Yes, I was an Olympic cynic...

...but I bloody love the Olympics. 

London, GBR, Ennis, the cyclists, the rowers, Danny Boyle's opening ceremony – just superb. GO GBR! 

I am immensely proud.

Discombobulation and peace

There have been things on my mind, so awful I will not go into them here. I want them to go. They should have no place in anyone's life. They will go.

My darling dad, wise in ways I can only dream of being, spoke to me today due to his concern over my concerns, and I feel different – better – as a result. He said his dad used to sit him down and speak to him in a similar way.

I hope one day to evoke such feelings in my child (though I wish for her to not go through these particular things that touched my life). I hope therefore that she never worries me in the way that I have those who love me...

Sorry, this is a tad indecipherable unless you are in my head (or are my dad), but so be it. Here's to wisdom and love.

Though this post is about my dad, thanks also to you who have also been there for me. You know who you are. You do make a difference.

Shiver

This is not a good song to drive to (it was on the radio yesterday as I sat behind the wheel, and, yes, the car was moving). Did you know that if you type "hurt" into Google, the top hit is this:

Journeywoman

Due to developing an illness that affects one in 300 women, or something like that, I was told I should consider having what purists might term an unnatural birth. The baby was at risk, and so was I. So, her birthday was brought forward and I was booked in for the first operation I have had, bar dental surgery. I was so tired, so very exhausted by weeks of illness and not being able to sleep due to the Woman Next Door (WND)'s bloody noisy, ongoing building work (another story)... But there I was, with S, on the early morning of motherhood, nervous as hell and looking pretty unpretty, my skin dull and blotchy. The place was spotless, utterly clinical. My surgeon and the anaesthetist had warned me of all the complications, which included death, so I was suitably shaken.

The obstetrician sliced through my abdominal muscles instead of parting them (as is normal with most Caesarean sections), as my years of kung fu had rendered my stomach muscles 'so tight!' that the team couldn't stretch them. A compliment, at any rate, and one that made me smile as I waited in fear/hope/excitement as my insides were tugged and pulled with immense force. I had imagined that during a Caesarean section the baby was always lifted out calmly, gently, peacefully... but the fact is they try – where possible – to give the baby something akin to the experience of birth. In reality, they push the little being from its warm cocoon through the incision and out into the brightly-lit, impeccably clean theatre with its white walls, scrubbed and greened theatre team, metal implements and an absolutely massive digital clock on the wall, (which had stared back at me as a spinal tap was inserted).

After this part – the 'spinal', as it's called by some – I lay down as the powerful anaesthetic coursed through my body, deadening my nerves. They sprayed an icy cold substance up and down my sides to determine where sensation began and ended, a process that was repeated until the correct vertebral markers were numb. It was a staggeringly quick process and one that added surreality to that which any new parent must feel. One minute there's no child. And the next? "Meet your daughter," as this tiny person is held above the blue cloth they pin up to stop the mother and birth partner (S, in my case) seeing the gory business. Afterwards, I asked S what he could manage to see, and he said: "just lots of blood". I recall hearing the words: scalpel, knife, suction, gutters... and forced S, at the time, to tell me in great detail about his week at work. Also nervous, he got through this quickly and moved on to a ghost story. I think. I was terrified. My hands were clammy, my brow sweated and the oft-repeated warnings of what might happen to me and the baby rang in my ears. A Caesarean is not an easy way out. To believe so is incredibly stupid. What kind of fool would choose a major abdominal operation with a higher mortality rate than the other option?

The birth itself involved so much pressure being applied to my chest that I suffered excruciating pain in my upper back once we got home – and at one point screamed for an ambulance, as I (really) thought I was about to die of a heart attack. But it's not uncommon, this pain. This squeeze out of the womb helps the baby to do what it would do naturally – take a breath and cry to clear its lungs to begin its life independent of the umbilical cord. I cannot begin to describe the feeling I had at that moment. It was out of this world for its sheer uniqueness. My life, at a stroke – in the beat of a tiny heart – had changed irrevocably. I had taken a fork in the road that would lead us to life anew.
The scar is still numb. I couldn't touch it for weeks after the dressing had been removed, and then, only tentatively, peeking at it shyly as though it might open and reveal my shiny, scarlet innards. It's neat, about six inches across (having shrunk from nine) and sits beneath where I might wear a bikini if I chose to do so. Neat work by the startlingly young-looking surgeon who performed the operation. The skin is looser than it was before and, while I was back into my favourite fitted jeans fairly quickly, there is more sag, more excess, more softness. As my abs were cut open, it's unlikely I'll regain my muscle tone of old. I don't worry about these things. I don't diet. I do my best to exercise (a little). But flat tummy or not, my scar will always remind me of all of the above and more: of where I was and where I am now. It is the best kind of body art. No Chinese saying, no Inca symbol, no bird or butterfly could mean more.

Fab 40

I celebrate my 40th birthday this coming week.

Flipping heck.

Am not really hung up on the 'Oh, I'm old' lark, being an eternal child, but I recall little things, such as thinking, at the age of six, how ancient 12-year-olds were. And when I was about 12, I thought our 23-year-old teacher was an old bag (well, she was, but that was more about her personality defects)...

So, anyway, what with the bump growing and that, my plans to have a raucous, drunken affair are now put on hold until the next big one (or a Lotto win). Instead, and I am really looking forward to this, we are having a long lunch by the river in a lovely place. People will surely marvel at just how mature and sophisticated I have become, as I sip elderflower cordial. But seriously, I don't mind about the 40 or the sobriety. I feel very blessed, for many reasons, and those reasons – all people I love (including my new unborn one) – are priceless. Spending time with them over the next few days will be the best present.

Eyes and teeth

I am so tempted to have a moan, as I am tired and a bit blue. But that would not be in keeping with my positive mental attitude, would it?

I swore viciously at people and myself (in my mind, I mean) throughout the day for various reasons (traffic, bad driving, patronising stuff, being shite – yet again – in kung fu) but other than that it was eyes and teeth, eyes and teeth...

Grit

Yet again, I have an injury that is preventing me from going completely hell for leather in kung fu. It's the old knee situation. It's my own fault. Both my knees were painful so I did physio exercises; they got better and I stopped the physio. Now, one is bad again – searing pain when it's in a certain position.

It's annoying. Not only do I have the knee thing, but the skin around my eyes, following the eye infection, which is still waxing and waning, is so tight that it hurts. Nothing seems to help. It just flares up and abates, with varying degrees of severity. Last night, my skin was so itchy that I hardly slept and my eyes watered and itched again. I have longish fingernails and was so uncomfortable that I was scratching my face without really caring what happened. Luckily, it doesn't look as bad as it feels. I was so tired when I dragged myself out of bed this morning...

I had hesitated to tell my fu teacher, N, that I was yet again, yet abloodygain, injured/unfit. He said he had never met anyone like me (in terms of my capacity for things to go a bit awry). I said I hadn't either. I know that many of my ailments are stress-related, and stem from lack of sleep and unpleasant things happening to me. But I have to report such things, or I'll be shouted at for not performing remotely well.

I needn't have worried about N's reaction, which was possibly the nicest/most motivating thing he has ever said to me – that he "would be so annoyed if you don't become really good at kung fu, as the amount of grit you must have to keep on, despite all those things happening must be huge..." It was a bit of a shock to hear something positive, as I'd become somewhat conditioned to criticism. But it meant a lot. Without going into my life history, I suppose I am strong. S tells me I am. So do close friends. But I often, too often, forget and think I'm rubbish. So damned British.

Focus and pressure

I've slept well since we complained to the police and GFG went on her holidays. The stress of Monday night/Tuesday morning was immense... I felt as though I had run a marathon and was in recovery for at least two days afterwards.

I went to kung fu to get rid of my pent up adrenaline through the sheer physicality of the exercise and to do the best bit, sparring. It felt as though something had clicked in my head as I blocked blows and dealt them. I did get my fair share of whacks but I stood my ground more than I have in ages and actually earned praise from my instructor, N, for showing improvement.

Having confronted the GFG creature and slept well, I felt sharper. I forced myself to think of the things that were annoying me (which wasn't difficult) and visualised myself batting it all away. It seemed to work. I was bopped on the head, face, stomach, and various other spots, but that's all part and parcel of it.

N later said that I needed to be put under pressure to spar. It's true that I am best under pressure. I like a challenge; I find work that's brainless tedious. I like having deadlines; my ears prick up when someone tells me something can't be done. I'm not a rebel (or, if I am, I always have a cause) but I think there's very little in this world that's impossible, if you put your mind to it.

Doctor, doctor...

When the NHS is good, it is very, very good. I dismay at the system at times, and have kicked up a remarkable stink when people have been treated badly (why be a nurse if you patently hate people? It's really only a minority of nurses I've found to be apathetic – and I've made big noises about this)... but goodness, when you meet certain doctors and consultants and see what they can do to really change people's lives for the better, it's quite humbling. Leaves me in awe.

Passion

In my profile section on this here very blog, I talk about not being keen on people who display apathy as a trait. I love people who have passion, whether that is for cars, justice, kung fu, cricket, writing, work, chess, food, or recreating medieval battles in a field somewhere that no one has heard of.

Having something that you feel brings you vigour and sparks your endorphins is the stuff of life. It gives focus and breeds energy and a zest for the subject that makes the brain work – and gives it the capacity to grow and retain the sponge-like qualities that enable it to keep the synapses firing.

People who love what they do for a living are truly living a blessed life. Or are they simply getting their arses into gear? I am amazed I do not meet more people who say that their jobs give them pleasure and turn them on. How anyone can stay in a job – long-term – where they are unhappy, is anathema to me. Isn't life more precious than that? I understand that work equals money equals numerous things despite boredom/torpor/brain death... as it pays the bills and all that. (Believe me, I know...)

But to be resigned to be stuck in a dead-end job is, I think, a crime against one's intelligence and humanity. It turns you into a robot. I know that needs must but if apathy reigns, needs must be changed.

Passion. Passion. Passion. The word was batted to me once (and again and again) by an interviewee who talked with such passion that I decided that my life had to change. I was drunk on her words, on her way of thinking... I got back to my office after the interview and there, the seeds of my escape from stagnancy were sown as I wrote the article. That was seven years ago.

Since then, I've gravitated to people who have the p-word as a trait. They are always interesting, always on fire. Here's to people with passion: long may you live.

Happy New Year

To you all, I wish health, peace, prosperity and happiness in 2008 and beyond.




If you have a talent, use it in every which way possible. Don't hoard it. Don't dole it out like a miser. Spend it lavishly, like a millionaire intent on going broke – Brenda Francis.

People, people, everywhere, and not one stops to think

... or do they? They probably do. People.

It's funny, watching people Christmas shopping today, I wondered what it was all about, whether we are just bigger mice on bigger wheels. Signs said: 'Want it, Need it, Buy it'... And people, they bought and bought. It took an age to even get near the car park, let alone find a space. Why was I there? To buy some cards and a birthday gift. I could have waited until tomorrow and done that in my lunchtime. Ah, well.

Not many stopped to listen to the brass band playing (beautifully) in the store. They started with 'Joy to the World', then went through to my favourite carol, 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman', which makes me think of Dickensian Christmases.

On another note, I have fallen in love with Oxford. I had never been there until this weekend. The quadrangles with their perfect lawns, the tall yellow stone, the wood, the towers, the bells, took me back to dreams I had as a child, of spires, studying, silence and secret places. Christ Church was open to visitors – the hall was just lovely, with its huge Christmas tree, and the grounds near Merton College were bathed in tranquility. Utterly gorgeous.
----------------
Listening to: Editors - The Racing Rats

Do you realize?

I didn't really know much about the Flaming Lips. They were one of the support acts at a wonderful Massive Attack concert in London's Hyde Park a year or so ago... They performed this and rendered me speechless.

I cried my eyes out behind my sunglasses.

Do You Realize - that you have the most beautiful face
Do You Realize - we're floating in space -
Do You Realize - that happiness makes you cry
Do You Realize - that everyone you know someday will die

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes - let them know
You realize that life goes fast
It's hard to make the good things last
You realize the sun don'-go down
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do You Realize - Oh - Oh - Oh
Do You Realize - that everyone you know
Someday will die

Autumn

Autumn is here. This is deeply pleasing.

Mornings of sharp, bright sunshine. Breath you can see in the air, giving you feedback that you are alive.

Crisp leaves underfoot. The need to wear a coat and boots. Glossy chestnuts by the dozen, so shiny they seem to have been polished by Mother Nature... Perfectly-formed acorns, the targets of skittery squirrels.

The spectrum of colours... leaves blazing with fire before they die. Ivy, climbing up walls, turning scarlet for a few precious weeks in a scintillating display. Stunning.

The comfort of getting home from spending a day out, revelling in being warm and cosy.

Beautiful.

Me, interrupted

You've been sitting nervously on the floor for two hours, your backside's growing numb and your lumbar spine is beginning to ache. Then your name is called. You step up. You – and the three others who have been called up at the same time – do the first part of the kung fu exam – a random combination of hand moves, turns and kicks. Tricky. Trickier yet due to the nervousness spilling from every pore.

But you try to focus. Focus. Focus. Your eyes are fixed ahead, your mind is clear, dangerously so. Your legs wobble ever so slightly. It's scary. Imagine around 70 people watching you during an exam. There were 60 sitting on the floor behind plus, say, 15 of the elite in front, arranged according to hierarchy [think Last Supper]...

Then – then! – just before the second (and main) part of the exam, I was called over by the guru (to carry on the Last Supper metaphor, we are talking about the most Holy one here)... I was so nervous I must have looked like a rabbit caught in headlights.

I thought he was going to tell me to leave for being or doing something appalling but instead he whispered in my ear and told me not to worry. I'm sure it was for about five minutes. Five minutes while 75 pairs of ears strained to hear what I was being talked to about. To put this into context, no one else had such a summoning. Just me.

Maybe they all thought he was imparting some secret technique, some previously-hidden method of something or the other. Instead, he gently asked about, and advised me on, my eating. He asked whether I was sleeping well [he surely must be psychic] and generally seemed to pick up on the fact that I have been extremely stressed and needed a bit of a pep talk with regards to looking after myself well. Even though he has met me only twice, he'd noticed I'd lost weight and was concerned. I was touched, even though the context of the chat was quite surreal.

The chief is a (very tough) man who eats meat – and plenty of it – and you really do need to eat well to have the strength to train properly. I'm not a veggie but I don't eat enough protein and haven't stepped up my food intake to compensate for the thousands of extra calories I burn off at kung fu. So, he had a point. But to be interrupted in the middle of my grading was novel, surreal and made everyone else stare at me for a while. Suffice to say, I have bought a batch of meat and fish so that I can get into my size eight jeans without needing a belt to keep them up. I seriously do not want to lose any more weight. I wish I could eat chocolate but I'm still banned from it due to the caffeine yadda yadda.

Watched Girl, Interrupted last night on the box. Hmm. It was painful viewing in places. There was Winona, all angsty, but quite normal really. And there was Angelina Jolie, being very nuts. What was scary and sad is that this story was based on a woman's experience. Thank goodness the world knows more about mental illness these days.

Bits of the film reminded me of a wonderful, wonderful book I read earlier this year: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell. A moving and deeply disturbing read, and one of my favourite books.
----------------
Listening to: Kosheen - Empty Skies

Strength

It's a funny thing, the way I can perform some moves in kung fu and yet be so weedy at others. I went along, feeling deeply tired, a bit emotional, and worried, challenging myself to: a) be alert, b) not cry, and c) have confidence. It was a trial to maintain a, b and c, but somehow I did it, although I was acutely aware of my failings as I performed the moves.

Instructor N has become super-strict in the past couple of weeks. I regret telling him that his holiday stand-in was "Nice, and very strict" the other day... He's a good chap, though, and I think he is utterly fraught, as some of us are going for our first grading soon, and our efforts will reflect his teaching ability. He sat with his head in his hands the other day as we did our moves. Lord.

There's great camaraderie building in class. There aren't that many of us, and over the months, those of us who have attended regularly have got to know each other well enough to laugh, joke and encourage. The other regular female club member, V, whose spirit appears light, but has hidden, dark depths, has become a friend.

Lots of odd things have happened this month: good, bad and weird. I'm not quite sure what to expect next. But then again, was I ever? I know that I have become a little more resolute in the way I deal with things, even though I am still just as upset by the bad/weird. The good, when it comes – and it does – is often tinged with the vibrancy and sparkle you'd associate with seeing stars or the glistening, glassy surface of a mountainside lake. These times are not to be taken for granted; they are beautiful and peace-bringing. You can immerse yourself in their glow, but cannot hold such moments in your bruised hands.

Sometimes, strength is knowing when to just let something be, to let it drift, catch the wind and blow away so that it can embed itself where it is more suited. It may indeed float back to you (but you may have moved elsewhere).

Paradoxically, strength can also be knowing when something needs to be dealt with, such as the ghost in my nightmare. I suppose I am haunted, in a way, by something: my personal poltergeist. When I told S about this particular dark dream, it took only two minutes to recount, yet it had managed to ruin much of my day.

That aside, I do believe in ghosts. Real ghosts. I've seen some (not just the ones that inhabit dreams). They fascinate me.

This phrase I read the other day, penned by Ernest Hemingway, stopped me in my tracks: The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.

Words to lick greedily

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
William Shakespeare

The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Ernest Hemingway

Dresspiration

I am working – as some of you may know – on five assignments.

I therefore need some inspiration, some reason, some sort of carrot, to keep me going. For now, it will be this that enables me to shove my nose down on to the grindstone:


I am not even sure whether I really, really like it. I love the colour. Oooh, I adore deep red (the colour of wine)... Ooh.

Thing is, I can work out how much I have earned of the fee I'm charging (for one particular piece of work) in direct proportion to the dress. So far, I have paid for the waist down. Just the sleeves and bodice to go, then...

Update (three minutes later): actually, I've just realised that I have indeed already paid for the dress (in terms of work completed). Oh damn. Now what shall I use to spur me on? Shoes? Boots? I'm just too good, me...

Small pots of gold

• A stranger gave me her newspaper on the train this morning, complete with a smile. This was a nice gesture as I hadn't had time to pick one up.

• My buses came quickly. I ran for my train and caught it. Got seats on all the forms of public transport I took – no mean feat.

• My friend, J, emailed me, full of concern after reading a recent blog entry. Having someone (who isn't my next of kin) be so forceful with advice touched me and made me super-aware of three things: 1) friendship definitely shows its true colours in times of need; 2) R, who I thought was a good, solid friend, is not. Her remarks about insomnia, which I talk about infrequently, have been startlingly flippant – and she didn't invite me to her birthday drinks but told me how 'great' it was (weirdo); 3) I do need to sort myself out, pronto, and put my wellbeing above other issues (such as R: I cannot be bothered...). Or, I will not be here to deal with 'issues'. That's how serious it is.

• As I chatted to S on my mobile while standing outside the office, telling him properly how worried I am about the way I feel, a butterfly fluttered around me, back and forth, back and forth. It was stunning – orange, black, red – possibly a Red Admiral, seeking flowers in the heart of a dusty City. Words caught in my throat as I watched it soar. S and my parents have been swept up in the hurricane of my insomnia and been somewhat battered by it; they worry a lot. So, talking about it very seriously was only good. My decision to do something was resolute.

• Through my week-long headache and fog, I can now see a lighthouse. It is there, beaming at me in the distance. There is occasional fog forecast but that's par for the course with lighthouses, eh?

• I spoke to my dear dad, who recommended some herbal tablets that I'd heard about for years but never tried. I bought some and felt the underlying coldness leave my body an hour after taking them. This is promising. And I found the energy to laugh and chat to my colleagues.

• The PR woman for someone I'd been chasing for an interview called and said 'yes'.

• My boss is a lovely woman. I can talk to her about my insomnia and she listens and recommends things to help. And she told me, as we said goodnight with a kiss on the cheek (this is not what we usually do – this was spontaneous affection), that I could work from home tomorrow. Wonderful.

• As I rode home in the bus, it rained for a minute, just a minute. A cloudburst and then it stopped. Then, as I walked, I saw a glorious rainbow. I almost cried at the beauty of the evening. The roads were quiet, the rain made the pavements shine and there was a post-rain stillness in the air, as well as the curve of colours. Flowers and leaves dripped glinting raindrops on to grass and pavements. You could almost hear the Earth breathing gently as the sun's rays dazzled it.

• And, I've just had a message from Ground Floor Girl, with whom S and I had an amiable drink the other night. She has sent me the details of someone she knows who can do acupuncture, which she says has sorted out her energy levels. Excellent. GFG is an example of when good neighbours become good friends... Ahem.

Telly and that

Well, Simon Ambrose (left, looking elated) won The Apprentice. He is a good chap, very clever and personable, so no problem there. I thought Kristina (left, looking a tad fraught) might have won but always felt that Simon had more potential and was a more interesting person all-round. I love The Apprentice – one of the best programmes on the box, for sure. It inspires me.

The bits where snake-tongued Katie got her come-uppance in front of the live studio audience were class. It was quite something when Sir Alan said that if he had known what she was saying about the others behind their backs, he would never have considered employing her and that no one else would (now), either. That is one woman who should really learn to keep her mouth firmly closed. She is shameless.

I have no idea what happened in BB tonight. Do I care? Not really. The two programmes are, though genre-related, diametrically opposed.

More kung fu today. I ache like mad but it is all good.

Oh, and the weird things – signs – phenomenon keeps happening. Serendipity is my shadow.