling those inner musings. Truth is I do miss my quiet rants in this forum...
So given that twenty-something blue-eyed, rosy cheeked recruitment consultants are not nearly as warm and supportive as they look, I turn to my dear followers (and hopefully a large number of new patrons) to regale you with my thoughts on ageing.
While I have the beginnings of a post on "how to live the cliché" turning around in my head and hate to move off the topic - again - I have to admit to succumbing to the predictably trite state of being somewhat perturbed about this particular birthday. Naturally, it was in the weeks leading up to the birthday that I noticed myself turning the corner into a new place of agedness. Since last week I can confirm that these things loom larger in our imaginations than they ought. As with most things, entering the next decade was worse in the anticipation than the reality. Nevertheless, the process of ageing and coming to terms with it is so universal and unifying as to be worth commenting on.
The fact that one is getting older is an omnipresent one. We never escape it. Even at three we realise there is someone cuter and sweeter and more attention grabbing than us. At seven we learn that we have to remember things for ourselves. From then on we journey ceaselessly towards a place of self- knowledge and self-reliance, until one day we stand alone before the mirror, only too conscious that we hold the lives and happiness of others in our hands. Aware that what we eat for breakfast impacts another, how we speak may have more than a transitory impact on a young life and that with each year we travel inexorably onwards clinging to the last vestiges of innocence, idealism and blue-sky dreams. Or it just me? Sometimes life is like the travel-ator at the airport - we want to stride along, virtually bouncing in our rush to reach the end as quickly as possible. Sometimes we stoically avoid it and walk alongside it - all the others racing each other and arriving sooner as we plod doggedly on, thinking the exercise will do us good. Other times we stand still on it - moving, yet not really going anywhere under our own stream. Then again there are the times when we joyfully chase our families and luggage as the walkway moves in the opposite direction to that in which we are stumbling...
I am reminded of a comment I made to Mr Springgirl when the eldest Off-Spring was a few weeks old. I said that I felt sorry for the little guy. Mr Springgirl asked me why - no doubt fearing I knew some terrible secret he had yet to discover about the little pet - and I said that it was too bad that he only had me and Mr Springgirl to guide him. We laughed, naturally, what else could we do; we were neither the first, nor the last parents to realise what a lottery it might be - and we just got on with it. Now - a dab hand at so many matters of parenting, those weeks all seems a long time ago. Which brings me again to the theme of time passing.
For most of us, the body goes first.
Mine has been going for a while, admittedly. I am not so vain as to conceal that from myself and others. I am so vain as to fight it valiantly though, especially in matters of fitness and exercise. I can live with the grey hair re-growth at the temples. I cannot miss the gym class. If you knew the gym instructors you would see why...
I am delighted to notice that despite my seniority, I am in great company at the gym and my strength and fitness is improving. I am complimented on my push-ups and core strength and I have a sneaky suspicion that if tested in a shipwreck (in calm, non-shark infested, warm waters) I could stay afloat and calm for a good long time before giving up. I also suspect that in a survivor type "mockumentary" scenario my keen sense of direction, sense of humour and stamina would stand me in great stead (finding and enduring all those classes paying off immensely).
All of which is to say that exercise and fitness are the key to feeling fab. And at risk of repeating myself, feeling fab is the key to life. The gym or other substitute must be the font of youth (a decent sense of purpose and some great relationships can't hurt either, granted). But exercising the body (and mind) need involve no one else and can sustain us through all sorts of trouble and stress.
Now I am not going to rest on my laurels here. In order to ensure I can keep all the bits in good working order I am also joining a bridge club, extending my social circle and trying new things.
One of the new things I considered committing to was always speaking my mind. That lasted about seven minutes. I have to admit that changing habits is never easy. That is another post in itself. So clearly, trying something new is best done when something old does not need to be drastically altered first.
So by new things I mean watching different tv programmes, taking a different route to get places, trying a new brand of chocolate, wearing a different colour, breathing deeply before losing the plot over something trivial, and so on.
Another new thing is eating dinner outdoors and walking and chatting in the windy early Autumn gloaming, searching for foxes with the Off-Spring.
Another is trusting my instincts. By my age they are well-honed. Stand up comedy and singing solo in public are also on the list.
Anyway, all of these musings will be boring you, so I want to share some I prepared earlier - indeed when I was a couple of years younger. I have extracted below some ideas from my book "Spring to Mind" which set out my vision of the ideal gym - a space where mind and body can be exercised and nurtured.
Investors are welcome to email me directly.
(NB - as this is a long post - feel free to return to the rest tomorrow - that way my visitor stats will look healthier - to me, anyway...)
.......
Spring to Mind Spa
Ethos
At Spring to Mind Spa we value space and time to reflect and think. We call this “mind space”. We believe that when we harness and maximise the ideas and inspiration that emerge from our mind space we can embark on transformational journeys.
Whatever your motivation, Spring to Mind Spa can help you clarify your thinking, rediscover your equilibrium, nurture your dreams, connect with your true self and get and stay fit and relaxed.
Our unique services incorporate a blend of coaching, training, treatment and support group. Leave your worries at the door and move into a new mind space.
Rejuvenate and refresh.
Spring to life. Spring into action. Find your inner spring.
Spring to Mind Spa is an Urban Retreat, divided into a number of spaces where clients can focus on their particular needs.
Spring Body Space
As well as a state of the art Gym and swimming pool with specially designed lighting that enhances you and where needed, conceals you, rather than exposes you, as well as mirrors and rest areas that motivate you to workout, Mind Spa Spring Body Space offers a range of active classes and group fitness sessions intended to put the fun back into exercise.
For the Uber Fit:
High Kicks and High Jinks – a high energy aerobic workout for the super fit. Bored with stepping up and pulsing it out? Then this is the class for you. Our instructor, Kevin, guarantees no two routines are alike. Not only your body, but also your mind and memory, will be stretched as you pirouette, can-can and cartwheel your way around the studio. (Knee pads optional).
Commando Cruising – ex-marine, Charlie, will get those abs tight and those buns light with this intense adventure based workout. Test your ingenuity, mettle and inner thighs on our bespoke obstacle course.
Pushover – bring out the child in you with rough play and rumpus style work out techniques. Devised by 8 year olds, Pushover will have you roaring with laughter as you elude the tickling probes, escape the water bombs and duck for cover as the pillow fights erupt.
We know all too well that not everyone has coordinating gym kit, a desire for a six pack or a pair of clean trainers. Some of our clients have not been inside a gym for some time. We respect and cater to that. We welcome all ability, interest and fitness levels. We applaud effort over execution and substance over style. So pull on the old Dunlop Volley sandshoes, slip on an oversized t-shirt and dust off the skipping ropes and elastics that kept you fit in 1982.
We have a special range of classes of a shorter duration to ease you back into it. These are designed for all self respecting newbies, wanna-bes and pudgees.
Unco Yoga - a gentle blend of sun salutes and toe touching. You’ve never seen a downward dog like this before!
Balance - walk straight, stand tall and look your reflection in the eye, all while balancing a book of your choice on your head.
Bo-i-nngg - set to the upbeat and irresistible melodies of the Stock Aitken and Waterman stable of stars, this class has you bouncing (literally, on our flouro hop balls) around our Sunshine Studio. When the going gets tough on the old thighs, you bounce right over to the super large trampolines and rediscover your youth. (Maximum weight restrictions apply.)
Being a holistic organisation we recognise that some of our clients prefer to stay fit using a range of techniques not typically found under one roof. Accordingly, we offer special experiences in the Spring Body Space.
For our Ice Queen clients there is the Frisson Space with 20 metre high ice wall, mini ice rink and cold room (excellent for taking your mind off your worries and burning fat).
For the Water Nymphs we cater to both active and sedentary preferences in our Luxury Lagoon Space. Consider:
Water Ballet (tutus provided).
Synchronised Swimming (nose clips available from the Pool Boy).
Deep Immersion Pool - an abyssal experience in a 15 metre deep diving pool. The challenge lies in resisting the ebbs and flows of the random currents and riptides. (Life jackets available on request.)
Alpha Aqua Avalanche - an intense and invigorating experience in which industrial strength hoses batter and blast you through three stages – the hit and miss, the power shower and the water slide to freedom.
Treatments
Naturally, being a spa, we offer traditional treatments such as massage, facials, manicures and body wraps.
Some of our special treatments in the Pamper Space include:
Total Makeover packages - hair, teeth, attitude, body image and mindset.
Hot Stone Therapy – a visualisation therapy – who would you like to pelt hot stones at?
Lavage and Lose it - a bespoke cellulite buster.
Coaching
In the Learning Space we offer workshops and seminars to help you sort out your ideas and priorities. A sample include:
Meditation and Mindfulness - learn to slow down and live in the moment.
Making time for me - harness your selfish whims and give them purposeful life.
Rediscover your Inner Child - using a combination of toilet humour, play-dough and dressing up, discover a simpler way of seeing things.
Find your Voice - role play, ad libbing and free association.
Now say it and Mean it - develop subtle and persuasive assertiveness techniques (very useful within marriages).
The Visible Woman – learn ways of being more noticeable and increasing your impact.
Aqua Therapy - a range of water based treatments achieving several benefits including cleansing the mind of negativity, washing away the proverbial crap dumped at your door, sifting through the detritus and debris washed up on the shore of one’s life, going with the flow, riding the current and no longer fighting the tide.
Clear Out and Declutter – find out what makes you a hoarder – learn how to let go of stuff yet retain control.
In the Emotion Space we offer suites dedicated to specific needs. For expressing Anger try the Belt it and Bash it Room. For frustration and desperation the Steam and Scream Room is a favourite (it also fights wrinkles, cellulite and fluid retention and surveys show that a 3 minute scream session and a cool glass of water achieves the same results as 20 minutes on the treadmill and a full body massage). The Tears on my Pillow Room is a zen hideaway where you can relax and let it all out, knowing you will leave intact after a mini-facial and restorative head massage.
We also have a Gratitude Room, a Guilt-Free Room, a cyber cafe and juice bar, with complimentary salads, a wine bar specialising in wines from the Antipodes, and a state of the art, sustainable crèche where the little tykes will finger paint, splash and make mess to their hearts content! (Open days for Mums first Wednesday of the month).
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
"Babes" United
Desirous of creating a larger network and gaining followers and clients, I offered a dear friend in Brisbane who established a women in business forum some time ago - "Babes in Business" - a "Blog from Abroad" - a Hello from London, if you will - for her members and subscribers. At the same time I hope to challenge my own creative energy and achieve a greater understanding of how to be and feel more "babelike".
A Brisbane girl originally, I moved to London in 1997. I joined Babes in 2009 while back in Australia for a time during the final stages of, and the months following, my mother's battle with leukaemia. I returned to London in January this year. As is so often the case, after the event, I began to look back fondly on the love and support offered while "home", such that in a flurry of "settling back in" optimism and energy I flirted (dizzily, as it happened) with the idea of establishing the London chapter of Babes in Business. You all know the saying about giving something to a busy woman...
Somehow, though, the flurry turned from fever paced and ferocious to occasional and seasonal as the months passed. Indeed, after all of the change and upheaval involved in moving to Australia and back within 9 months, contemplating and trying out a life in Ghana on the return leg, as well and changing career and starting my own business, some days it was all I could do to log into the email, buy groceries and make the bed. It became apparent that establishing anything other than my own gym routine and the every other day bath ritual for the kids (Winters in cold climates can have compensating benefits), was going to require more motivation and drive than I could muster. So while the idea of a London arm to Babes is a nice one, for now I am focussed on keeping in touch with the mothership via a "Blog from Abroad".
The truth is that while in Brisbane I did not sufficiently avail myself of the networking, socialising and learning opportunities that Babes affords. At the time I was writing my second book and marketing my coaching services while enjoying dust storms, life among close family and friends and adjusting to life without my dear mother. Now, the dust having settled and "business as usual" more or less resumed, I hope to offer to Babes members some insight into life in London for women in business, juggling career, family and home. So I wanted to share here at Spring to Mind some of my musings for the Babes back home.
........
But first, I need to clear the air. And so I want to put it out there that for some time I have struggled with the very notion of myself as a "Babe".
On my gloomier, or perhaps I should say, more honest days, I contemplate a sister organisation - "Non-Babes in Business", or "Wannabe Babes Struggling to Stay in Business" or perhaps even just "Anti-Babes Who Think They Have a Business". The truth is that despite an awful lot of passion and thought, energy and ideas, effort and enthusiasm, creating a successful business is not as easy as the moniker "Babes in Business" might have you believe.
Am I preaching to the converted, or a lone voice crying in the Wilderness? Probably the latter. You see, I often sense that I am cast adrift in a veritable wilderness of babes.
Everywhere I look, in fact, there is evidence that this is so.
First, I am the mother of three sons aged 4, 6 and 8. Ergo - Babes at home.
Second, I am an avid gym-goer. Babes all of over the place at every gym I try. There are young ones who should quit the gym, they are so gorgeous as to almost drive the likes of me away to some more fitting place - military boot camp, say. There are the older ones still sporting their long blonde hair who know the instructors by name (SJP wannabes), yet never crack a smile or a sweat. And there are the very, very fit and svelte old ones who are elegant and relaxed and very Catherine Deneuve-ish.
Third, I do the school run. Babes aplenty there. Now, don't take this the wrong way, but there is a certain type of mother here in Kensington, London that is not quite as common in suburban Brisbane, at least not where my boys went to school last year. If there was ever a situation that would leave one feeling distinctly un-babe-like it would have to be the school run in Kensington. Here, we are blessed to live in densely populated inner city terrain that ensures that many on the school run, high and mighty in their shiny eco-friendly 4x4s (German usually), are obliged to park their cars and and escort their gorgeous moppets into school, there being no drive-by drop off facility. The walk of shame, I call it, as I stroll in with my mismatched gymkit under shapeless trousers, floral bag over my shoulder and empty stroller to chain up to the fence (the kids no longer ride in it but it is a necessity for the groceries, school bags, blazers and other accoutrement that make their way home with us at 3.30pm). But the other mothers, hailing from France, Spain and Italy, petite to the point of gamine, elfin and pre-adolescent while boasting fine bones, skin and clothes, are chic, cool and ever so babe-like - if a continental woman can even be termed a "babe"!
One is naturally drawn to the other Aussies - never scared to wear their trainers to drop-off - the Americans who do jeans so well and the English (a small minority in this part of London), who can be understated in their nun-like uniforms of charcoal business suit or who tend to go all country stylish in mac and wellies. Then again, faced with the bare skin of said Brits (no one know how to get their kit off at the first sign of summer better), one tends to feel terribly Sun-Safe and geriatric cowering in the shade under one's hat (having spent too long in the Brisbane sun as a girl) throughout the heady days of June.
I won't even start on the fact that Elle McPherson drops her son at the school around the corner from mine.
Suffice to say - as I near a significant birthday milestone, heave my sorry aching body (too much exertion at Total Body Conditioning with Chrispin) around town and share pavements with women who make Giselle and Audrey Tatou look ordinary, I am sure of one thing - I am anything but a Babe.
I am well-versed in self-help lingo and notions (being a coach) and so I know that there must be a ploy I can use to rethink this whole babe concept. Perhaps something about skin deep, eyes of beholders and thinking it making it so...
Nevertheless, if no one minds, I suspect there is room in Babes in Business for the likes of me; provided I don's spoil anyone else's fun, right?
Which only leaves the Business...
And that is another story.
Until then I leave you with the question: What is a Babe, anyway?
For more musings in a similar vein see: Are you a domestic goddess?
A Brisbane girl originally, I moved to London in 1997. I joined Babes in 2009 while back in Australia for a time during the final stages of, and the months following, my mother's battle with leukaemia. I returned to London in January this year. As is so often the case, after the event, I began to look back fondly on the love and support offered while "home", such that in a flurry of "settling back in" optimism and energy I flirted (dizzily, as it happened) with the idea of establishing the London chapter of Babes in Business. You all know the saying about giving something to a busy woman...
Somehow, though, the flurry turned from fever paced and ferocious to occasional and seasonal as the months passed. Indeed, after all of the change and upheaval involved in moving to Australia and back within 9 months, contemplating and trying out a life in Ghana on the return leg, as well and changing career and starting my own business, some days it was all I could do to log into the email, buy groceries and make the bed. It became apparent that establishing anything other than my own gym routine and the every other day bath ritual for the kids (Winters in cold climates can have compensating benefits), was going to require more motivation and drive than I could muster. So while the idea of a London arm to Babes is a nice one, for now I am focussed on keeping in touch with the mothership via a "Blog from Abroad".
The truth is that while in Brisbane I did not sufficiently avail myself of the networking, socialising and learning opportunities that Babes affords. At the time I was writing my second book and marketing my coaching services while enjoying dust storms, life among close family and friends and adjusting to life without my dear mother. Now, the dust having settled and "business as usual" more or less resumed, I hope to offer to Babes members some insight into life in London for women in business, juggling career, family and home. So I wanted to share here at Spring to Mind some of my musings for the Babes back home.
........
But first, I need to clear the air. And so I want to put it out there that for some time I have struggled with the very notion of myself as a "Babe".
On my gloomier, or perhaps I should say, more honest days, I contemplate a sister organisation - "Non-Babes in Business", or "Wannabe Babes Struggling to Stay in Business" or perhaps even just "Anti-Babes Who Think They Have a Business". The truth is that despite an awful lot of passion and thought, energy and ideas, effort and enthusiasm, creating a successful business is not as easy as the moniker "Babes in Business" might have you believe.
Am I preaching to the converted, or a lone voice crying in the Wilderness? Probably the latter. You see, I often sense that I am cast adrift in a veritable wilderness of babes.
Everywhere I look, in fact, there is evidence that this is so.
First, I am the mother of three sons aged 4, 6 and 8. Ergo - Babes at home.
Second, I am an avid gym-goer. Babes all of over the place at every gym I try. There are young ones who should quit the gym, they are so gorgeous as to almost drive the likes of me away to some more fitting place - military boot camp, say. There are the older ones still sporting their long blonde hair who know the instructors by name (SJP wannabes), yet never crack a smile or a sweat. And there are the very, very fit and svelte old ones who are elegant and relaxed and very Catherine Deneuve-ish.
Third, I do the school run. Babes aplenty there. Now, don't take this the wrong way, but there is a certain type of mother here in Kensington, London that is not quite as common in suburban Brisbane, at least not where my boys went to school last year. If there was ever a situation that would leave one feeling distinctly un-babe-like it would have to be the school run in Kensington. Here, we are blessed to live in densely populated inner city terrain that ensures that many on the school run, high and mighty in their shiny eco-friendly 4x4s (German usually), are obliged to park their cars and and escort their gorgeous moppets into school, there being no drive-by drop off facility. The walk of shame, I call it, as I stroll in with my mismatched gymkit under shapeless trousers, floral bag over my shoulder and empty stroller to chain up to the fence (the kids no longer ride in it but it is a necessity for the groceries, school bags, blazers and other accoutrement that make their way home with us at 3.30pm). But the other mothers, hailing from France, Spain and Italy, petite to the point of gamine, elfin and pre-adolescent while boasting fine bones, skin and clothes, are chic, cool and ever so babe-like - if a continental woman can even be termed a "babe"!
One is naturally drawn to the other Aussies - never scared to wear their trainers to drop-off - the Americans who do jeans so well and the English (a small minority in this part of London), who can be understated in their nun-like uniforms of charcoal business suit or who tend to go all country stylish in mac and wellies. Then again, faced with the bare skin of said Brits (no one know how to get their kit off at the first sign of summer better), one tends to feel terribly Sun-Safe and geriatric cowering in the shade under one's hat (having spent too long in the Brisbane sun as a girl) throughout the heady days of June.
I won't even start on the fact that Elle McPherson drops her son at the school around the corner from mine.
Suffice to say - as I near a significant birthday milestone, heave my sorry aching body (too much exertion at Total Body Conditioning with Chrispin) around town and share pavements with women who make Giselle and Audrey Tatou look ordinary, I am sure of one thing - I am anything but a Babe.
I am well-versed in self-help lingo and notions (being a coach) and so I know that there must be a ploy I can use to rethink this whole babe concept. Perhaps something about skin deep, eyes of beholders and thinking it making it so...
Nevertheless, if no one minds, I suspect there is room in Babes in Business for the likes of me; provided I don's spoil anyone else's fun, right?
Which only leaves the Business...
And that is another story.
Until then I leave you with the question: What is a Babe, anyway?
For more musings in a similar vein see: Are you a domestic goddess?
Thursday, 2 September 2010
A case for Home Schooling
September has always been my favourite month. In Australia it is Spring and as the days grow longer and warmer and the air fills with the sweet and sometimes overwhelming scent of jasmine in bloom the anticipation of a long and sultry summer has not yet robbed one of the expectant joy that comes with breaking out the shorts and sunhats.
In England September holds still longish evenings of fading light, crisp mornings and balmy days. The summer may have been oppressively hot or perhaps as is more often the case, leaden and grey, or even, let's be honest, wet and cold, but a mild and sunny September is almost a guarantee. The sky is blue and cloudless, the air clean and pollen-free, the grass lush and green. The city is full of relaxed, tanned people returning with smiley faces from their long vacations in warmer climes, clad in crisp, white trousers and strappy sandals, sporting fresh haircuts, as if it they were still in Sardinia or Majorca.
September is also the beginning of the new academic year with all the attendant excitement and flurry of activity that it involves. Everyone seems hopeful and optimistic. The sleep-ins and the long days without obligation have worked their magic and the eager feet skip happily back to the school yard, faces glowing and fresh and rested.
And the children don't seem to mind turning up either.
The youngest of the Off-Spring joined his brothers in big-boy real school today. The uniform of tie, cap, long trousers and blazer suited him very well. Like a business man though, after a rough day at the office, he was quick to remove the tie once the school gate was out of sight this afternoon, his cap and blazer flung into my waiting arms. I almost expected him to ask for a beer, so like a mini-man did he look.
When I was a child I recall my elder brother lamenting the long years of education that children face. I did not really understand his regret about the situation. I always loved school and never imagined being anywhere else between the ages of 5 and 17 - or indeed 22. Yet, my middle son proposed that he stay home for the rest of the year, despite a good first day back, on the grounds that I could teach him all he would need to know. I knew better than to answer him at any length...
Nevertheless, as one gears up for the early wake ups, the routine, the homework, the extra-curricular activities and the endless round of party invitations, one does feel a pang for the heady freedom of those long summer days in the garden with nowhere to go and nothing to do but explore, play, read and be free. Yet we would hardly appreciate it if it were always summer.
Our communal garden is seeing the summer out with a talent show this weekend.
In theory a talent show is a wonderful idea. We all beamed with joy and eagerness at the thought.
But as the day looms the prospect is now more akin to a fancy dress party with an exam at the end which one is not prepared for culminating in one of those recurring dreams when one has to go on stage not knowing the act one is about to perform, naked. The issue is not that I am scared of performing - indeed - followers will be well aware by now that I love the spotlight. No, the problem is my parlous lack of talent in all areas capable of lending themselves to public performance.
Which is not to say I cannot hold a tune. And I am a rather dab hand at all things Wilde and Shaw, but the wide age ranges of the audience, the wide parameters of what talent may mean for 3 year olds, together with a self-imposed standard that at all costs I must be funny, leaves me in a veritable quandary.
So while the Off-Spring rehearse the Macarena, turning cartwheels and telling knock-knock jokes interspersed with a tuneful medley of top 40 pop tunes featuring Beyonce, Black Eyed Pees and Justin Bieber, I am racking my brains for an original take on my many talents.
A debate perhaps? Topic - That a communal garden brings out the best in everyone! I could prevail on Mr Springgirl to argue the affirmative.
A brief demo of Master Chef as interpreted in my kitchen when feeding a lacto-vegan, a carnivore, a picky rabbit and a lover of all things spicy and fiery?
A rendition of our favourite hymns? The soundtrack to a "Sound of Music" or the "King and I" performed in my trumpet imitating voice?
A reading from one of my favourite books - starring Winnie the Pooh of course!
An expose of my push-ups, warrior 2 pose and plank?
An impression of someone in the garden?
Hamlet's To Be or Not To Be - reworked of course, for the modern multi-age audience - perhaps a "To Perform or not to Perform" - or an "Ode to Talent"...
The mind boggles at the options.
I will be buying wine, a soft cushion, a warm shawl and a waterproof jacket to prepare for my time in the audience. If one thing is clear, from my subtle questions in the garden this week, it is that everyone has a talent to showcase. From dancing to acting, magic tricks to belching, gymnastics and potty juggling, public speaking and bubble blowing, heckling and feats of tree climbing, tennis serving and tennis net hurdling.
I woke last night with a the kernal of an idea evaporating from my unconscious dream like thoughts. It eludes me still; a glimmer of a spark of inspiration, not quite in my peripheral vision. More like a long forgotten punch line suggesting itself in a moment of deja-vu.
All of which is to say this:
First class honours in law, a history degree, a long career as a debater, a masters degree, a long track record in professional services and a business and a book to my name and I still have less discernible talent than the black cat from Number 2. So the idea of skipping a formal education starts to resonate with me now.
Most of the skills the Off-Spring use and take the most pleasure and pride in are those developed at home or away from the school house - tennis, swimming, dancing, singing, running, arguing, negotiating, manipulating...
Where did all my book-learning really take me?
Hold on - I just had a thought. Would Mr Springgirl play the part of the host of Mastermind and quiz me on my pet topic? Parenting while dealing with crazy women, high-spirited kids, absent (working abroad) husbands and thwarted aspirations to write best-selling novels?
For example - name the four biggest impediments to a good night's sleep?
Feeding babies, watching too much tv, vomiting kids and pregnancy.
Is it boring? Obvious? Unfunny?
Maybe I could do an impression of a famous actress being interviewed for her views of juggling career and family, shedding light on how to choose really weird and unkind babynames, how to eat only superfoods shipped in from the Equator after discovering lovably cute orphans from similar climes to adopt, while grappling with the potency of fame and recognition during those trying months of trying to lose the baby pounds with only three personal trainers and a private chef to help. All the while extolling the virtues of home schooling.
Now I am on to something. Best of all it is good clean family fun and may break up the juggling and magic tricks nicely.
Which leads me to reconsider the whole home schooling question from a new angle.
Depending on the calibre of resident, the quality of interaction and the preparedness to throw oneself into things, together with access to the internet, living on a communal garden can conceivably offer all one needs in terms of education.
Enough of the school fees and schedules. Live on a garden square with lots of children and nice friendly families!
All of the ancient disciplines are on offer in our garden.
Rhetoric, logic, grammar, citizenship, arithmetic, philosophy, gymnastics, wrestling.
Fine arts and sports are a speciality - sand sculpting, harmony and tune holding, gate swinging, gravel kicking, bike and scooter riding, football (if the anti-football lady is not home), basic toileting - of the behind a tree and potty variety, gardening and tennis court marking, ball throwing, cricket, skipping, hopping and following the leader, freezing, catching, hiding and seeking and tree climbing, bug catching and identifying, animal husbandry (at least cat, snail, bird, fox and squirrel), airplane identification and jumping from benches, to name but a few.
And social skills get plenty of attention as well - sharing, negotiating, appropriate use of swear words, manners and diction, getting along with all sorts, mucking in and tidying up after oneself.
Safety is not neglected either. Strangers are still strangers even if they share the space. A stray cigarette lighter is not a toy. Gravel rash hurts. Put down the stick. Get out of the shrubbery unless you want to be covered in insect bites tomorrow.
I do think that the Off-Spring have learnt more in the past 6 weeks in the garden than in the whole previous year at school.
But alas, the real world does exist outside the little commune and no one stays under 10 forever...
Still, it puts the whole holiday camp industry into perspective. And - I think I may have an act for the Show after all!
In England September holds still longish evenings of fading light, crisp mornings and balmy days. The summer may have been oppressively hot or perhaps as is more often the case, leaden and grey, or even, let's be honest, wet and cold, but a mild and sunny September is almost a guarantee. The sky is blue and cloudless, the air clean and pollen-free, the grass lush and green. The city is full of relaxed, tanned people returning with smiley faces from their long vacations in warmer climes, clad in crisp, white trousers and strappy sandals, sporting fresh haircuts, as if it they were still in Sardinia or Majorca.
September is also the beginning of the new academic year with all the attendant excitement and flurry of activity that it involves. Everyone seems hopeful and optimistic. The sleep-ins and the long days without obligation have worked their magic and the eager feet skip happily back to the school yard, faces glowing and fresh and rested.
And the children don't seem to mind turning up either.
The youngest of the Off-Spring joined his brothers in big-boy real school today. The uniform of tie, cap, long trousers and blazer suited him very well. Like a business man though, after a rough day at the office, he was quick to remove the tie once the school gate was out of sight this afternoon, his cap and blazer flung into my waiting arms. I almost expected him to ask for a beer, so like a mini-man did he look.
When I was a child I recall my elder brother lamenting the long years of education that children face. I did not really understand his regret about the situation. I always loved school and never imagined being anywhere else between the ages of 5 and 17 - or indeed 22. Yet, my middle son proposed that he stay home for the rest of the year, despite a good first day back, on the grounds that I could teach him all he would need to know. I knew better than to answer him at any length...
Nevertheless, as one gears up for the early wake ups, the routine, the homework, the extra-curricular activities and the endless round of party invitations, one does feel a pang for the heady freedom of those long summer days in the garden with nowhere to go and nothing to do but explore, play, read and be free. Yet we would hardly appreciate it if it were always summer.
Our communal garden is seeing the summer out with a talent show this weekend.
In theory a talent show is a wonderful idea. We all beamed with joy and eagerness at the thought.
But as the day looms the prospect is now more akin to a fancy dress party with an exam at the end which one is not prepared for culminating in one of those recurring dreams when one has to go on stage not knowing the act one is about to perform, naked. The issue is not that I am scared of performing - indeed - followers will be well aware by now that I love the spotlight. No, the problem is my parlous lack of talent in all areas capable of lending themselves to public performance.
Which is not to say I cannot hold a tune. And I am a rather dab hand at all things Wilde and Shaw, but the wide age ranges of the audience, the wide parameters of what talent may mean for 3 year olds, together with a self-imposed standard that at all costs I must be funny, leaves me in a veritable quandary.
So while the Off-Spring rehearse the Macarena, turning cartwheels and telling knock-knock jokes interspersed with a tuneful medley of top 40 pop tunes featuring Beyonce, Black Eyed Pees and Justin Bieber, I am racking my brains for an original take on my many talents.
A debate perhaps? Topic - That a communal garden brings out the best in everyone! I could prevail on Mr Springgirl to argue the affirmative.
A brief demo of Master Chef as interpreted in my kitchen when feeding a lacto-vegan, a carnivore, a picky rabbit and a lover of all things spicy and fiery?
A rendition of our favourite hymns? The soundtrack to a "Sound of Music" or the "King and I" performed in my trumpet imitating voice?
A reading from one of my favourite books - starring Winnie the Pooh of course!
An expose of my push-ups, warrior 2 pose and plank?
An impression of someone in the garden?
Hamlet's To Be or Not To Be - reworked of course, for the modern multi-age audience - perhaps a "To Perform or not to Perform" - or an "Ode to Talent"...
The mind boggles at the options.
I will be buying wine, a soft cushion, a warm shawl and a waterproof jacket to prepare for my time in the audience. If one thing is clear, from my subtle questions in the garden this week, it is that everyone has a talent to showcase. From dancing to acting, magic tricks to belching, gymnastics and potty juggling, public speaking and bubble blowing, heckling and feats of tree climbing, tennis serving and tennis net hurdling.
I woke last night with a the kernal of an idea evaporating from my unconscious dream like thoughts. It eludes me still; a glimmer of a spark of inspiration, not quite in my peripheral vision. More like a long forgotten punch line suggesting itself in a moment of deja-vu.
All of which is to say this:
First class honours in law, a history degree, a long career as a debater, a masters degree, a long track record in professional services and a business and a book to my name and I still have less discernible talent than the black cat from Number 2. So the idea of skipping a formal education starts to resonate with me now.
Most of the skills the Off-Spring use and take the most pleasure and pride in are those developed at home or away from the school house - tennis, swimming, dancing, singing, running, arguing, negotiating, manipulating...
Where did all my book-learning really take me?
Hold on - I just had a thought. Would Mr Springgirl play the part of the host of Mastermind and quiz me on my pet topic? Parenting while dealing with crazy women, high-spirited kids, absent (working abroad) husbands and thwarted aspirations to write best-selling novels?
For example - name the four biggest impediments to a good night's sleep?
Feeding babies, watching too much tv, vomiting kids and pregnancy.
Is it boring? Obvious? Unfunny?
Maybe I could do an impression of a famous actress being interviewed for her views of juggling career and family, shedding light on how to choose really weird and unkind babynames, how to eat only superfoods shipped in from the Equator after discovering lovably cute orphans from similar climes to adopt, while grappling with the potency of fame and recognition during those trying months of trying to lose the baby pounds with only three personal trainers and a private chef to help. All the while extolling the virtues of home schooling.
Now I am on to something. Best of all it is good clean family fun and may break up the juggling and magic tricks nicely.
Which leads me to reconsider the whole home schooling question from a new angle.
Depending on the calibre of resident, the quality of interaction and the preparedness to throw oneself into things, together with access to the internet, living on a communal garden can conceivably offer all one needs in terms of education.
Enough of the school fees and schedules. Live on a garden square with lots of children and nice friendly families!
All of the ancient disciplines are on offer in our garden.
Rhetoric, logic, grammar, citizenship, arithmetic, philosophy, gymnastics, wrestling.
Fine arts and sports are a speciality - sand sculpting, harmony and tune holding, gate swinging, gravel kicking, bike and scooter riding, football (if the anti-football lady is not home), basic toileting - of the behind a tree and potty variety, gardening and tennis court marking, ball throwing, cricket, skipping, hopping and following the leader, freezing, catching, hiding and seeking and tree climbing, bug catching and identifying, animal husbandry (at least cat, snail, bird, fox and squirrel), airplane identification and jumping from benches, to name but a few.
And social skills get plenty of attention as well - sharing, negotiating, appropriate use of swear words, manners and diction, getting along with all sorts, mucking in and tidying up after oneself.
Safety is not neglected either. Strangers are still strangers even if they share the space. A stray cigarette lighter is not a toy. Gravel rash hurts. Put down the stick. Get out of the shrubbery unless you want to be covered in insect bites tomorrow.
I do think that the Off-Spring have learnt more in the past 6 weeks in the garden than in the whole previous year at school.
But alas, the real world does exist outside the little commune and no one stays under 10 forever...
Still, it puts the whole holiday camp industry into perspective. And - I think I may have an act for the Show after all!
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Beware the "unsub"
If you have watched any American crime dramas or movies involving a police or "federal agency" investigation you will be familiar with the term "unsub" - the unknown subject.
In my line of work - almost as gripping and usually as suspenseful as criminal investigations and manhunts -writing, blogging, spreading the good news about ways to enhance your sense of wellbeing and meet your potential - there are a range of Unsubs to deal with.
The first is the Unknown Subject in the coaching session. A client comes to me. We engage about the topic of concern to the client and we agree to explore it in more depth and work towards the client's stated goals and outcomes. Some way into the session there appears another issue or concern. Sometimes, the client see this issue as it arrives and plonks itself down in our midst, craving attention and preventing any further discussion until it is addressed, head on. It may be the Real Issue, it may be just a Big Distraction. But usually we give it lots of attention and treat it like a grown up, take it seriously. Address it head on.
But sometimes the issue is not so open and amenable to our focus. Sometimes the issue creeps into the room and lurks around in the shadows and dust balls in the corners and under the side tables. Sometimes it is a murky form hovering in the corridor beyond, a presence more felt than seen.
This is the Unknown Subject. I can usually tell when it is around. The client can too, if they are honest. But knowing it is there is not really the challenge. The Unsub in this case is elusive and evades our attention. We need to be wily and patient and generous with this timid interloper. Ironically, its timidity is inversely proportional to its importance. Addressing this Unsub can be key to unlocking blockages, shifting perspectives and galvanising energy. This Unsub is powerful and potentially vindictive. We have to outsmart it in many ways, while all the time appearing non-threatening and responsive.
There are other types of Unsub. In my new novel (still in draft) which charts a year in the life of the main protagonist as she confronts a loss of all that she had held dear while embarking on a journey towards that which will sustain and nourish her long into her future, (don't worry - it is hilarious) there are myriad Unsubs. Some of these do not need to become known or identified. They are but niggles, distractions from the real drama and journey; the friend at yoga who collapses, the unsightly blemish on the chin, the flirtatious builder. But some are more central to the characters' progress and development. They cannot be avoided; nor can they be openly exposed. Their impact can be immense though. They can derail the story, becoming unhelpful subplots, annoying red herrings. As in real life some of them will become obstacles if left to their own devices.
Since I am in control of the whole thing - I have ultimate power over these Unsubs. It is a wonderful feeling - to play puppeteer and ring master and supreme being. Sometimes. But mostly, I wait it out; ever watchful to see what the characters are up to, how they want to resolve their conflicts and how they wish to deal with the Unsubs. The challenge and opportunity for me is to give the Unsubs meaning for the reader.
There are, in real life, all manner of Unsubs as well. My personal favourites are so familiar, indeed so common, as to be truly passe. They barely deserve the moniker of "unknown". It would perhaps be better to call them "unspoken subjects" or "subtext". Sometimes they are our friends, keeping us company in a room full of strangers or warm on a cold night alone in those endless moments before dawn. But too often their main purpose is not one of support or comfort. Too often they smirk and cajole. Or they lie by our sides on their saggy old sunloungers, lazy little sunbathing good-for-nothings, interpreting our lives, souring our interactions. And when they hang around like teenagers at the mall, idle, looking for trouble, in small groups where their combinations and permutations are clearly a recipe for disaster, well, what did we think was going to happen...
You must know them too. Good old "childhood baggage", "fear of the unknown" and "expectations". And that is before we get to the real humdingers like "years of neglect", "spiritual poverty" and "narcissistic personality disorder". They get in the way of true meetings of minds and honest and authentic relationships. Instead of embracing opportunities to connect and engage, these saboteurs hold us back and malign our best endeavours to live a full and rich life.
Perhaps I overstate things. Perhaps they help us too. Those inner voices that warn us to run away, avoid getting sucked in to a labyrinth of negativity and self loathing. But then those voices are our friends. They have out best interests at heart, surely.
Anyway, this may all have gone off track - again.
The final category of Unsub to consider is the "Unsubscribe". You may be familiar with this one. It is the epitome of passive aggressive. And the suspense and mystery is there aplenty!
One wakes, makes some tea, attends to one's ablutions and children and then, stealing a moment before the school run, one checks one's emails and website activity. One has a sneaky look at who has opened that new message about the new venture/book/offer/what have you, and there right before your eyes is proof positive that you really do not strike a chord.
Because there on the screen is the big fat bold black number telling you that so-and-so has unsubscribed to your oh-so-annoying email announcing your new book/what have you. Mmm, you think, gazing into the middle distance. Some people are very important. Their in-boxes are stuffed full of incredibly vital matters. Somehow, the Unsub, like in all the best whodunnits, is never the person you think it will be, though. Not the executives or partners or high-powered entrepreneurs. Not the weird loner who no-one really knows. No, it is a different character altogether. Which makes sense. In the whodunnits the Unsub is the pretty, vacuous cheerleader that no one took seriously, or the studious old guy who was too eager to help the cops solve the crime. (I can say this here because, let's face it - would you read my rantings if you did not want to? All those who don't get me, follow me or like me should not be here to start with!)
So the Unsub can be irksome. And so too can the diminution of the already paltry fan base on those networking sites that encourage us to "fan" each other. All of a sudden, instead of three fans one has one (oneself). I know how Jason Donovan feels.
What does one do with that knowledge? How does one improve one's message, presence or style? And the risks? Another set of imponderables...
The fact is that one is better off not knowing who likes one or follows one, no? One is best to get a kick out of the intrinsic pleasure and value of having an idea and writing something vaguely amusing or distracting about it. And if one person enjoyed it or paused to consider it, then one's efforts were worthwhile.
After all, there may be some Unsub in the Unsub.
In my line of work - almost as gripping and usually as suspenseful as criminal investigations and manhunts -writing, blogging, spreading the good news about ways to enhance your sense of wellbeing and meet your potential - there are a range of Unsubs to deal with.
The first is the Unknown Subject in the coaching session. A client comes to me. We engage about the topic of concern to the client and we agree to explore it in more depth and work towards the client's stated goals and outcomes. Some way into the session there appears another issue or concern. Sometimes, the client see this issue as it arrives and plonks itself down in our midst, craving attention and preventing any further discussion until it is addressed, head on. It may be the Real Issue, it may be just a Big Distraction. But usually we give it lots of attention and treat it like a grown up, take it seriously. Address it head on.
But sometimes the issue is not so open and amenable to our focus. Sometimes the issue creeps into the room and lurks around in the shadows and dust balls in the corners and under the side tables. Sometimes it is a murky form hovering in the corridor beyond, a presence more felt than seen.
This is the Unknown Subject. I can usually tell when it is around. The client can too, if they are honest. But knowing it is there is not really the challenge. The Unsub in this case is elusive and evades our attention. We need to be wily and patient and generous with this timid interloper. Ironically, its timidity is inversely proportional to its importance. Addressing this Unsub can be key to unlocking blockages, shifting perspectives and galvanising energy. This Unsub is powerful and potentially vindictive. We have to outsmart it in many ways, while all the time appearing non-threatening and responsive.
There are other types of Unsub. In my new novel (still in draft) which charts a year in the life of the main protagonist as she confronts a loss of all that she had held dear while embarking on a journey towards that which will sustain and nourish her long into her future, (don't worry - it is hilarious) there are myriad Unsubs. Some of these do not need to become known or identified. They are but niggles, distractions from the real drama and journey; the friend at yoga who collapses, the unsightly blemish on the chin, the flirtatious builder. But some are more central to the characters' progress and development. They cannot be avoided; nor can they be openly exposed. Their impact can be immense though. They can derail the story, becoming unhelpful subplots, annoying red herrings. As in real life some of them will become obstacles if left to their own devices.
Since I am in control of the whole thing - I have ultimate power over these Unsubs. It is a wonderful feeling - to play puppeteer and ring master and supreme being. Sometimes. But mostly, I wait it out; ever watchful to see what the characters are up to, how they want to resolve their conflicts and how they wish to deal with the Unsubs. The challenge and opportunity for me is to give the Unsubs meaning for the reader.
There are, in real life, all manner of Unsubs as well. My personal favourites are so familiar, indeed so common, as to be truly passe. They barely deserve the moniker of "unknown". It would perhaps be better to call them "unspoken subjects" or "subtext". Sometimes they are our friends, keeping us company in a room full of strangers or warm on a cold night alone in those endless moments before dawn. But too often their main purpose is not one of support or comfort. Too often they smirk and cajole. Or they lie by our sides on their saggy old sunloungers, lazy little sunbathing good-for-nothings, interpreting our lives, souring our interactions. And when they hang around like teenagers at the mall, idle, looking for trouble, in small groups where their combinations and permutations are clearly a recipe for disaster, well, what did we think was going to happen...
You must know them too. Good old "childhood baggage", "fear of the unknown" and "expectations". And that is before we get to the real humdingers like "years of neglect", "spiritual poverty" and "narcissistic personality disorder". They get in the way of true meetings of minds and honest and authentic relationships. Instead of embracing opportunities to connect and engage, these saboteurs hold us back and malign our best endeavours to live a full and rich life.
Perhaps I overstate things. Perhaps they help us too. Those inner voices that warn us to run away, avoid getting sucked in to a labyrinth of negativity and self loathing. But then those voices are our friends. They have out best interests at heart, surely.
Anyway, this may all have gone off track - again.
The final category of Unsub to consider is the "Unsubscribe". You may be familiar with this one. It is the epitome of passive aggressive. And the suspense and mystery is there aplenty!
One wakes, makes some tea, attends to one's ablutions and children and then, stealing a moment before the school run, one checks one's emails and website activity. One has a sneaky look at who has opened that new message about the new venture/book/offer/what have you, and there right before your eyes is proof positive that you really do not strike a chord.
Because there on the screen is the big fat bold black number telling you that so-and-so has unsubscribed to your oh-so-annoying email announcing your new book/what have you. Mmm, you think, gazing into the middle distance. Some people are very important. Their in-boxes are stuffed full of incredibly vital matters. Somehow, the Unsub, like in all the best whodunnits, is never the person you think it will be, though. Not the executives or partners or high-powered entrepreneurs. Not the weird loner who no-one really knows. No, it is a different character altogether. Which makes sense. In the whodunnits the Unsub is the pretty, vacuous cheerleader that no one took seriously, or the studious old guy who was too eager to help the cops solve the crime. (I can say this here because, let's face it - would you read my rantings if you did not want to? All those who don't get me, follow me or like me should not be here to start with!)
So the Unsub can be irksome. And so too can the diminution of the already paltry fan base on those networking sites that encourage us to "fan" each other. All of a sudden, instead of three fans one has one (oneself). I know how Jason Donovan feels.
What does one do with that knowledge? How does one improve one's message, presence or style? And the risks? Another set of imponderables...
The fact is that one is better off not knowing who likes one or follows one, no? One is best to get a kick out of the intrinsic pleasure and value of having an idea and writing something vaguely amusing or distracting about it. And if one person enjoyed it or paused to consider it, then one's efforts were worthwhile.
After all, there may be some Unsub in the Unsub.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
A friend for the summer...
Some time ago I posted here about a story I had written for children and my ambition to "get it out there" - as a result of which I illustrated it myself - despite my wanton lack of talent as an artist. Since then I have spent far too much time learning the subtleties of Microsoft Paint, Powerpoint, PDF creation and how to use HTML(?). Indeed.
The end result is "Tess and the Seaside Girl" - an e-book for 4-8 year olds, replete with nostalgic prose and pictures that will appeal to anyone who has longed for a friend for the holidays.
Tess' story is, I think, one with universal appeal. Timeless and ageless and culture crossing. While I risk sounding even more self-promoting than usual, I have realised that if I want to generate a following for my writing, ideas or work, then I have to tell you what is in it for you.
So I will tell you a story to make my point.
......
Do you ever consider what sort of story yours would be if you were telling it for the big screen? Or the little screen, for that matter?
Some time ago I worked in a very eccentric office. We were the lawyers who drafted the legislation that wound up becoming the laws of the Commonwealth of Australia, so you can imagine just how eclectic a group we might have been. Being young and fun and full of ideas, I (together with another lawyer/good friend) scripted some episodes of "OPC (Office of Parliamentary Counsel)" - you know the sort of thing - "Ally McBeal" meets "The Office" meets "Yes Minister". The scripts and the plots lines were nowhere near as amusing as the casting though. Naturally, someone bright, attractive and classy - out of the reach of all Hollywood slander and gossip - was to play me. I cannot remember who it was, to be frank...
Anyway, we had a huge (notional) budget for name actors and created a cast replete with Jeff Goldblum, Carrie Fisher, Danny De Vito and William Hurt. We had Meg Ryan, George from Seinfeld and Helen Hunt. We told some of our colleagues who had been cast to play them - it was a very effective way of keeping one's friends close and one's enemies closer. Obviously we did not tell the guy in question that Danny DV was to play him... But by and large our casting was either very apt or very flattering because it really captured the imagination of the office for a few weeks back in the summer of '96. Indeed, some of the staff emailed me asking who was cast as them - I was put on the spot more than once. It all seemed real and magical, at the same time. As if somehow, by saying it, we could create a fantasy land where the silver screen could come alive all around us. Where tedious concerns like proof checking and remembering to bring cakes to Friday morning tea were put aside for more urgent and glamorous calls on our time.
A year or two ago I posed the question at my then workplace - open plan professional services - quite a different kettle of fish, really, from my first real job at OPC. My neighbour - a 28 year old, bright and upcoming structured tax financier - told me without a moment's hesitation that Matthew McConnaughey might manage to play him. A range of dashing, well toned and tanned, albeit somewhat empty headed, leading men were proposed by the rest of the "bay" (area of desks) to play them. It was inspiring just how well the Gen Y chaps thought of themselves.
Now, in another world again - self-employed author, blogger, chair of the PTA, coach and often-home-alone-with-husband-abroad-mother-of-three - the story is more gripping than the cast. It is a story that we all know and relate to, after all.
This is not to say that the cast is superlative. No, the mother would be played by someone like Cate Blanchett (capable of looking like death warmed up but also gorgeous when need be). The father would be someone we all like - he would not be in much of the film so it is not that important - maybe Hugh Jackman, maybe Denzel Washington...
But the really important thing is the story itself. It will be told in the mocumentary style. It will seem real but it will in fact be actors playing the parts of these ordinary and simple folk in west London in summer.
The plot is not extraordinary. The tale of a mundane and humdrum urban life as seen through the eyes of the mother. Voice over, naturally.
The backdrop of London is always a seat filler - think Four Weddings, Notting Hill, Love Actually, myriad crime dramas, Spooks. Against this backdrop we then have the interplay of social comedy and high emotion. As a summer tale - London is half empty as all of the school children and their families have cleared out for warm and sunny climes - it is a sure-fire box office hit.
The story will revolve around the joy and pathos of family life in the city. The antics of the little family as they embark on "summer at home". The action packed scenarios of holidaying in the city. Boarding the buses with overflowing gym, grocery, craft and lunch bags. The missed calls on the mobile, promising an elusive play-date, client meeting or call-back from the builder. The romps in the park. The bickering over the last brioche, last bath and later bedtime.
There is plenty of humour and drama.
And tension. Imagine the camera panning down the aisles at Waitrose - will she buy Frosties or Rice Crispies? Full-fat or semi-skimmed milk? White bread or wholemeal? Which washing detergent? Come on Mum, it's holiday time. Give the kids a treat, we urge. Yes, Frosties win!
Will Mum get the sleep-in she begs for? Will Grandad muddle the time difference and call before dawn on a Sunday - again? Will the reduced price Pinot Grigio taste like reduced price Pinot Grigio? Which priest will say mass? Will it rain all day? Will the children enjoy making faux stained glass windows at the museum and if they do, will Mum meet anyone interesting there? Will there be any leather school shoes in the sale? Will the littlest one be able to sit through a 90 minute session at the cinema? Will the strange lady who lives on the communal garden become more friendly? Would the living room seem bigger if the sofa was by the other wall? Will the children be persuaded that pasta with pesto is still their favourite meal? Is take away dinner really worth it? Can people really live without a tv?
Then there is the bit where the family is due to meet for a longed-for play-date with old friends soon to embark on their summer vacation. Suddenly, at the last moment as the family steps out the door to journey to the park for the picnic, the phone rings. The other mother is calling to check on the weather across town. Lo and behold, she hears the sounds of a sniffle, a blocked nose, in the voice and inflection of Mum/Cate. Without warning, the date is cancelled.Why? "We do not play with germs". Fearing the worst sort of infectious disease to ruin their trip away, the friends beg off. "We shall catch up another time." The family is left alone and bereft in the street. Nothing to do, no one to see. Friendless and feckless.
And so the audience is exposed, fleetingly, to the vagaries of women, socialising and germs, topics so immense and serious as to be beyond the scope of this trite little play. Themes not lightly touched upon in an unambitious comedy of errors such as this. And yet, the story takes a turn. The great themes of love and friendship, loyalty and self-preservation seep in. The background music becomes melancholy. Cate is faced with bigger issues now. Who can she turn to in her loneliness? Facebook? Twitter? Marie Claire? Netmums? Is it wrong that she feels so let down?
Dammit, they kept the whole day free!
And here come the twist!
Confronted with 6 spare hours they had not expected to have, Cate and the children make hay! Their creative juices fired up with the indignation of being cast aside so coldly - they begin writing and painting and drawing, baking and cleaning and sorting.
What a blessing it is to have a long lazy summer at home with no one to see, nothing to do, nowhere to be and no one to have to spend any of it with!
The freedom, the scope for uninhibited self-expression, the unstructured joy of a day left empty and unplanned...
......
So anyhoo. Where was I? Oh yes, the casting couch.
No - before that.
Yes, Tess, and the timeless quest for a kindred spirit with whom to share the lazy, relaxing, joyful and sunsoaked (or cloudy, as the case may be) freedom, of summer time.
Her story really does resonate.
I hope that Tess' other adventures will also find their way into an e-book shop near you before too long.
And perhaps a range for grown up readers:
Tess and the longest night.
Tess and the running away from home.
Tess and the ripped wallpaper.
Tess and the horrible sink blockage.
Tess and the strange man.
Tess and the big fat person's shirt.
Tess and how she ceased to be invisible at the gym (when other ladies kept taking the equipment she was using).
The end result is "Tess and the Seaside Girl" - an e-book for 4-8 year olds, replete with nostalgic prose and pictures that will appeal to anyone who has longed for a friend for the holidays.
Tess' story is, I think, one with universal appeal. Timeless and ageless and culture crossing. While I risk sounding even more self-promoting than usual, I have realised that if I want to generate a following for my writing, ideas or work, then I have to tell you what is in it for you.
So I will tell you a story to make my point.
......
Do you ever consider what sort of story yours would be if you were telling it for the big screen? Or the little screen, for that matter?
Some time ago I worked in a very eccentric office. We were the lawyers who drafted the legislation that wound up becoming the laws of the Commonwealth of Australia, so you can imagine just how eclectic a group we might have been. Being young and fun and full of ideas, I (together with another lawyer/good friend) scripted some episodes of "OPC (Office of Parliamentary Counsel)" - you know the sort of thing - "Ally McBeal" meets "The Office" meets "Yes Minister". The scripts and the plots lines were nowhere near as amusing as the casting though. Naturally, someone bright, attractive and classy - out of the reach of all Hollywood slander and gossip - was to play me. I cannot remember who it was, to be frank...
Anyway, we had a huge (notional) budget for name actors and created a cast replete with Jeff Goldblum, Carrie Fisher, Danny De Vito and William Hurt. We had Meg Ryan, George from Seinfeld and Helen Hunt. We told some of our colleagues who had been cast to play them - it was a very effective way of keeping one's friends close and one's enemies closer. Obviously we did not tell the guy in question that Danny DV was to play him... But by and large our casting was either very apt or very flattering because it really captured the imagination of the office for a few weeks back in the summer of '96. Indeed, some of the staff emailed me asking who was cast as them - I was put on the spot more than once. It all seemed real and magical, at the same time. As if somehow, by saying it, we could create a fantasy land where the silver screen could come alive all around us. Where tedious concerns like proof checking and remembering to bring cakes to Friday morning tea were put aside for more urgent and glamorous calls on our time.
A year or two ago I posed the question at my then workplace - open plan professional services - quite a different kettle of fish, really, from my first real job at OPC. My neighbour - a 28 year old, bright and upcoming structured tax financier - told me without a moment's hesitation that Matthew McConnaughey might manage to play him. A range of dashing, well toned and tanned, albeit somewhat empty headed, leading men were proposed by the rest of the "bay" (area of desks) to play them. It was inspiring just how well the Gen Y chaps thought of themselves.
Now, in another world again - self-employed author, blogger, chair of the PTA, coach and often-home-alone-with-husband-abroad-mother-of-three - the story is more gripping than the cast. It is a story that we all know and relate to, after all.
This is not to say that the cast is superlative. No, the mother would be played by someone like Cate Blanchett (capable of looking like death warmed up but also gorgeous when need be). The father would be someone we all like - he would not be in much of the film so it is not that important - maybe Hugh Jackman, maybe Denzel Washington...
But the really important thing is the story itself. It will be told in the mocumentary style. It will seem real but it will in fact be actors playing the parts of these ordinary and simple folk in west London in summer.
The plot is not extraordinary. The tale of a mundane and humdrum urban life as seen through the eyes of the mother. Voice over, naturally.
The backdrop of London is always a seat filler - think Four Weddings, Notting Hill, Love Actually, myriad crime dramas, Spooks. Against this backdrop we then have the interplay of social comedy and high emotion. As a summer tale - London is half empty as all of the school children and their families have cleared out for warm and sunny climes - it is a sure-fire box office hit.
The story will revolve around the joy and pathos of family life in the city. The antics of the little family as they embark on "summer at home". The action packed scenarios of holidaying in the city. Boarding the buses with overflowing gym, grocery, craft and lunch bags. The missed calls on the mobile, promising an elusive play-date, client meeting or call-back from the builder. The romps in the park. The bickering over the last brioche, last bath and later bedtime.
There is plenty of humour and drama.
And tension. Imagine the camera panning down the aisles at Waitrose - will she buy Frosties or Rice Crispies? Full-fat or semi-skimmed milk? White bread or wholemeal? Which washing detergent? Come on Mum, it's holiday time. Give the kids a treat, we urge. Yes, Frosties win!
Will Mum get the sleep-in she begs for? Will Grandad muddle the time difference and call before dawn on a Sunday - again? Will the reduced price Pinot Grigio taste like reduced price Pinot Grigio? Which priest will say mass? Will it rain all day? Will the children enjoy making faux stained glass windows at the museum and if they do, will Mum meet anyone interesting there? Will there be any leather school shoes in the sale? Will the littlest one be able to sit through a 90 minute session at the cinema? Will the strange lady who lives on the communal garden become more friendly? Would the living room seem bigger if the sofa was by the other wall? Will the children be persuaded that pasta with pesto is still their favourite meal? Is take away dinner really worth it? Can people really live without a tv?
Then there is the bit where the family is due to meet for a longed-for play-date with old friends soon to embark on their summer vacation. Suddenly, at the last moment as the family steps out the door to journey to the park for the picnic, the phone rings. The other mother is calling to check on the weather across town. Lo and behold, she hears the sounds of a sniffle, a blocked nose, in the voice and inflection of Mum/Cate. Without warning, the date is cancelled.Why? "We do not play with germs". Fearing the worst sort of infectious disease to ruin their trip away, the friends beg off. "We shall catch up another time." The family is left alone and bereft in the street. Nothing to do, no one to see. Friendless and feckless.
And so the audience is exposed, fleetingly, to the vagaries of women, socialising and germs, topics so immense and serious as to be beyond the scope of this trite little play. Themes not lightly touched upon in an unambitious comedy of errors such as this. And yet, the story takes a turn. The great themes of love and friendship, loyalty and self-preservation seep in. The background music becomes melancholy. Cate is faced with bigger issues now. Who can she turn to in her loneliness? Facebook? Twitter? Marie Claire? Netmums? Is it wrong that she feels so let down?
Dammit, they kept the whole day free!
And here come the twist!
Confronted with 6 spare hours they had not expected to have, Cate and the children make hay! Their creative juices fired up with the indignation of being cast aside so coldly - they begin writing and painting and drawing, baking and cleaning and sorting.
What a blessing it is to have a long lazy summer at home with no one to see, nothing to do, nowhere to be and no one to have to spend any of it with!
The freedom, the scope for uninhibited self-expression, the unstructured joy of a day left empty and unplanned...
......
So anyhoo. Where was I? Oh yes, the casting couch.
No - before that.
Yes, Tess, and the timeless quest for a kindred spirit with whom to share the lazy, relaxing, joyful and sunsoaked (or cloudy, as the case may be) freedom, of summer time.
Her story really does resonate.
I hope that Tess' other adventures will also find their way into an e-book shop near you before too long.
And perhaps a range for grown up readers:
Tess and the longest night.
Tess and the running away from home.
Tess and the ripped wallpaper.
Tess and the horrible sink blockage.
Tess and the strange man.
Tess and the big fat person's shirt.
Tess and how she ceased to be invisible at the gym (when other ladies kept taking the equipment she was using).
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