Actually had a fair few busy work days, hence the longer than intended interlude in my entries. I was going to write about my general malaise on returning from another blissful weekend in Rye. However, this was somewhat superseded by my sense of outrage at finding out my brother had got engaged from Facebook, closely followed by being asked by our (as ever useless) HR department to write my own appraisal as ‘your boss won’t bother doing it so just fill it in according to what he would expect’. Let’s just say, neither of these incidents did my self-esteem much good, nor did they lift my spirits when I needed to have them raised after coming back to the city after a lovely weekend in the country. Harrumph (no make that a double harrumph!)
However, I did decide to act as positively as possible over all these issues and chose to be optimistic and philosophical over angry and outraged! I did stomp around a bit to get everything out of my system and went for a stonking run, but I also tried to turn the other cheek and look on the bright side.
My brother’s announcement came as a shock as he had emailed me on the Friday with a quick hello type message and mentioned nothing. When I saw he’d changed his status on Monday morning I actually gasped, and my colleague, Sue, was stunned when I told her what had left me looking so dumbfounded. However, rather than rage at him about it being a nice way to find out, I sent him a nice email followed by a proper card from Kenny and I. When I enquired about the timing it turned out he’d been planning it for a while and they were awaiting the arrival of the ring. So given that he was in Canada for 3 weeks in May, I can only imagine he asked her end April/early May. Just in case I need to say it again, they met in January!
He emailed me yesterday to thank me for the card and tell me they have set a date (28 Dec 2011) and where it is being held. It only serves to remind me how very different my brother and I actually are as his choice of place and style of ceremony are as diametrically opposed to mine as it’s possible to get! I understand the blood thicker than water idea in terms of sentiment, but find it hard to reconcile how we came out of the same womb with such different attitudes to life in general.
Anyway, as I said, HR impressed me with their amazing ability to constantly underwhelm me and live up to all the clichéd expectations of Human Remains Departments. I wrote said appraisal and went through the motions but it does bugger all for me given that no one actually wants to hear my opinions and would like me to simply blend into the background and not be a nuisance.
Otherwise it’s been a peaceful enough week. I looked after the other owner of the business whilst my colleague was away, so that’s been keeping me on my toes, as have my training runs for my fast approaching 10k! I know I have still got a lot to do between now and then but I am certainly improving fitness wise and even if I crawl at the end (ha ha!) I will finish it. I do a lot of hill running in practice which makes the actual flat race seem much easier! Hopefully next week I will have more time to churn out some of my musings. Am now off to enjoy a hot and sunny weekend and a day at a spa with my friend G. Bring it on!
Friday, 25 June 2010
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Humbling thoughts
I had an evening all to myself last night and revelled in it! K was in Bristol on business so when I got back from work I had my run, ironed all my clothes for the weekend and relaxed for the eve in front of the telly watching MY programmes with impunity! Actually, K is very good about us having our own time to watch what we choose and usually heads to bed with heavy metal and headphones if it’s something he doesn’t like. I let him have footie and The Simpsons whenever he chooses and he lets me have my ‘porn’ as he puts it which is a combination of properties, culture and rural stuff (Grand Designs, Coast, Countryfile, Antiques Roadshow etc). He watches a lot of it with me, so in that respect we are agreed, but draws the line at the B&B/Hotel/Dining reality ones which is my guilty pleasure! On the whole we are harmonious TV partners and I know he is relieved that I don’t do soaps (my mother was an avid watcher, as was I, until I was old enough to choose and realised it was pure shite!) singing and dancing shows, crass reality TV and anything fashion-related or girly.
Last night I watched Tribal Wives and really empathised with the woman. It’s a lovely programme which for once, doesn’t try to exploit or mock the natives in the areas that they visit. These women have to live with families in totally alien environments and see what they can learn from these people, rather than what they can teach. I hate to say it but if it was called Tribal Husbands the idea would fall flat as they would doubtless embark on a colonisation exercise! Even Bruce Parry on his Tribe show has a habit of trying to instruct rather than just accepting what they do and he is often keen to find new insights which may well make life easier but ultimately affect the cultural development of the society.
Anyway, enough of the Mars/Venus talk! Ultimately these women have to accept real hardship, try things they are bound to fail and be fearless in the face of some challenging conditions. Last night the woman was floored by tortilla making – not because she was incompetent nor clueless but because she feared failure. The things she said about ‘not wanting to make a fool of herself, not wanting to be laughed at, not attempting anything unless she could be 100% certain of achieving it’ resonated so loudly I felt like I was listening to my own voice. Her low opinion of herself stemmed from her remote parents for whom she often felt she was a nuisance and who withheld affection. I truly understand how that affects you as my parents didn’t do cuddles, I love yous or emotion of a positive kind. They did plenty of the negative stuff but we couldn’t express love either in a pleasant way nor in the form of grief, neither. I was discouraged from ever getting upset about sad things and even when my brother lay in an induced coma (from Meningitis) and I arrived to see him, I was told to ‘stop that now’ by my mother when my eyes filled with tears.
Sure, everyone’s story is different but her words hit home hard. The tribe taught her some really significant lessons. One was that fear cripples you and she was instructed to ‘walk your life without fear’ from there onwards. The other was that you should live each day as it comes and stop planning and worrying and just do. As she rightly pointed out, she over-analysed everything (just like me – hell, what’s this blog for if not to over-analyse) and this stopped her taking the plunge on so many occasions. Plenty for me to mull over today.
Last night I watched Tribal Wives and really empathised with the woman. It’s a lovely programme which for once, doesn’t try to exploit or mock the natives in the areas that they visit. These women have to live with families in totally alien environments and see what they can learn from these people, rather than what they can teach. I hate to say it but if it was called Tribal Husbands the idea would fall flat as they would doubtless embark on a colonisation exercise! Even Bruce Parry on his Tribe show has a habit of trying to instruct rather than just accepting what they do and he is often keen to find new insights which may well make life easier but ultimately affect the cultural development of the society.
Anyway, enough of the Mars/Venus talk! Ultimately these women have to accept real hardship, try things they are bound to fail and be fearless in the face of some challenging conditions. Last night the woman was floored by tortilla making – not because she was incompetent nor clueless but because she feared failure. The things she said about ‘not wanting to make a fool of herself, not wanting to be laughed at, not attempting anything unless she could be 100% certain of achieving it’ resonated so loudly I felt like I was listening to my own voice. Her low opinion of herself stemmed from her remote parents for whom she often felt she was a nuisance and who withheld affection. I truly understand how that affects you as my parents didn’t do cuddles, I love yous or emotion of a positive kind. They did plenty of the negative stuff but we couldn’t express love either in a pleasant way nor in the form of grief, neither. I was discouraged from ever getting upset about sad things and even when my brother lay in an induced coma (from Meningitis) and I arrived to see him, I was told to ‘stop that now’ by my mother when my eyes filled with tears.
Sure, everyone’s story is different but her words hit home hard. The tribe taught her some really significant lessons. One was that fear cripples you and she was instructed to ‘walk your life without fear’ from there onwards. The other was that you should live each day as it comes and stop planning and worrying and just do. As she rightly pointed out, she over-analysed everything (just like me – hell, what’s this blog for if not to over-analyse) and this stopped her taking the plunge on so many occasions. Plenty for me to mull over today.
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Why do decent people seem too nice for me?
I was thinking yesterday that I could produce a book called 101 things that I beat myself up about! It’s a humorous take on the things I call upon in order to self-flagellate and the final question would be: what would life be like if I didn’t hate myself so much? I have this utopian image of someone who is the perfect daughter, friend, fiancé, colleague and can whip up a lemon drizzle cake, whilst starch-ironing a shirt and painting the kitchen. I know, I know it’s not even worth contemplating, because truth be told, I wouldn’t much like that Ilona.
She would be so damn ideal, so bloody kind and so utterly unreal that I would dislike her. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I think hate is far too strong a word but I would sneer at her and give thanks for the fact that I am not like that. Yet she is what I am striving to be, which makes the whole exercise into a cruel and deceptive vicious circle.
I have a wide array of friends ranging from the debauched and hedonistic right through to the puritanical, teetotal and vegan! I suppose that over the years I have mainly identified with the former, whilst admiring and respecting the latter. In a sense that balance has shifted and whilst I won’t suddenly be ditching my party-loving, alcohol-sodden chums, I find myself increasingly with more to share with the more ‘model citizens’ in my circle!
Dear friends aside, however, I never really envisaged myself being more in touch with ‘do-gooders’ (as my mother would call them) than hell-raisers. I prided myself on the fact that I was open to all things sex, drugs and rock and roll. Even though I have always indulged on the fringes of the drugs scene and wasn’t known for doing anything life-threatening per se, I liked anything with an element of risk which meant I was neither scared of it nor did I disapprove. I felt proud of this fearlessness and pitied the folks who played it safe.
In truth, I admired these paragons of virtue but I didn’t aspire to be like them. Nor, in some ways, did I like them for their willpower, determination and fundamental goodness. It was like enjoying broccoli because it’s good for you. I just can’t get out of my head that NO-ONE is that perfect and that anyone that comes across as sincere and decent must be hiding something. This flies in the face of the fact that I personally try not to sin or be deliberately bad, yet I can not conceive that other people have the same values and they, unlike me, adhere strictly to them. In a way what I am railing against is the fact that they uphold all these values and enjoy being good, rather than trying to be good and failing, like me. I hate being faced with what I could be, if I weren’t so slovenly and lazy and lacking in willpower, so rather than have to deal with that I end up disliking such folk.
On Sunday I was doing housework and could hear the Residents Association Meeting going on in the garden next door. I revelled in that fact that they were having such dull conversations whilst drinking tea and admiring the flowers and told K I’d rather have pins stuck in my eyes than be forced to do that. As he pointed out, we’d have to let people in to our house whom we didn’t like and be polite to arseholes in the spirit of inclusiveness that exists within these groups. Oh how we laughed at such an unlikely prospect! Yet who am I to judge these folk? They are good and honest people with equally good intentions. They try to improve our community and create a pleasant and warm atmosphere in the neighbourhood. Anyone would think it was the local branch of the BNP that we were discussing with such venom, but it’s people who mean well that we shun and avoid like the plague, whilst finding folk like Jeremy Clarkson (hugely bigoted) and Frankie Boyle (black to the point of evil) rather amusing.
All that said, maybe it’s to do with the realisation that these good people have feet of clay, as has been exposed over the last few decades. No longer is the parish priest revered, the local MP feted nor the school teachers respected. Every scandal wears away at my belief that these pillars of the community are true to their cause. Many have been shown up as deceitful, whilst others have been uncovered as carrying out criminal acts. Instead of thinking how wonderful these folk are for sacrificing elements of their life for better things, all I wonder is what really goes on behind closed doors that they aren’t telling us about. I am a cynic (with good reason) who can’t help asking myself whether or not anyone or anything is as it seems. Not much help when you want to strive to be better if you think everyone else is hiding something!
She would be so damn ideal, so bloody kind and so utterly unreal that I would dislike her. I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I think hate is far too strong a word but I would sneer at her and give thanks for the fact that I am not like that. Yet she is what I am striving to be, which makes the whole exercise into a cruel and deceptive vicious circle.
I have a wide array of friends ranging from the debauched and hedonistic right through to the puritanical, teetotal and vegan! I suppose that over the years I have mainly identified with the former, whilst admiring and respecting the latter. In a sense that balance has shifted and whilst I won’t suddenly be ditching my party-loving, alcohol-sodden chums, I find myself increasingly with more to share with the more ‘model citizens’ in my circle!
Dear friends aside, however, I never really envisaged myself being more in touch with ‘do-gooders’ (as my mother would call them) than hell-raisers. I prided myself on the fact that I was open to all things sex, drugs and rock and roll. Even though I have always indulged on the fringes of the drugs scene and wasn’t known for doing anything life-threatening per se, I liked anything with an element of risk which meant I was neither scared of it nor did I disapprove. I felt proud of this fearlessness and pitied the folks who played it safe.
In truth, I admired these paragons of virtue but I didn’t aspire to be like them. Nor, in some ways, did I like them for their willpower, determination and fundamental goodness. It was like enjoying broccoli because it’s good for you. I just can’t get out of my head that NO-ONE is that perfect and that anyone that comes across as sincere and decent must be hiding something. This flies in the face of the fact that I personally try not to sin or be deliberately bad, yet I can not conceive that other people have the same values and they, unlike me, adhere strictly to them. In a way what I am railing against is the fact that they uphold all these values and enjoy being good, rather than trying to be good and failing, like me. I hate being faced with what I could be, if I weren’t so slovenly and lazy and lacking in willpower, so rather than have to deal with that I end up disliking such folk.
On Sunday I was doing housework and could hear the Residents Association Meeting going on in the garden next door. I revelled in that fact that they were having such dull conversations whilst drinking tea and admiring the flowers and told K I’d rather have pins stuck in my eyes than be forced to do that. As he pointed out, we’d have to let people in to our house whom we didn’t like and be polite to arseholes in the spirit of inclusiveness that exists within these groups. Oh how we laughed at such an unlikely prospect! Yet who am I to judge these folk? They are good and honest people with equally good intentions. They try to improve our community and create a pleasant and warm atmosphere in the neighbourhood. Anyone would think it was the local branch of the BNP that we were discussing with such venom, but it’s people who mean well that we shun and avoid like the plague, whilst finding folk like Jeremy Clarkson (hugely bigoted) and Frankie Boyle (black to the point of evil) rather amusing.
All that said, maybe it’s to do with the realisation that these good people have feet of clay, as has been exposed over the last few decades. No longer is the parish priest revered, the local MP feted nor the school teachers respected. Every scandal wears away at my belief that these pillars of the community are true to their cause. Many have been shown up as deceitful, whilst others have been uncovered as carrying out criminal acts. Instead of thinking how wonderful these folk are for sacrificing elements of their life for better things, all I wonder is what really goes on behind closed doors that they aren’t telling us about. I am a cynic (with good reason) who can’t help asking myself whether or not anyone or anything is as it seems. Not much help when you want to strive to be better if you think everyone else is hiding something!
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Lazy London Life
Had a lovely weekend meandering round London. We are off to Rye next weekend for our monthly dose of bucolic bliss, but in the meantime I enjoyed the bits of the city that still have a small town feel. K and I spent the morning in Greenwich, having coffee and brownies at a lovely, newish artisan baker. They are redeveloping Greenwich Centre and our favourite café in the market has closed down, so this was a new experience. Not only was the coffee and cake to die for, but the bread I bought for dinner was delicious. God only knows why Greenwich hospital trust is trying to shove out the old, small and unique shops in favour of a boutique hotel and a cleaned up market, but lets hope this bakery and other such places survive.
I went on to Chiswick and K headed home for bloke time (guitars, CDs, the Simpsons and no girls doing noisy domestic chores!) as I was visiting my friend J-W and her two wee kiddies for afternoon tea. Having lived out that way for a couple of years over 6 years ago it was fun to wander the high street en route and I was amazed at how little it had changed. Greenwich take note. If it aint broke, don’t try to fix it. Sure, there was the odd new shop but all the core ones that I remember were there and yet it was still vibrant and modern. Staying the same need not necessarily mean getting stuck in ones ways.
I had a lovely time playing with the babies (as ever, glad to hand them back!) and gossiping in the garden, then K and I had a quiet eve and a big superfood salad for dinner to make up for the cakes, whilst we watched the footie. I am no soccer widow, preferring the ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ route. I do think K will tire of this soon as I ask lots of questions and view the game as a detached observer, rather than a pumped-up nationalist! I did, however, spot the goalies nerves before his big mistake of the night, so K could not deny that my input could be pertinent!
Sunday was a long training run then the obligatory domestic stuff. The weather was perfect for a run and I was doing fine until I came to an enormous hill in one of the parks (having already climbed 3 big ones!) and was planning to ease off when I spotted a toddler and his dad near the top. As ever, my ’can’t be seen to give up, must compete, must look the best’ gene kicked in and I kept on going right to the top. The desire to slow down was beaten when I heard the father say to the wee one ‘look at that lady running’ and knew I had no choice but to keep on moving in the upwards direction! The last thing I wanted was to be looked at, but God it did me good. The sweat was pouring off me when I got back and I realised it’s all too easy to play it safe unless something spurs you on. That said, knowing when to give up and not kill yourself trying is equally important! One of the characters on The Archers (yip, I’m a sad fanatic) recently died of a heart attack whilst out jogging. It certainly brings home to you the fact that health and death are not necessarily in complete correlation. When I got to the top my heart was banging furiously and I eased off a bit, but who knows where the tipping point is and at what stage you risk hurting yourself in order not to be seen as a wimp/pathetic/weak/incapable.
I am way, way too concerned with how others perceive me. Not just folk I know but, more significantly, strangers. People on the street, passengers on the train, shop assistants and anyone with whom I have a passing or casual acquaintance. Their opinion of me and what I purport to be carries far too much weight. I am more than happy to admit to close friends that I watch trash TV sometimes, occasionally flick through Heat magazine or purchase the odd mainstream CD. As for doing this in public, though, no bloody way! I read my Grauniad on the way to work and do the Standard crosswords on the way home, which I naively believe flaunts my intellectual prowess. I wrinkle my nose at the folk whose heads are buried in the gossip mags or The Sun as if they might actually care what I think of them. In all likelihood, they couldn’t care less and why should they? What’s sad in all this is my desire to project an image rather than be myself. It’s pretty difficult to enjoy doing things if you are railing against the pleasure gained from it in a desire to be something you are not. If I could just relax and enjoy the ride and hang what others think about it that would be progress.
I went on to Chiswick and K headed home for bloke time (guitars, CDs, the Simpsons and no girls doing noisy domestic chores!) as I was visiting my friend J-W and her two wee kiddies for afternoon tea. Having lived out that way for a couple of years over 6 years ago it was fun to wander the high street en route and I was amazed at how little it had changed. Greenwich take note. If it aint broke, don’t try to fix it. Sure, there was the odd new shop but all the core ones that I remember were there and yet it was still vibrant and modern. Staying the same need not necessarily mean getting stuck in ones ways.
I had a lovely time playing with the babies (as ever, glad to hand them back!) and gossiping in the garden, then K and I had a quiet eve and a big superfood salad for dinner to make up for the cakes, whilst we watched the footie. I am no soccer widow, preferring the ‘if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’ route. I do think K will tire of this soon as I ask lots of questions and view the game as a detached observer, rather than a pumped-up nationalist! I did, however, spot the goalies nerves before his big mistake of the night, so K could not deny that my input could be pertinent!
Sunday was a long training run then the obligatory domestic stuff. The weather was perfect for a run and I was doing fine until I came to an enormous hill in one of the parks (having already climbed 3 big ones!) and was planning to ease off when I spotted a toddler and his dad near the top. As ever, my ’can’t be seen to give up, must compete, must look the best’ gene kicked in and I kept on going right to the top. The desire to slow down was beaten when I heard the father say to the wee one ‘look at that lady running’ and knew I had no choice but to keep on moving in the upwards direction! The last thing I wanted was to be looked at, but God it did me good. The sweat was pouring off me when I got back and I realised it’s all too easy to play it safe unless something spurs you on. That said, knowing when to give up and not kill yourself trying is equally important! One of the characters on The Archers (yip, I’m a sad fanatic) recently died of a heart attack whilst out jogging. It certainly brings home to you the fact that health and death are not necessarily in complete correlation. When I got to the top my heart was banging furiously and I eased off a bit, but who knows where the tipping point is and at what stage you risk hurting yourself in order not to be seen as a wimp/pathetic/weak/incapable.
I am way, way too concerned with how others perceive me. Not just folk I know but, more significantly, strangers. People on the street, passengers on the train, shop assistants and anyone with whom I have a passing or casual acquaintance. Their opinion of me and what I purport to be carries far too much weight. I am more than happy to admit to close friends that I watch trash TV sometimes, occasionally flick through Heat magazine or purchase the odd mainstream CD. As for doing this in public, though, no bloody way! I read my Grauniad on the way to work and do the Standard crosswords on the way home, which I naively believe flaunts my intellectual prowess. I wrinkle my nose at the folk whose heads are buried in the gossip mags or The Sun as if they might actually care what I think of them. In all likelihood, they couldn’t care less and why should they? What’s sad in all this is my desire to project an image rather than be myself. It’s pretty difficult to enjoy doing things if you are railing against the pleasure gained from it in a desire to be something you are not. If I could just relax and enjoy the ride and hang what others think about it that would be progress.
Monday, 14 June 2010
My musings this weekend
Do you actively engage with your friends and family or do you view their social networking profiles and update yourself on their lives? Are you a passive correspondent, sending round robins and hastily scrawled Xmas cards rather than selecting funny greetings cards or nice paper to write a proper, personalised letter to people you know and love? The facebook generation have hundreds of ‘friends’ but we all know full well that the term is used very, very loosely and the fact is they probably still only spend a small amount of time with the handful that they do truly know.
We aren’t about to return to living cheek to jowl with our closest relatives and school yard chums, thus obliterating the need for facebook, because the transitory nature of our relationships these days is irreversible; we can leave home at 18 and never return and if we want to move abroad for even more distance, we can! That’s why facebook matters to me. I truly enjoy being kept informed of my cousins in Canada and my friends in Europe from my au-pairing days. I can view photos and read updates and know more about them than I ever could before. Sure, I probably won’t visit them any time soon (but I rarely did before social networking came on the scene) but I am in touch and up to date which is an improvement. We may live far apart but there is no longer a need to become strangers and when anyone is in a position to visit, I am far more inclined to make the effort than if I hadn’t seen or heard from them in years.
As for all the others on my profile, my close friends aren’t necessarily on there at all! Some haven’t signed up and of those that have, we communicate far more off facebook than on. I have old school and uni friends, former flatmates and old colleagues, of which only a handful matter to me now. The rest I accepted as it was rude not to (still can’t drop the politesse I was brought up with –as if saying no to a random kid from the year below at junior school was going to keep me awake at night!!!) but every time I check their updates I feel like a voyeur. I rarely update myself for the precise reason that I don’t want these nobodys to be reading my choice titbits. I don’t care to share with them where I am going tonight, what I had for breakfast and other such crap, yet I gleefully scroll through theirs, tutting and laughing at the banality.
The beauty of not having to stick with the same people for your entire life, or risk being lonely, is that you can pick people to whom you may be better suited than those forced on you by virtue of blood or neighbourhood. So how much do we select our kith and kin and how many of them are in our lives through obligation or disinterested networking? I’ve been thinking a lot about this one of late, not least because of my familial issues! It extended beyond them, though, because the way people reacted to what was happening with my parents affected how I continued to view them.
I am reassured that my true friends, the ones I hoped I could depend on when they came pulled out all the stops. All gave me non-judgemental support and a shoulder to cry on. Many surprised me with kindnesses and I have a solid network that I have tested and can be assured still works! Some who passed judgement or were incredulous have fallen by the wayside. Anyone I couldn’t tell (because I didn’t wish to share this with them as I knew they would revel in my problems rather than being supportive) is no longer in my life. I wasn’t brutal, I just slowly dropped them from my diary. Sure, I am only talking about two people, but knowing I no longer have to endure either of them for dinner, drinks or shopping any more is a relief in itself. The issues with my parents made me finally face up to the fact that these people associated with me in order to up themselves and put me down. I haven’t missed either and I have made sure that on meeting new people now, I don’t embrace them in such a way that I find myself with friends further down the line whom I neither like nor respect.
It’s a fine balancing act between seeing people because you want to (truly) and have to. There will always be an element of obligation in life. Anyone who totally avoids it is utterly selfish and it’s swings and roundabouts. If I make the effort to see someone one evening when I am not necessarily as up for it as I want to be, chance is they will do likewise for me one eve when the roles are reserved. It’s all about give and take and the ones I have lost along the way never got that. I have tried to convince myself that some folk aren’t selfish, just ignorant, but the older I get the more I realise that the people out there willing to make sacrifices for someone else are few and far between. I have found a fair few though and plan to hang on to them for life; if they’ll have me!
We aren’t about to return to living cheek to jowl with our closest relatives and school yard chums, thus obliterating the need for facebook, because the transitory nature of our relationships these days is irreversible; we can leave home at 18 and never return and if we want to move abroad for even more distance, we can! That’s why facebook matters to me. I truly enjoy being kept informed of my cousins in Canada and my friends in Europe from my au-pairing days. I can view photos and read updates and know more about them than I ever could before. Sure, I probably won’t visit them any time soon (but I rarely did before social networking came on the scene) but I am in touch and up to date which is an improvement. We may live far apart but there is no longer a need to become strangers and when anyone is in a position to visit, I am far more inclined to make the effort than if I hadn’t seen or heard from them in years.
As for all the others on my profile, my close friends aren’t necessarily on there at all! Some haven’t signed up and of those that have, we communicate far more off facebook than on. I have old school and uni friends, former flatmates and old colleagues, of which only a handful matter to me now. The rest I accepted as it was rude not to (still can’t drop the politesse I was brought up with –as if saying no to a random kid from the year below at junior school was going to keep me awake at night!!!) but every time I check their updates I feel like a voyeur. I rarely update myself for the precise reason that I don’t want these nobodys to be reading my choice titbits. I don’t care to share with them where I am going tonight, what I had for breakfast and other such crap, yet I gleefully scroll through theirs, tutting and laughing at the banality.
The beauty of not having to stick with the same people for your entire life, or risk being lonely, is that you can pick people to whom you may be better suited than those forced on you by virtue of blood or neighbourhood. So how much do we select our kith and kin and how many of them are in our lives through obligation or disinterested networking? I’ve been thinking a lot about this one of late, not least because of my familial issues! It extended beyond them, though, because the way people reacted to what was happening with my parents affected how I continued to view them.
I am reassured that my true friends, the ones I hoped I could depend on when they came pulled out all the stops. All gave me non-judgemental support and a shoulder to cry on. Many surprised me with kindnesses and I have a solid network that I have tested and can be assured still works! Some who passed judgement or were incredulous have fallen by the wayside. Anyone I couldn’t tell (because I didn’t wish to share this with them as I knew they would revel in my problems rather than being supportive) is no longer in my life. I wasn’t brutal, I just slowly dropped them from my diary. Sure, I am only talking about two people, but knowing I no longer have to endure either of them for dinner, drinks or shopping any more is a relief in itself. The issues with my parents made me finally face up to the fact that these people associated with me in order to up themselves and put me down. I haven’t missed either and I have made sure that on meeting new people now, I don’t embrace them in such a way that I find myself with friends further down the line whom I neither like nor respect.
It’s a fine balancing act between seeing people because you want to (truly) and have to. There will always be an element of obligation in life. Anyone who totally avoids it is utterly selfish and it’s swings and roundabouts. If I make the effort to see someone one evening when I am not necessarily as up for it as I want to be, chance is they will do likewise for me one eve when the roles are reserved. It’s all about give and take and the ones I have lost along the way never got that. I have tried to convince myself that some folk aren’t selfish, just ignorant, but the older I get the more I realise that the people out there willing to make sacrifices for someone else are few and far between. I have found a fair few though and plan to hang on to them for life; if they’ll have me!
Friday, 11 June 2010
Friday at last!
I’ve had a productive week so far, and even managed to pop to a running shop for new shoes before I met my friend for dinner last night. I felt slightly giddy when I came home later at having managed to do so much in such a short space of time! What is frightening is that when I put my mind to it and actually get on with stuff I feel deeply unsettled. I have this nagging voice saying ‘this aint you, you’re a wastrel. This sort of stuff is for other, more worthy people’. I catch sight of folk in the street all blackberried up, barking into phones, juggling a coffee with a wad of papers and dressed in full metal jacket style business suit and think – ah, that looks like someone with a proper job, putting in serious hours in an important position. I compare this with myself, strolling along in my fit flops, flouncy skirt and floral top, wondering what to cook for tea tonight and trying to remember if I need anything from Boots.
I can’t help but rank myself in the world as an underdog. Someone whose place is important to a few but irrelevant/disposable to the masses. It hit me hard last night as I walked from Victoria to Waterloo. I’d gone to a running shop at 5.30 as my friend couldn’t meet until 7pm for dinner (being a worthy person she was working until then!) so I needed to pass through what’s called the Westminster Village en route to the restaurant. As I did I had a flashback. When I first came to London in 1997 I went straight to a job as a researcher at Parliament and there I stayed for the next 9 months. I had total access to the Palace of Westminster and wandered in and out like a pro. My hours were slavishly long and I was often on a 6.30am tube from Fulham Broadway where I lived in a student-style hovel as the wages I got then were barely enough to fund a travelcard! I rarely got home before 8 or 9pm and even took things back with me such as envelopes to stuff or reports to read. Sure, I partied hard at the same time and in many ways I had a fantastic lifestyle. I also drank like a fish and spent much of that time recovering from the night before, but I looked the part and worked the hours. I loved waltzing through the corridors to collect the post, drinking in the Lords Bar and accompanying my MP to focus groups and events. Like all those attention-seeking walking talking egos who go into politics, I felt like I mattered, and why? Cos I wore a trouser suit and pontificated over subsidised G&T’s about why I’d rather to be a Tory in another life than a Lib-Dem? I thought I was IT and, looking round me last night, so does the new generation. They have the same hair flicking, ram-rod-straight-backed, stern-faced look that I perfected as I stomped from Millbank to St Stephen’s gate.
But it was all front; all just a carefully constructed façade. I gave off an air of confidence yet underneath I was desperately trying to ‘keep up appearances’. It took so much effort to appear knowledgeable about everything, in control and experienced, and the drink was my way to relax and forget. I took off the image of self-important New Labour apparatchik when I got home and became the giggly, immature twenty-something in search of a boyfriend and a life that I really was.
I am trying to work out if some of us are made for that world whilst some of us maybe aren’t. It reminds me of Brave New World and the idea that people are born with a pre-determined place in life. Whereas in that society they are assigned this role, maybe what we are all doing is trying to slot in to our position. I do know people who are happy in their skin. They know what they like and they like what they know. You could say that they’ve found where they belong and they are happy to be there. Question is, back then was I in the wrong place for me and have I now started to discover where I really should be? Or, controversially, was that where I was meant to be but I was too scared to adopt that role? Did I make my subsequent choices based on fleeing from what challenged me and finding a safe and easy option?
I can’t help but rank myself in the world as an underdog. Someone whose place is important to a few but irrelevant/disposable to the masses. It hit me hard last night as I walked from Victoria to Waterloo. I’d gone to a running shop at 5.30 as my friend couldn’t meet until 7pm for dinner (being a worthy person she was working until then!) so I needed to pass through what’s called the Westminster Village en route to the restaurant. As I did I had a flashback. When I first came to London in 1997 I went straight to a job as a researcher at Parliament and there I stayed for the next 9 months. I had total access to the Palace of Westminster and wandered in and out like a pro. My hours were slavishly long and I was often on a 6.30am tube from Fulham Broadway where I lived in a student-style hovel as the wages I got then were barely enough to fund a travelcard! I rarely got home before 8 or 9pm and even took things back with me such as envelopes to stuff or reports to read. Sure, I partied hard at the same time and in many ways I had a fantastic lifestyle. I also drank like a fish and spent much of that time recovering from the night before, but I looked the part and worked the hours. I loved waltzing through the corridors to collect the post, drinking in the Lords Bar and accompanying my MP to focus groups and events. Like all those attention-seeking walking talking egos who go into politics, I felt like I mattered, and why? Cos I wore a trouser suit and pontificated over subsidised G&T’s about why I’d rather to be a Tory in another life than a Lib-Dem? I thought I was IT and, looking round me last night, so does the new generation. They have the same hair flicking, ram-rod-straight-backed, stern-faced look that I perfected as I stomped from Millbank to St Stephen’s gate.
But it was all front; all just a carefully constructed façade. I gave off an air of confidence yet underneath I was desperately trying to ‘keep up appearances’. It took so much effort to appear knowledgeable about everything, in control and experienced, and the drink was my way to relax and forget. I took off the image of self-important New Labour apparatchik when I got home and became the giggly, immature twenty-something in search of a boyfriend and a life that I really was.
I am trying to work out if some of us are made for that world whilst some of us maybe aren’t. It reminds me of Brave New World and the idea that people are born with a pre-determined place in life. Whereas in that society they are assigned this role, maybe what we are all doing is trying to slot in to our position. I do know people who are happy in their skin. They know what they like and they like what they know. You could say that they’ve found where they belong and they are happy to be there. Question is, back then was I in the wrong place for me and have I now started to discover where I really should be? Or, controversially, was that where I was meant to be but I was too scared to adopt that role? Did I make my subsequent choices based on fleeing from what challenged me and finding a safe and easy option?
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Breaking the cycle
I know I am not the only woman out there for whom the following rings true: embark on diet and fitness plan, spend about a week purchasing ingredients, supplements and gym equipment, slave away for about ooh, 3-4 days, fall off the wagon (in the old days it was booze and these days for me it’s cake!) then go right back to square one and unhealthy living. Indulge for about 6 weeks, have another panic attack (probably trying to squeeze into something 2 sizes too small) and then start the whole laborious and ultimately fruitless cycle all over again.
I am 36 and I can honestly say I have been following said pattern for over 20 years now. Sometimes it stems from me beating up myself and other times it’s the result of a rant from my mother or a careless remark from a friend or colleague. Whatever sparks it off, though, the root cause is always guilt. Guilty that I am not good enough. Fear that others are looking at me and thinking fat, lazy slob. Embarrassed that I have yet again failed at something. Note the yet again. I am haunted by all the things I haven’t achieved in life. The fact that I don’t drive, can’t catch a ball to save my life, haven’t ever made pastry and don’t speak Spanish are the ones that matter. Every day I think ‘if only’ to at least one of these things and a myriad others.
When I see confident (borderline arrogant) folk on TV exalting themselves and praising their own abilities I can’t imagine ever being like that. All that goes through my mind is how nice it would be to see them fail and turn out to be as useless as me!
I haven’t come back to blogging to whinge, though. There is nothing sadder than the person who perpetually bemoans their lot yet does nothing to finally address the issues. It’s like the communist Liz Jones, whom I despise yet can not help reading! Every week she plays the woe is me card and without fail the same stuff crops up in her columns the week after. It doesn’t help that she’s a spendthrift, vacuous moaner; I hate myself for reading what is the newspaper equivalent of car-crash TV but that said, I don’t need to lengthen my list of things I hate myself for so perhaps I can excuse myself that one!!!
I have, in no particular order, today:
- looked up an upholstery course which I can do in the autumn and will call them on Friday to see if they have dates yet so that I can pre-book;
- found a massage school I like the look of and diarised their open evening which is next Thursday;
- bought a food processor online so that I can go back to baking and cooking from scratch again, as I did last summer when I had all that time. I kept moaning about the time it takes to bake a cake and whip up a homemade coleslaw yet all It takes is some labour-saving devices!
Earlier in the week I wrote to the Guardian as they keep repeating stuff in The Observer and Kenny is bored with hearing me whinge. I got a reply today and at least some of my points were taken on board. OK, it’s only a small victory but I am forever banging on about these sorts of things then doing nothing. I don’t exactly wish to become ‘Cheesed off from Charlton’ but expressing these things is far better for my health than sitting stewing.
The question is, folks, can I keep it up or will I fall back into lethargy and disillusionment by the end of the month. We shall see…
I am 36 and I can honestly say I have been following said pattern for over 20 years now. Sometimes it stems from me beating up myself and other times it’s the result of a rant from my mother or a careless remark from a friend or colleague. Whatever sparks it off, though, the root cause is always guilt. Guilty that I am not good enough. Fear that others are looking at me and thinking fat, lazy slob. Embarrassed that I have yet again failed at something. Note the yet again. I am haunted by all the things I haven’t achieved in life. The fact that I don’t drive, can’t catch a ball to save my life, haven’t ever made pastry and don’t speak Spanish are the ones that matter. Every day I think ‘if only’ to at least one of these things and a myriad others.
When I see confident (borderline arrogant) folk on TV exalting themselves and praising their own abilities I can’t imagine ever being like that. All that goes through my mind is how nice it would be to see them fail and turn out to be as useless as me!
I haven’t come back to blogging to whinge, though. There is nothing sadder than the person who perpetually bemoans their lot yet does nothing to finally address the issues. It’s like the communist Liz Jones, whom I despise yet can not help reading! Every week she plays the woe is me card and without fail the same stuff crops up in her columns the week after. It doesn’t help that she’s a spendthrift, vacuous moaner; I hate myself for reading what is the newspaper equivalent of car-crash TV but that said, I don’t need to lengthen my list of things I hate myself for so perhaps I can excuse myself that one!!!
I have, in no particular order, today:
- looked up an upholstery course which I can do in the autumn and will call them on Friday to see if they have dates yet so that I can pre-book;
- found a massage school I like the look of and diarised their open evening which is next Thursday;
- bought a food processor online so that I can go back to baking and cooking from scratch again, as I did last summer when I had all that time. I kept moaning about the time it takes to bake a cake and whip up a homemade coleslaw yet all It takes is some labour-saving devices!
Earlier in the week I wrote to the Guardian as they keep repeating stuff in The Observer and Kenny is bored with hearing me whinge. I got a reply today and at least some of my points were taken on board. OK, it’s only a small victory but I am forever banging on about these sorts of things then doing nothing. I don’t exactly wish to become ‘Cheesed off from Charlton’ but expressing these things is far better for my health than sitting stewing.
The question is, folks, can I keep it up or will I fall back into lethargy and disillusionment by the end of the month. We shall see…
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Like a bad penny...
So, to the parents. I’d had a fairly long silence from them, as we’d stop trading emails and insults around July last year. That was when my dad last stopped trying to lure me in so they could have another go and I made peace at last with my brother. We met up and, apart from a small blip in December when my brother tried mending the rift using my aunt in Scotland, relations between us were at least on a good footing. In March he contacted me to tell me that he’d met someone new (H) and that he’d be bringing her to London, so we arranged to meet so that I could introduce him to K for the first time as well.
The meeting in April went well. All four of us met for a quick drink on the Friday eve and spent about 2 hours together. H is a lovely girl, though not necessarily what I was expecting from my bro. She was very open, friendly and sweet-natured and on the whole I thought they seemed like a good match. However, in all honesty I can not deny that she would be a prime example of someone who would get the ‘stamp of approval’ from my parents, which concerns me slightly as I hope my brother is making his choices from the heart rather than the head.
The interesting aspect to his new love interest is that a) he met her on the internet, b) she has rented her place out and moved in with my bro within just a few short months and c) she is no supermodel. Ouch, you may say and in no way, shape or form am I casting aspersions on her. It’s the hypocrisy from my mother which really winds me up. Kenny was dismissed as a waste of space because a) we met on the internet (acc. my mum you only get losers and scum on those sites); b) he moved in with me (albeit 18 months after we met) which is the point at which they suddenly started mentioning rent on their ‘investment’ and c) he is no pin-up (in their eyes not mine I may add!). Well, my mother didn’t use those terms – the actual words she used won’t be repeated – but there you have it. This is them every time; one rule for my brother, another for me. He gets the benefit of the doubt over his choices, mine are rubbished before they even get off the ground. And it hurts. I can honestly say that after years of being laughed at, jeered, mocked and criticised by my family, I can’t ignore the imbalance any more.
Anyway, back to the saga! On my birthday I received a card which simply said ‘Thinking of you on your birthday, love mum’. Not dad, just mum. I’d been here before with texts from her that I responded to amicably, only to start off another diatribe. I wasn’t about to reply and have my birthday ruined so I left it. It was on my mind but I needed time to digest. A fortnight later I got an email from my dad, inviting me to his 65th birthday party. This, I know through my brother and aunt, was planned months ago. I was also told in the email that an auntie (well more a friend of theirs) was ill with cancer. I responded that I couldn’t make it, particularly as Kenny wasn’t included and they hadn’t given a thought to how we would make things up in 2 short weeks, and that whilst I was sorry about my ‘aunt’ I was busy on that date and hadn’t expected an invite. The response was to attack Kenny again and then my mother unleashed one of her letters which finished off eulogising about how perfect a future daughter in law H was and how they washed their hands of me (yet again!).
So it’s back to square one again. Total stand off until they want to ‘save face’ once more. That, basically, was the background to the invite. Everyone there but me and they wanted it all patched up in time so they didn’t have to face the embarrassment and explain to people. They have no desire to resolve the issues and that’s where we will always differ. They have one goal (for me and Kenny to break up) and unless they achieve that they will not compromise. Sad but true. Realising that your parents love you conditionally is pretty hard to swallow.
The meeting in April went well. All four of us met for a quick drink on the Friday eve and spent about 2 hours together. H is a lovely girl, though not necessarily what I was expecting from my bro. She was very open, friendly and sweet-natured and on the whole I thought they seemed like a good match. However, in all honesty I can not deny that she would be a prime example of someone who would get the ‘stamp of approval’ from my parents, which concerns me slightly as I hope my brother is making his choices from the heart rather than the head.
The interesting aspect to his new love interest is that a) he met her on the internet, b) she has rented her place out and moved in with my bro within just a few short months and c) she is no supermodel. Ouch, you may say and in no way, shape or form am I casting aspersions on her. It’s the hypocrisy from my mother which really winds me up. Kenny was dismissed as a waste of space because a) we met on the internet (acc. my mum you only get losers and scum on those sites); b) he moved in with me (albeit 18 months after we met) which is the point at which they suddenly started mentioning rent on their ‘investment’ and c) he is no pin-up (in their eyes not mine I may add!). Well, my mother didn’t use those terms – the actual words she used won’t be repeated – but there you have it. This is them every time; one rule for my brother, another for me. He gets the benefit of the doubt over his choices, mine are rubbished before they even get off the ground. And it hurts. I can honestly say that after years of being laughed at, jeered, mocked and criticised by my family, I can’t ignore the imbalance any more.
Anyway, back to the saga! On my birthday I received a card which simply said ‘Thinking of you on your birthday, love mum’. Not dad, just mum. I’d been here before with texts from her that I responded to amicably, only to start off another diatribe. I wasn’t about to reply and have my birthday ruined so I left it. It was on my mind but I needed time to digest. A fortnight later I got an email from my dad, inviting me to his 65th birthday party. This, I know through my brother and aunt, was planned months ago. I was also told in the email that an auntie (well more a friend of theirs) was ill with cancer. I responded that I couldn’t make it, particularly as Kenny wasn’t included and they hadn’t given a thought to how we would make things up in 2 short weeks, and that whilst I was sorry about my ‘aunt’ I was busy on that date and hadn’t expected an invite. The response was to attack Kenny again and then my mother unleashed one of her letters which finished off eulogising about how perfect a future daughter in law H was and how they washed their hands of me (yet again!).
So it’s back to square one again. Total stand off until they want to ‘save face’ once more. That, basically, was the background to the invite. Everyone there but me and they wanted it all patched up in time so they didn’t have to face the embarrassment and explain to people. They have no desire to resolve the issues and that’s where we will always differ. They have one goal (for me and Kenny to break up) and unless they achieve that they will not compromise. Sad but true. Realising that your parents love you conditionally is pretty hard to swallow.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Onwards and upwards
So why the blog again? Why go back to something I ended up calling narcissistic and self-absorbed? Firstly, I still need to deal with my feelings of shame from my drinking days. I haven’t talked these out enough (might be that I would have done had I done AA) and I haven’t necessarily confronted the cold stark truths, preferring to sweep it all under the carpet as generic history. This has been gnawing away at me, particularly of late when I found myself more crippled with embarrassment at drinkers than ever before. It’s my problem, not theirs and I need to sort it out. The blog is like confession – at least once it’s down on paper (screen) I have to accept it and hopefully work my way through it.
I am now well on the way to a full 12 months of sobriety (I won’t write last year off as it was 99% sober, but I now see January 1st 2010 as the true date of my going sober) and the first few months of giving up the drink last year were definitely helped by blogging. Just the action of writing something helped me stick to my resolutions, so whilst I am a happier and better person these days, there are a whole load of other aspects of my life to address now. If blogging can get me dry, then why shouldn’t it help get me fit and healthy too – in mind and body.
I can celebrate the fact that, over a year on, I am winning the battle with the booze. It’s been slow and, at times, painful, but each month that passes makes me more proud of myself and the sense of achievement gained from staying sober far outweighs the ephemeral pleasure I got from a night on the lash. Plus there’s no backlash from staying sober: no hangover, no memory recall of the night before, no war wounds and UDIs and no liver damage!
Of course I have passed exams, succeeded at job interviews and even run a marathon over the course of the last 36 years but this is the first thing I have achieved that has caused me true pain along the way. The sacrifice is what makes it stand out above other things. I have on occasion yearned for a drink and felt truly deprived. Saying no took a lot of willpower and I am hoping that this will help me manage other areas of my life.
I now have an exhaustive list of things to do and plan to tackle each one on its own. That’s the main thing I’ve learnt over the last 18 months – it’s all well and good setting yourself goals but if you make the journey towards them painful and impossible you aren’t going to finish. Breaking things down and tackling them chunk by chunk is far more rewarding. It sounds very AA to say this, but ‘one day at a time’ really works for me in many ways.
What also helps is establishing a finite point. The idea is that working towards it gives you a goal, but along the way the habit may just become more ingrained than expected. Last year I planned to spend a year sober. It was only as time passed that I opted to become teetotal. If I say I am training for a 10k in 4 weeks time (yip, 4 weeks!) I will work flat out to get there. Hopefully once the event is over I won’t revert to my old behaviour of training madly for an event, doing it, then going back to zilch. I am hoping that what will happen instead is that my head will be cleared doing lots of lovely long runs and when 3 July has passed I’ll established have a whole new regime. Bring it on!!!
I am now well on the way to a full 12 months of sobriety (I won’t write last year off as it was 99% sober, but I now see January 1st 2010 as the true date of my going sober) and the first few months of giving up the drink last year were definitely helped by blogging. Just the action of writing something helped me stick to my resolutions, so whilst I am a happier and better person these days, there are a whole load of other aspects of my life to address now. If blogging can get me dry, then why shouldn’t it help get me fit and healthy too – in mind and body.
I can celebrate the fact that, over a year on, I am winning the battle with the booze. It’s been slow and, at times, painful, but each month that passes makes me more proud of myself and the sense of achievement gained from staying sober far outweighs the ephemeral pleasure I got from a night on the lash. Plus there’s no backlash from staying sober: no hangover, no memory recall of the night before, no war wounds and UDIs and no liver damage!
Of course I have passed exams, succeeded at job interviews and even run a marathon over the course of the last 36 years but this is the first thing I have achieved that has caused me true pain along the way. The sacrifice is what makes it stand out above other things. I have on occasion yearned for a drink and felt truly deprived. Saying no took a lot of willpower and I am hoping that this will help me manage other areas of my life.
I now have an exhaustive list of things to do and plan to tackle each one on its own. That’s the main thing I’ve learnt over the last 18 months – it’s all well and good setting yourself goals but if you make the journey towards them painful and impossible you aren’t going to finish. Breaking things down and tackling them chunk by chunk is far more rewarding. It sounds very AA to say this, but ‘one day at a time’ really works for me in many ways.
What also helps is establishing a finite point. The idea is that working towards it gives you a goal, but along the way the habit may just become more ingrained than expected. Last year I planned to spend a year sober. It was only as time passed that I opted to become teetotal. If I say I am training for a 10k in 4 weeks time (yip, 4 weeks!) I will work flat out to get there. Hopefully once the event is over I won’t revert to my old behaviour of training madly for an event, doing it, then going back to zilch. I am hoping that what will happen instead is that my head will be cleared doing lots of lovely long runs and when 3 July has passed I’ll established have a whole new regime. Bring it on!!!
Monday, 7 June 2010
Re-bonjour!
I’ve been thinking about my blog again of late, probably because I usually do around the times that my parentals up the anti, so to speak. We’d had silence since last summer, but their latest campaign of hate mail started a few months ago, launched with a card on my birthday. More of that later. But it got me thinking about how the blog had helped me and inspired me to start anew, and reap the benefits of my old confessional again.
I’d like to say that I have been 100% entirely sober since I last wrote, but I’d be lying. Well, sort of. I have had a drink, but I haven’t got drunk and I am not planning to beat myself up about the following lapses: some red wine in November and a couple of glasses of champagne at Xmas at K’s sister’s house.
The wine (on two consecutive evenings) in November was a reminder that if you don’t drink regularly the taste soon goes away. It was like vinegar, though I ploughed valiantly on and finished it, probably in the misguided belief that the desire would come back to me! I had felt overwhelmed with emotions at the time (a combination of K’s dad dying, my mum’s birthday passing without my acknowledging it and still being on tenterhooks about whether or not I would be offered a new job as another Xmas not speaking to my family approached) but that is no excuse. Other people deal with these things without the drink and it was a classic case of the booze as a crutch to make everything ‘go away’. It did, however, persuade me that my drinking habits were deeply ingrained and the notion of returning to moderate consumption was/is a fantasy.
The champers on Christmas Eve and Day was laughable; a couple of glasses and I was snoozing on the sofa like a granny! This wee taster was the result of pure and simple greed. Nothing more. Having been rewarded by a couple of private jet suppliers with some expensive bottles as a Christmas gift, I couldn’t help but have a glass myself. It tasted decidedly odd (though my sister in law assured me that was my palate and nothing to do with the booze!) and after just 2 glasses I moved on to sparkly mineral water. I was never much of a champagne drinker in the first place, so it was hardly my greatest temptation! It did prove to me that I wasn’t missing out when everyone else was drinking fine wine and that I was no more likely to stick to a few glasses of Laurent Perrier as I was a few glasses of gut rot, if I were to ever drink again. I put the myths to bed about plonk v. vintage – no matter the age, no matter the cost it all takes its toll on you in exactly the same way!
My last sip of alcohol was on New Years’ Eve when I toasted the arrival of 2010 with a half bottle of fizzy white wine. Same old story – tasted quite unpleasant and made me feel woozy so I have vowed to stay true to my word this year and not bother with booze at all. So far, so very good. I haven’t touched a drop and I have stopped being even remotely interested in it; I can not think of a single time that I have wished I was drinking again.
The only unpleasant development has been my growing intolerance of the drunk! God only knows that over the years I have embodied every aspect of inebriated – from tipsy to paralytic. I have no desire to detail these episodes, but suffice to say they were numerous and messy. Looking back, I was always surrounded by folk who drank to excess – from my family to my friends and I chose my friends wisely; the more they drank the more appealing they were. It’s strategic. I went home to my parents regularly as I could spend the weekend going from one drinking opportunity to the other; the downside was the possibility of an unpredictable rage from my mother but I viewed these as collateral damage. I said yes to weddings (which I always hated) as it was usually a free bar. I wore people down who came to stay with me to let me open ‘just another bottle’ knowing full well I’d probably drink the lion’s share. A drinker equalled a good egg; a teetotaller was dull and repressed and whilst I counted some amongst my friends I didn’t go out of my way to meet such straight and boring people! I even highlighted my love of red wine in the first line of my online dating profile. No-one influenced me any more than I influenced others so I am neither apportioning blame for my drink issues to others nor looking to excuse my self from the path I chose.
Now, however, I have to choose my social occasions wisely. I am becoming very discriminating, not because an event will be necessarily bad, but because the fun will often depend upon how much one has drunk. As such I now proceed with caution when invited to hen weekends, weddings, house parties, office parties and drinks receptions. Some will pose no problems and the experience will be enhanced by sobriety. Others I can safely say I rule out straight away. There are 2 criteria for whether or not I go.
1) Would I have enjoyed this had I been still drinking?
2) Will I still enjoy this now I am sober?
There are many events that bored me back then no matter how much booze I downed, so these are ruled out straight away. There are times though that I can say I enjoyed something regardless of alcohol, so can I get away with enjoying it now when I am not drinking. Sometimes it’s a yes and I truly enjoyed a spa hen weekend recently which was civilised, relaxing and grown up. The only awkward bit was the Ann Summers party aspect, but a couple of hours of feeling like an observer was a small price to pay for a lovely girlie weekend.
I have always hated office parties (forced fun – yuk!) so I always will. I went to one last Xmas under duress and because I was new to the company and keen to secure a permanent job. I will make my excuses early this year and not put myself through the awkwardness of smiling beatifically whilst normally stiff and buttoned up white male professionals find singing vibrators and pussy rub hilariously funny. I don’t enjoy such ‘humour’ on a day to day basis so the addition of party hats, curled up nibbles and flat, warm coke made the experience even more painful to endure.
It’s less simple when it’s your own close friends who have ‘had a few too many’. Most of my friends have responded to my non-drinking with aplomb. They will have alcohol if they feel like it, in moderation, but many take the opportunity to not drink neither and give their liver a rest. Either way I am more than happy to socialise as before, having drinks, going for dinner, popping round for tea and cake with their offspring, but occasionally someone throws caution to the wind and drinks freely and without bounds. I cringe when their voice gets louder, smile weakly when they make silly, ditzy mistakes and can do nothing to prevent myself seeing them as others once saw me and am crippled with the embarrassment factor. It’s far less about how drunk they are and far more about the memories it brings back and how they now make me feel.
Sobriety has shone a light on the deep, dark corners of my past and God knows how I wish I could turn it off.
I’d like to say that I have been 100% entirely sober since I last wrote, but I’d be lying. Well, sort of. I have had a drink, but I haven’t got drunk and I am not planning to beat myself up about the following lapses: some red wine in November and a couple of glasses of champagne at Xmas at K’s sister’s house.
The wine (on two consecutive evenings) in November was a reminder that if you don’t drink regularly the taste soon goes away. It was like vinegar, though I ploughed valiantly on and finished it, probably in the misguided belief that the desire would come back to me! I had felt overwhelmed with emotions at the time (a combination of K’s dad dying, my mum’s birthday passing without my acknowledging it and still being on tenterhooks about whether or not I would be offered a new job as another Xmas not speaking to my family approached) but that is no excuse. Other people deal with these things without the drink and it was a classic case of the booze as a crutch to make everything ‘go away’. It did, however, persuade me that my drinking habits were deeply ingrained and the notion of returning to moderate consumption was/is a fantasy.
The champers on Christmas Eve and Day was laughable; a couple of glasses and I was snoozing on the sofa like a granny! This wee taster was the result of pure and simple greed. Nothing more. Having been rewarded by a couple of private jet suppliers with some expensive bottles as a Christmas gift, I couldn’t help but have a glass myself. It tasted decidedly odd (though my sister in law assured me that was my palate and nothing to do with the booze!) and after just 2 glasses I moved on to sparkly mineral water. I was never much of a champagne drinker in the first place, so it was hardly my greatest temptation! It did prove to me that I wasn’t missing out when everyone else was drinking fine wine and that I was no more likely to stick to a few glasses of Laurent Perrier as I was a few glasses of gut rot, if I were to ever drink again. I put the myths to bed about plonk v. vintage – no matter the age, no matter the cost it all takes its toll on you in exactly the same way!
My last sip of alcohol was on New Years’ Eve when I toasted the arrival of 2010 with a half bottle of fizzy white wine. Same old story – tasted quite unpleasant and made me feel woozy so I have vowed to stay true to my word this year and not bother with booze at all. So far, so very good. I haven’t touched a drop and I have stopped being even remotely interested in it; I can not think of a single time that I have wished I was drinking again.
The only unpleasant development has been my growing intolerance of the drunk! God only knows that over the years I have embodied every aspect of inebriated – from tipsy to paralytic. I have no desire to detail these episodes, but suffice to say they were numerous and messy. Looking back, I was always surrounded by folk who drank to excess – from my family to my friends and I chose my friends wisely; the more they drank the more appealing they were. It’s strategic. I went home to my parents regularly as I could spend the weekend going from one drinking opportunity to the other; the downside was the possibility of an unpredictable rage from my mother but I viewed these as collateral damage. I said yes to weddings (which I always hated) as it was usually a free bar. I wore people down who came to stay with me to let me open ‘just another bottle’ knowing full well I’d probably drink the lion’s share. A drinker equalled a good egg; a teetotaller was dull and repressed and whilst I counted some amongst my friends I didn’t go out of my way to meet such straight and boring people! I even highlighted my love of red wine in the first line of my online dating profile. No-one influenced me any more than I influenced others so I am neither apportioning blame for my drink issues to others nor looking to excuse my self from the path I chose.
Now, however, I have to choose my social occasions wisely. I am becoming very discriminating, not because an event will be necessarily bad, but because the fun will often depend upon how much one has drunk. As such I now proceed with caution when invited to hen weekends, weddings, house parties, office parties and drinks receptions. Some will pose no problems and the experience will be enhanced by sobriety. Others I can safely say I rule out straight away. There are 2 criteria for whether or not I go.
1) Would I have enjoyed this had I been still drinking?
2) Will I still enjoy this now I am sober?
There are many events that bored me back then no matter how much booze I downed, so these are ruled out straight away. There are times though that I can say I enjoyed something regardless of alcohol, so can I get away with enjoying it now when I am not drinking. Sometimes it’s a yes and I truly enjoyed a spa hen weekend recently which was civilised, relaxing and grown up. The only awkward bit was the Ann Summers party aspect, but a couple of hours of feeling like an observer was a small price to pay for a lovely girlie weekend.
I have always hated office parties (forced fun – yuk!) so I always will. I went to one last Xmas under duress and because I was new to the company and keen to secure a permanent job. I will make my excuses early this year and not put myself through the awkwardness of smiling beatifically whilst normally stiff and buttoned up white male professionals find singing vibrators and pussy rub hilariously funny. I don’t enjoy such ‘humour’ on a day to day basis so the addition of party hats, curled up nibbles and flat, warm coke made the experience even more painful to endure.
It’s less simple when it’s your own close friends who have ‘had a few too many’. Most of my friends have responded to my non-drinking with aplomb. They will have alcohol if they feel like it, in moderation, but many take the opportunity to not drink neither and give their liver a rest. Either way I am more than happy to socialise as before, having drinks, going for dinner, popping round for tea and cake with their offspring, but occasionally someone throws caution to the wind and drinks freely and without bounds. I cringe when their voice gets louder, smile weakly when they make silly, ditzy mistakes and can do nothing to prevent myself seeing them as others once saw me and am crippled with the embarrassment factor. It’s far less about how drunk they are and far more about the memories it brings back and how they now make me feel.
Sobriety has shone a light on the deep, dark corners of my past and God knows how I wish I could turn it off.
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