Another Quick Update

So little time to blog lately that when I do finally get an opportunity every thought that I've had in the past week which I have made a mental note beside saying 'blog' has flown clean out of the window. I suppose this may in part be due to the migraine which I had yesterday and has shown little sign of shifting since. Or, perhaps I should start carrying around a little notebook and recording my thoughts.

Equally annoying are the incidents I can remember that I earmarked 'blog' but now, when I have the opportunity, I am unable to remember the details. Like the two girls who I had the 'fortune' to sit opposite on the bus last week. So styled they were they could have been caricatures and whose conversation was so tummy hurting funny that I wanted to share it. And now all I can remember is "Mummy, I've did 100 hundred butt clenches this morning and now my butt is numb". And that just doesn't sound so funny without painting the rest of the picture.

So, devoid of interesting things, I shall have to think of something else to write about. The WI were mentioned in the Sun last week with a picture of the Christmas beer and chocolate tasting. Not a terribly enlightening article and very poorly written, but still, some more exposure. And speaking of the WI, spent yesterday evening at an organisation meeting for the Christmas Charity Ball. We have managed to decide the theme, the date, the charity and even some of the decorations. Things are progressing nicely.

And, given that my mind is now drawing a resounding blank, I think I will go and be extremely dull somewhere else. Perhaps in front of the television. Where I spent most of the weekend watching the extremely addictive Twin Peaks (and am now desperate to find either £60 or someone who knows how to turn region 1 Dvds into region 2 so that I can watch the second series).

Nearly there

Sorry that it's been a while; things are taking longer than I thought in the new house. Long hours and short opening hours of services has resulted in a back log of things to sort out. Convincing the gas, electricity and water services not to cut us off has had to take priority over the telephone and broadband, but we are slowly moving towards an efficient household.

Unpacking is taking it's time as well. Each day I try to follow my flylady tip (although that in itself hasn't been the easiest task without easy e mail access) and I have been unpacking one box or doing a 27 fling boogie, or whatever she calls it, when asked. Setting myself the task of just spending 15 minutes doing something I have been putting off has really helped me.

Just time for a quick round up of stuff that's happened other than the all demanding move.

Rachel 's stalker has been arrested and is currently in prison awaiting sentencing. This is obviously a huge relief to Rachel and the other various victims. I am pleased that bloggers managed to help catch her and prove that there is a huge supportive blogging community in London. Button has now been taken down.

I spent the weekend sailing to the Isle of Wight, no, not for the festival, although that would have been nice, but practising for our impending sailing holiday in France. It was so warm that once we were anchored off Osborne Bay (just to the east of Cowes) we swam in the sea off the boat and it was much warmer than I expected. Once I have co-ordinated photos and computers, I may try and post some.

Update

This will be my last post for a few days, as we have now got to sort out all the tedious details of swapping our telephone line and broadband accounts as well as going to work (that is on the assumption that I can find any of my work clothes in the numerous bags piled in the corner of the bedroom), cleaning the old flat and attending the Christmas Ball planning meeting that I have lined up this week. Also to be fitted in somewhere is making a start on the unpacking, attending a 27 birthday party for a friend, helping another friend move house and sleeping. I think it looks set to be a busy week. Good job that I went to bed at 8.30 yesterday evening and slept for almost 12 hours in preparation.

Hope that everyone is having a nice bank holiday weekend and that it has stopped raining. We are going to have afternoon tea at my parents house this afternoon and off load an old wardrobe. I am rather looking forward to seeing them.

Moving On

So, finally, after three van loads, we are in the new flat. Thankfully, two wonderful friends helped us out with some of the packing and heavy lifting, so M and I didn't have to manage on our own. Even though we filled an entire bag for the charity shop and many many bags of recycling and rubbish, the new flat is absolutely full. I am resigned to the fact that I am a horder; how many other girls can say that they own an entire bin full of back issues of Vogue? And that is only the copies that I have saved since living in London as all the other are being stored at my parents house. Or that they have enough of those paper bags with handles to fit all their shoe boxes, shoes, books, folders, underwear and other miscallaneous items in? In fact, I had so many of those paper bags that I even brought with me a bag of bags. Yet somehow, I just can't part with them. I'm making myself use them though and then recycle them, so gradually I am culling my collection.

The flat is lovely: we have a full sized wash basin, shower, a bathroom door, ceilings which are not only intact but painted and with beautiful victorian decoration and an actual sitting room. It's wonderful. Less wonderful is the burglary of the house with which we share the garden, but we have been burgled before, we coped and claimed on the insurance. It was not the end of the world.

All in all, an excellent weekend, despite the rain. We even made it to a friend's birthday party last night at a bar in town, albeit rather late and as some of the other guests were leaving. But still, we managed to move house and go to a pary on the same day, something I have never managed before.

Jeeves & Wooster

When packing becomes a little too tedious, what better than a spot of Jeeves and Wooster to distract us for an hour or so? Makes me wish Jeeves would do some of the organisation for me.

Cyber Stalking

Sadly the stalker which I mentioned who has been bothering Rachel is still at large and causing problems. Rachel has written about this here but also says the following:

"Okay, here's where you can help...
If you see her - she is believed to be using internet cafes in London and periodically travelling to Oxford - please do not approach her.

Do not respond to her blog.

Instead, please immediately call your local police or CrimeStoppers on 0800 555 111 with a description of her and her location, (grab a pic on your mobile if you can) , and say that you have a sighting of Felicity Jane Lowde, convicted stalker/harasser - who is wanted for arrest and sentencing.

(Maybe someone can make blog buttons? And perhaps bloggers can pass this on?
I will try and get some more recent pictures so people can report sightings of her to the police.)

Remember, stalking and harassment are crimes, and she was found guilty under the ten-year-old 1997 Protection From Harassment Act. Voluntary or imposed internet use regulation codes do not work with someone like Lowde.

Therefore I say that the best way to protect free speech and blogging from the damage done to it by people like Felicity Lowde is to use the internet for good purposes. We do not need to be regulated, we can look after ourselves and our own, and we can self-regulate. Here is an opportunity to help the police bring a woman who brings blogging into disrepute, to justice, and to do so safely and legally.

Please do not do anything that could jeopardise her arrest and sentencing. Please do not respond to her or anything she says. Please just help the police do their job of bringing her to justice.

Thanks

Rachel"

(quoted from www.rachelnorthlondon.blogspot.com)

Au Revoir Primrose Hill

And so, at last, the time has come. I have always known that we were living on borrowed time, M and I, in this run down little flat. I have kept looking the other way, finding other things to occupy my time with, but the end is nigh. On Saturday we move out our possessions and next week we hand over the key.

Yes, our time in Primrose Hill has come to an end. It happens to all good things (and the not so good) eventually. I will miss having 4 pubs within a block of our house, having Melrose & Morgan, the farmers market, Primrose Bakery and Shiksuki all on our street and the park so near. I won't miss the people, the unfriendly neighbours, the expense, the traffic wardens or the surly shop keepers. I won't miss our flat too much either, enjoyable though our time has been. Our regular Friday and Staurday night parties will probably have to stop as well.

But before the moving comes the packing. I have been trying to do a little bit here, a little bit there, to ease the burden and prevent a repeat of my last move, which took all night. To no real avail. No matter how much I do, the more there seems to be to do. And it always seems to descend into shouting. I must try harder. Baby steps, Flylady.net tells me. I'm starting to worry that I should be sprinting or else I'll run out of time.

Boyarde Messenger & Henrie Haldane at artspace galleries

Panoramic #1 by Boyarde Messenger

So after I finished work this evening, instead of crawling home and collapsing in front of The F Word, I headed to meet a friend in Mayfair and attend Boyarde Messenger's new exhibition. Avid readers of my blog may remember a past exhibition of hers which I attended and was so inspired by her teddy bare collection that I took my own version for M's Christmas present.

Photograph by Boyarde Messenger

The exhibition also featured the work of Henrie Haldane. I thought her work was enjoyable but rather fell short of some of the artists that she reminded me of, namely Kurt Jackson and Paul Klee.

Fulham WI in Stella Magazine

Attended the May meeting of the Fulham WI last night. Was an interesting mix of speakers - a couple of 'modern day pilgrims' who told us about some of the journeys that they have completed following old pilgrim trails in Europe and what they have got out of the trips - followed by Marcus from the London Kaballah centre. He was an interesting and compelling speaker who drew you into his arguments rather successfully. To my mind though, he set up many questions for which he never managed to provide answers.

And, if you were so inclined, you could read a little more about the Women's Institute and it's more modern, urban, London face here, in the Sunday Telegraph's Stella magazine. There is also a small mention of Marmaladya as well. The article features my branch of the WI, Fulham, as well as the Islington branch. They have their photo tags wrong though, as the picture above is of some of my friends from the Fulham branch, not the Islington one as they claim.

Goodbye Mr Blair

And so, after months of speculation, Tony Blair has announced that he will stand down as Prime Minister on 27 June 2007, ten years after he was elected. The BBC news featured a slightly rose-tinted look at his life in power, accompanied by the Oasis track Don't look back in Anger and claim that after 10 years the general public will know whether they think Blair was a success.

Which got me thinking - what does this mean to me? So here goes, the Labour years as relevant to me. I have done my main period of growing up to the backdrop of Blair; I was a child before he came to power, I am an adult now he is leaving.

In 1997 I was 15. It was the end of my fourth year, one year away from GCSEs. Politics didn't mean a huge amount to me in 1997. I remember my parents staying up to find out the election results and there being a general sense of excitment - that there was a new party; a new vision for the future. A New Labour. It didn't mean too much though - my knowledge of the conservative years was gained later, at university. But for me, well, I suppose I was more concerned with teenage issues than national ones. Getting a boyfriend, getting good grades, gymnastics, sailing, friends, parties. Those were my daily issues, not politics. I didn't really give university much thought, other than the fact I knew I wanted to go to Exeter and I wanted to read English. Fees weren't something that even entered my mind. Maybe they should have done. Two of the schools in the area merged; our gymnastics club had to be moved. Local issues - national problems, but again, not something that really bothered me.

In 1998 I started sixth form; I started to become more aware of national issues, of politics, of economics. More aware, but uninterested. Too many distractions. I suppose I was aware that the Americans had attacked Iraq, but if I was, I don't remember. A levels, parties, drinking, learning to drive and university applications were more prevelant.

In 2000 I went up to university. My parents paid the fees and I signed up to the student loans company to pay for the rest. In 2001 foot and mouth disease struck and I worried for farmers, particularly my aunt and uncle. I voted in my first election (more out of a sense of obligation to women dying for the vote than because I favoured one party or that I was particularly interested). In September that year I sat in a restaurant in Gran Canaria and watched terrorists fly planes into the World Trade Centre. I didn't know where it was until Bush came onto the television to make a speech as the commentary was in Spanish. My main thoughts centred on friends and family - we had lived in America for 2 years in the late 1980s and we had many friends still there, as well as worrying that a simultaneous attack would occur in the UK. My flight was the first one allowed back into London and I suddenly felt very small and vulnerable in a large world where I had very little control.

In 2002 I moved into a house in Exeter with 3 friends. One was studying for an MA in Middle Eastern Politics, another dating a Royal Engineer. We sat together on the sofa one evening in March 2003 glued to BBC New 24 watching the allied troops invading Iraq, wondering how it was that England had become involved in such a war, and praying desperately that Stuart would survive his time in Iraq unscathed. 4 years on, Stuart has returned but many other of our friends have qualified as officers and are currently in Iraq leading troops in form and another. My interest in politics increased through personal fear and an amazing resource of information living in the next room.

In 2004 I moved to London, to start Law School. The government announced top up fees for university and I took out loans to pay for my continuing education. Interest rates were still low - I gave little thought to what would happen if they started to rise (which of course they did and still are).

In 2005 I graduated from further education and started to look for a job. In an emotional few weeks, we went to the Glastonbury festival and joined in with the Make Poverty History campaign, watched people protest at the G8 summit, celebrated when we won the 2012 Olympic bid and then sat in front of the TV for an entire day on the day when 4 British men who had been known to MI5 blew themselves up on the tube network, killing 52, injuring many many more and affecting every single Londoner. I made a promise to my grandfather to get on the tube again, which I did, but it still didn't stop me walking everywhere for the next few weeks. On 21 July, I was sat in the law school library when the second wave of bombs hit. I had a call from my sister in Spain before I could even tell my mum that I was ok. In our consumer driven, media hyped generation, news travels fast. Later in 2005 I watched as David Cameron was elected leader of the conservative party and I began to think about politics in relation to me, and which party I actually wanted to vote for. I still don't know.

In 2006 I joined the Women's Institute. In July I started this blog. I was more worried about issues such as global warming and how we could all do our bit to reduce it than I was interested in national politics. I made sure that I was more informed; I read papers, websites, blogs, opinions. I discussed every issue with friends and family but I can't really say that my view of Labour and of Blair was anything more than ambivilent. We went to the St John's College garden party and my father commented that it was probably for the best that Blair didn't show up. Members of the Labour party were questionned on the 'cash for honours scandal'. I worried about whether I would ever find a training contract, about interest rates and house prices; whether I would be able to afford to have a child or go on holiday.

And now, in 2007, I am a trainee solicitor, with bills and debts, a rented flat and an oyster card. I am more cynical, more aware and it is only recently I have started to use the tube again without thinking twice. Interest rates have sunk and risen again; I know that the NHS is better than it was, yet my friends who are nurses and doctors still complain of the long hours, poor pay and shambolic junior doctor application systems. I am able to see my doctor if I turn up and wait, but I can't get an appointment until the next week. I pay almost £7 for a prescription. Yet I know that the NHS is better than it was (although I can't understand why my sister at university in Wales gets free prescriptions). I did have a pension but in changing jobs I have to transfer it (there is no pension at my new job) and I don't trust the state pension scheme.

I believe Tony Blair when he says "hand on heart, I did what I thought was right". Hindsight is a wonderful thing; it is lucky for many of us that we don't have the press and public scrutunising our every word, move and decision. But then, I suppose our decisions and mistakes have slightly fewer repucussions. I find it hard to decide, one way or another, whether Blair has done a good job. It is impossible to please all of the people all of the time. I can't say that invading Iraq was a mistake, as I cannot for certain say what would have happened if we hadn't. I think the world is less safe, more unsettled. I think people are, or believe themselves to be, more aware and less willing to be spoon fed information without questionning it. People are more eager to demonstrate their opinions, to march, to write, to discuss, to sign petitions. But whether a different Prime Minister or different leading party will make England any better, I don't know.

Remembering Morocco (4)

An enforced day off, so finally catching up with some of the things I have been meaning to post for months. First up, the rest of our trip to Morocco.

But after four days of wandering through souks and sitting in gardens, we decided that it was time to do something a bit different. We rose early on the fifth morning, earlier than usual, about the same time that we would do at home to go to work. By 8.30am we were sitting in Djemma El Fna, waiting for Omar to pick us up. All we knew was that we were going for 3 days. One night we were to stay in a riad, the other a tent. We knew we were heading over the High Atlas, across the desert the other side, eventually for the sand seas of Erg Chebbi, near to the Algerian border.

We had been told 8.30am. It came and it went. The minutes ticked by towards 9am and we began to wonder if it had been such a good idea after all. And then, there was a white landie pulling up. A man jumped out. He loaded our bags in and we climbed aboard. An English voice greeted us.

"Hi" she said.

"I'm Fizz".

And that was the last time we doubted Omar.

And so ended the last entry, which can be read in full here.

I paused, awkwardly balanced on the step of the landie, not yet used to the height off the ground, looking up at her. She was wearing Gucci glasses and the early morning sun was reflecting off them. Blonde, pretty up turned nose. I suddenly felt scruffy in my already grubby trousers and plain long sleeved yellow top. I could feel M, impatiently waiting behind me, eager to get in and for us to leave.

"Hi" I replied, "I'm Rachel".

I hauled myself into the back seat and tried to find a place to stash my rucksack.

"This is Ben" she said, gesturing to a straw hat on some blonde straggly curly surfer hair, sat facing away from us in the front seat.

And so began our strange journey to the Sahara. We left the small, red, dusty streets of the medina and joined the wider grey straighter roads of the outskirts. No real road markings, occasionally a set of traffic lights, the purpose of which was hard to ascertain. Bikes of all shapes and sizes flooded past on the edge of the road. Palm trees lined the sides, their roots pushing up cracked and barren soil. We turned towards the mountains in the distance, the snow caps which were visible from all round Marrakesh.

And then, we were pulled over by the police. It was the first time, it was certainly not the last. They wanted papers. Our driver got out and they argued. I thought we were going to have to turn back, but then, as suddenly as it started, there were smiles, patting on shoulders and we were back on the move.

The road began to get steeper and we started to climb through the foothills of the Atlas mountains. We paused every now and then by the side of the road to look at villages built into the side of the mountain, clustered around river beds, to take photos and to use progressively worse squat loos. At each stop, people would appear, as if by magic, trying to sell us fossils, jewellery, tagines. And we would take photos. Omar, our guide, told us to pretend to be Japanese and take many photos.

The air began to get cooler and patches of snow appeared on the ground. The drivers knew the roads well, too well, I thought on occasion, as they overtook on bends of a road with no barriers and a several hundred metre drop to one side. But we made it across the pass safely and were soon dropping down the other side of the mountains and back onto flat land. A complete contrast to the mountain range - this was red, dusty, cracked flat-ish dirt.

We drove for hours across the desert, there were no roads where we were driving, just an occasional barrell or marker. Every now and then there would be a piece of human created rubbish -if it hadn't been for that, there was no sign of human life as far as the eye could see. Until the land got slightly hillier and we rounded a bend; a small settlement appeared out of no-where and we had reached our first destination: Ait Ben Haddou Kasbah.

As we all piled out of the landie, Omar and the two drivers watched with amusement the preparations of 2 english girls. Handbags, suncream, water, a hat. It's hot out there in the desert, you know, our english skins aren't as used to the sun as you Berbers. But wait, lip gloss Fizz, surely not. Omar leads us down towards the river, winding through the small lanes of the little settlement. Suddenly we pop out on the river bank and stand for a moment, taking in the imposing majesty of the kasbah on the other bank, before our attention is drawn to the procession of donkeys in the fore-ground, ferrying passengers from one side of the bank to the other. Some of them seem a little small for the work - one man is so big that his feet drag in the water and his guide is almost having to carry the donkey across for him.

This kasbah is now used for filming; Gladiator and Troy both used it to film town scenes. In the past, this is where the pasha used to live with his hareem. The construction of the buildings is remarkably simple, but is why it does not last forever and has to be re-built; it is red mud mixed with straw to make a sort of concrete and turned into the walls. Bamboo poles are then laid over the top and covered with more of the concrete mix to make the roof.

And then, just as quickly as we arrived, we were off, driving again through Quarzarzate and pass the film studios, through the valley of the roses and finally reaching the Dades Gorge at sunset. We stayed the night in a small riad/guesthouse which was right on the bank of the river. Lying in bed we could hear the water rushing past, but we were too tired to stay awake for long. Besides, in the morning we would be setting off again for the Erg Chebbi sand seas.

Parenting

The news this week seems to have been dominated in part by the story of the 3 year old girl who was abducted from a locked room in a hotel complex in Portugal whilst her parents were elsewhere eating supper with a group of friends, returning to check on them every half an hour. Now, I'm not a parent, and I know that balances have to be struck, but, to my mind, a 3 year old is too little to be left on her own for half an hour, even if she is asleep. I have read that this child is 'extra special' in that she was conceived via IVF. Well, I think all children are special and once one is born, they have to come first, or at least their safety does. A child can achieve a lot in 30 minutes. It might wake up, terrified that it's parents are not there and be scared for another 29 minutes waiting for them to come back; it might get up and wander about, potentially harming itself in some fashion. I admit that it is an unlikely senario that in that 30 minutes it could be abducted (indeed the reason these things clog up the papers for so long when they do happen is because they are so rare) but it is still a possibility that something could happen.

The parents were at a holiday centre which apparently offers a babysitting service, which they hadn't chosen to use. It just strikes me, not being a parent, that if you have kids then you either take them with you, ask someone else to look after them, or you stay in with them. Surely the fact that you have to return to the room every thirty minutes throughout the meal negates any positives that leaving the child alone in the first place offers? I don't know, because I don't have any children, but I think it borders on irresponsible, leaving babies and toddlers alone for up to thirty minutes whilst you, the parent, do something unnecessary.

I don't think that abduction of the 'abandoned' child is the justified punishment though, no parent deserves that. I feel desperately sorry for this child's parents - I am sure that they were simply doing what they thought was the best compromise on their holiday in Portugal. I hope that she is found quickly and safely - although she has been missing for a week, kidnapped children have been found alive, so they must not lose hope. I bet they could do without premiership footballers jumping on the publicity wagon and pleading for the child's safe return though.

Bank Holiday

I love bank holiday weekends. Three days off work in a row, followed by only 4 working days until the next weekend. Barbeques seemed to be the main theme this time round. One each day.

Watched Arsenal Ladies team win the female FA Cup Final this afternoon, beating Charlton to win all the possible ladies football titles this season. Was rather an odd affair, ladies football. Somehow it doesn't really seem 'right'. I was, at least, expecting them to behave like ladies, even if they play like men, but no. There was spitting, there was arrogant celebrating after a goal was scored (yes, Kelly Smith, I am talking about you, pointing to the back of your shirt, repeatedly) and there was undignified chanting of 'Champ-ee-o-nay' when they were awarded their cup. It was all rather embarassing really. A rather sad portrayal of women showing they can do everything a man can (except be a father). And then the commentary. Stating the b***** obvious the entire time. Such as "2-1 down is an easier mountain to climb than 3-1 down" and other such pithy remarks courtesy of Gavin Peacock. All in all it would have been enough to make me turn it off it it hadn't been so awful it was actually rather amusing.

Quick Update

Just over a week into my Training Contract and things seem to be going well. Suffering rather from a cold today but still managing to be at my desk on time and enjoying the (much heavier) work load. As it is only the second week I am also benefiting from still having enough time to take a whole hour for lunch - have been sitting in a garden and enjoying the sun whilst reading a book.

Am also managing to get away from the office at a fairly decent hour and this evening met a friend for a quick bite to eat. Have returned home and the boys are out watching Manchester United lose so I have the place to myself. It could do with a bit of tidy up but as I feel a little under the weather I really can't be bothered to do more than a cursory tidy. I think I will make another cup of tea and eat some of my easter eggs whilst watching Desperate Housewives. (It's either that or start researching some points on Contract Law and I think that is best left until tomorrow).

Lastly, something I meant to write about last week but never got round to. Had the misfortune to catch a BBC1 programme regarding the making/putting together/hash that is Grazia magazine. Grazia is a magazine that I used to read regularly but following a promise to my father I now no longer buy, reading it only if I find it on the tube or if C lends it to me. No more. After watching that programme I don't think I will ever buy it again. No matter how tempting the cover line. It is put together by a bunch of women who are boring, arrogant and sheep-like, full of their own self-importance and who spend the weekend cutting things out of the papers so they can feature them in the magazine. They have a folder where they fill up the pages with things that are happening but are so deviod of actual information that they are thankful when (for example, as in the show) they are rung by a 'contact' in Thailand to say that Kate and Pete took part in a beach ceremony. They spend the vast majority of the weekly budget on grainy paparazzi shots. They claim that their main competitors are Vogue, Elle and Marie-Claire magazines; I would assert that their main competitors are the tabloid rags and free London papers. The editor, Jane Bruton, is a whiny middle aged woman who alone was possibly responsible for my dislike of the programme and magazine the most. She came across as shallow and uninteresting, feigning a mucking in perspective by choosing to sit at an open plan desk rather than her own office. She must be something right though, as Grazia wins award after award and sells hundreds of thousands of copies a week. Enough, rant over.

Marmaladya in the Sunday Times Style

Meant to post this last week, but what with the new job and all, it completely slipped my mind. Marmaladya was in the Sunday Times Style in an article written by Fleur Britten about women only events. The night at Sketch that she mentions is the Beautiful Brands night that I wrote about here.

Book Review: On Green Dolphin Street

Worked harder today than I've done for a long time. 8 hours (with an hour off for lunch) with no distractions. No internet, no phone, no people, just me, the file, my brain and a couple of text books. So at lunchtime, I thought I'd go for a walk. I wondered through the heart of legal London and found a quiet corner to sit and finish my book. I have been re-reading On Green Dolphin Street, a Sebastian Faulks novel of 2001.

On Green Dolphin Street is set in the late 1950s and early 60s across 3 continents and 4 cities, following the life of Mary van der Linden and her past, present and future relationships. An English girl, who grew up in Primrose Hill, Mary is the wife of a British Diplomat who has been posted to Washington, America. Faulks seems fascinated by the effects of war on relationships and, to some extent, On Green Dolphin Street is no different. This war is the Cold War, however, that political terror that was the Nixon/Kennedy presidential race, those uncertain times when the American people (for those are the people of this book apart from the British Diplomats) struggled with that specific moment in history when the Eisenhower years of the 1950s were left behind, horrors of the Second World War had yet to fade and heal and the idealism of the future had yet to materialise.

I think, for me, there were two central themes; loss and the way that people cope with it and understanding. Loss of life, both in the literal sense of death (deliberate - soldiers killing one another in times of war - and natural) as well as the metaphorical sense of dispair, of giving up, of breaking down. Loss of the presence of children, family, of a lover, loss of one's own personal freedom to make choices because of others' dependancy being more important. Mary believes that marriage “means that if an impossible choice is to be made” between one’s own life and one’s husband’s “you choose his”. Understanding takes many forms, understanding oneself, one's reasons, one's choices, understanding that you can belong to one person yet by necessity be with another. Understanding that in another lifetime, things might have been different.

Mary faces loss and understanding with both realism and idealisim. She lost her fiancee, her "own, her self" in the Second World War. She believes that aspect of her life to be over. She meets Charlie at a party and falls in love with him and together they have 2 children. Charlie, a Diplomat, is posted to Washington, and Mary, the dutiful wife, accompanies him. It is at a party given by herself and Charlie that Mary meets Frank, a reporter from New York, assigned to cover the presidential race. After a prolonged friendship over several illicit meetings, Mary realises that Frank is “me, my inner self. It’s not just him that I yearn for when I call. It’s myself, my previous life, my next life”. As a reader, I longed for Mary to succumb to their relationship. But life doesn't work like that. One can't just up and leave because one feels like it, not if one is as Mary is. No matter how pure the love, the intensity of the knowledge that you are on this earth to be together, there are promises and duties which have been made which must always come first. Perhaps the truest of people who, no matter what their errors and infidelities, will always put themselves last.

At times, I had the feeling that Frank was who Charlie should have been, who gave Mary what Charlie should have given, behaved as Charlie should have done. Two different versions of a man who went off to fight in the Second World War and returned, changed, one who could cope, one who couldn't.

By the time I reached the end of the book, I was in tears. I was also reminded of another book, The Bridges of Maddison County which also addressed the idea of a chance meeting with the true meaning of 'other half', yet life, previous responsibilites, duties to other, must always come first, yet knowing that you both spend every waking and dreaming moment with the other.

Training Contract

Was up at 7.30 this morning. By 8 I had eaten breakfast, washed my hair and was dressed in a suit and new shirt. Shoes newly polished and armed with a packed lunch, I left the house by 8.30am and started my first commute by tube since we moved to Primrose Hill. Today was the first day of my training contract.

My own office, files to read, notes to draft, law to desperately try and remember from my time at Law School. The first day of my Training Contract. Leaving work 'early' at 5.45pm. This is the way it will be from now on. Travelling to and from work squashed into a human sardine can which is usually known as the tube, wearing suits and shirts to work (and tights) every day regardless of the weather. Using my degree, my postgraduate qualifications and my brain on a hourly rather than occasional basis. It was great, but tiring. I must have read about 10 lever arches of material. Can't wait to see what tomorrow will bring...

Florence & Petreto

The cellar at Petreto

The bus was our first taste of Italian hospitality; it certainly wasn't the last. We met Piero outside the Hotel Baglioni at 1.30am. We were supposed to have arrived at 10pm, so we were more than a few hours late, but no matter. Piero borrowed his father's car and picked us up. Despite the late hour, he wanted to show us the view from the Piazzo Di Michaelangelo - and what a view it was. There, spread out before us, was Firenze. A host of beautiful buildings crowed together in the shadow of the Doumo, balanced by the river and the backdrop of mountains. We spent a few moments standing in the quiet, warm, night, amazed by the lack of pollution. And then we got back into the car and drove to Piero's family apartment. An imposing, grand mansion block over looking much of the city. We crowded into the small lift (maximum three persons, who could be fitted in if everyone stood in a line facing the same way) and soon were creeping into the flat and going to bed.

"I wake you up at 8 and a half" said Piero.

And so the next morning we ate breakfast, hot milky coffee, chocolate biscuits and biscotti and then M and Piero went off to sort out a car. Once the car was sorted, we were off. First stop, Peiro's father's vineyard Petreto. Each vineyard is organised differently and produces different wines. Petreto make both red and white wine, but also make a sweet desert wine, rather like a sauterne and rather unusual in this part of Italy. I think it is delicious. After a tour of the cellars we tasted several bottled wines, choosing one to take with us to the restaurant for lunch. We walked to the restaurant attached to the vineyard by walking along the track between the vines and then through an orchard. I hung back, letting M and Piero walk on ahead, deep in wine discussion. The Tuscan landscape is so very beautiful, much more so than I had imagined.

To Tuscany

I sit at my computer, peacefully, in the quiet of the late 'summer' English afternoon, for despite the calendar reading April, this weather feels more akin to June, and think back to the weekend. This is the first chance to reflect today, a day which started at 6am BST. We were stirred by first one alarm, then another, followed by Pierro knocking on our door. We awakened and I stumbled into the kitchen, to drink esspresso and eat biscotti and chocolate pannetonne. It was a mad scramble to pack, to load the car, to decipher and negotiate the road signs and customs of the drivers of Firenze and to make it to the aeroporta at Pisa in time for the flight. Then the small matter of parking the duck egg blue Fiat Punto in the tiniest of bijou spaces in the carpark and say a quick prayer that the 6 bottles of wine packed into the suitcase would not break en route (nor be denied check-in if the bag were too heavy) before boarding the flight. And then home to Gatwick, to London and to work this afternoon. One long rush but one amazing weekend.

A weekend which begun on Thursday afternoon. We met, like lovers, at the entrance to the Gatwick Express. Only given away by the fact that I was late and we had only one suitcase, which had to be re-packed on the train. It started so promisingly, we were on time to the airport, check in was smooth. We drank tea watching the other planes depart for foreign climes in the pink-orange glow of the hazy afternoon before leisurely making our way to the departure gate.

Where we sat. And waited. And waited.

Eventually, they let us onto the plane. Exit seats; lots of leg room. I fastened my seatbelt and waited for the engines to start. Waited and waited.

"This is the Captain speaking... we are currently having issues with air traffic control in France."

"It seems that the French have gone on strike. With no notice. French airspace is closed. We are working to try and find a slot (for takeoff)"

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I am sorry to announce that we have been given a slot at 10pm. I have turned off the seat belt sign so please feel free to walk around the aircraft and use mobile telephone equipment".

So we sat there for 2 and half hours on the stand, more than the length of the flight, finally arriving in Pisa at midnight. We had arranged to hire a car, but for reasons far to dull to elaborate, but involve obstructive Europeans, we eventually opted to get a bus to Florence.

Orange Broadband

I was standing in front of the sunglasses stand in a shop on Oxford Street this evening, trying to decide which ones looked the least bad when my phone rang. Juggling bag and several pairs of spare sunglasses, I tried to answer the it. Boop boop doo-oop it went in the bottom of my bag, the sound of the CTU (24) taunting me as I tried not to drop everything on the floor.

"Hello". Nothing. 1 missed call. Caller 'anonymous'. Answer machine message. I call the voicemail out of courtesy rather than interest. May as well, I suppose it could be someone interesting.

"This is a message for Rachel. This is X calling from the BBC... I wonder if you could return my call. My number is 020 8...".

So I did, crouching on the floor to write down the number, hiding behind the cheap jewellery in an effort to distance myself from the exitable children shopping in their Easter holidays. A lady from BBC Watchdog answers and tells me she is ringing in response to my e mail regarding Orange Broadband. She was interested in my experience and wanted to ask me a few questions regarding my view of their customer service, specifically how long I have been kept waiting on their phone system. So I told her of my 20 minute wait, only to be told that I need to call a different number, which routes back through to the first option, of no issue being solved adequately, how I was told to look at their website for further help (when the issue I had was that I couldn't access the internet in the first place) and so on.

We discussed the issues for a few minutes and then she asked if I would help them by filming a short interview for the programme next Wednesday.

"Of course, no problem" I replied, knowing somehow that it would be this weekend and I would be away. "When?"

"This Saturday". So, regrettably, I had to decline.

So I stood up, bought my sunglasses and was soon back on Oxford Street, dodging tourists, children and people going about their shopping, rueing the fact that I had just turned down a chance to air my views of Orange Broadband to the nation (or those that view BBC 2 next Wednesday evening) in favour of a trip to Florence...

Ingleborough

My apologies for the sporadic blogging. You may remember that I was experiencing some difficulties with the internet, or more specifically, that Orange Broadband was not compatible with Microsoft Vista (which came with our new computer to replace the one that was stolen during our break in). Well, that particular issue has been rectified. The 'helpful' Orange lady who imparted the news of incompatability also suggested that I

"consulted the Orange website for further assistance"

to which I responded, naturally, that since I was unable to access the internet, my chances of finding the Orange website at all, let alone finding it helpful, were slim to none. Still, she had a point, as when I was able to use another computer to view said website, it suggested pushing the button marked '1' on the router. This I did, and the internet has been working ever since.

Until yesterday. When we encountered our second problem with Vista. The computer came with a one month anti-bacterial (viral, whatever) cover. When it expired we were due to activate our CD entitled 'vaccinations 2007', or whatever it was. Which we attempted to do last night, only to discover that despite it being the 2007 version, it is not compatible with Vista. So no internet until we can protect the poor little thing from all of those diseases and viruses that computers suffer from so easily. I am not good with PCs it would seem. Thankfully, M's Mum (and Dad) are good with computers and in charge of the whole process really, so it will be sorted soon. If only all customer support was like them the country would be amazing.

In more interesting news, or perhaps not, depending on your situation, I am back in London and back at work. Spent the weekend hill walking in the Yorkshire Dales and helping on my Aunt and Uncle's farm. On Saturday we climbed Ingleborough in glorious sunshine and on Sunday some low level walks near the farm. Caught up with family and discovered that I am too old to stay out all night dancing with my sister. Train back to London yesterday and back to my second to last week at work. All three days of it. We're off to Florence on Friday and I haven't even unpacked my suitcase from last weekend yet. So many things to do, so little time. So I had best be off to do some washing and re-packing.

Ingleborough - 2,373 feet (we climbed up the steep left hand side from the limestone pavements)



(Rachel said that she was a techno-muppet - I like the phrase and as far as PCs are concerned, me too. Thank goodness for M's parents)

Blogging and Bloggers

A few months ago, a number of anonymous commenters left some unpleasant comments for me on my blog. While they were marginally annoying, I felt that a blog in the 'public domain' was just that, and everyone was entitled to their opinion (supposing that there was anyone actually reading). So I left them, pointing out that my policy was only to delete defamatory or racist comments or ones that deliberatly insulted someone other than myself. Being called a Primrose Hill Princess and that I should try working harder and shopping less is, whilst unpleasant on a daily basis, nothing to get stressed about.

I did delete one comment though, from someone refering to 'FJL'. This commenter suggested that I should have a look at a certain blog, which I did. I was horrified to find an enormous rant about someone I consider to be a blogger friend. I have never met either my blogger friend or the commenter on my blog, but I know who I trust. I e-mailed Rachel, who explained the situation and told me that the matter was with the police.

So I was pleased therefore to read this post on Rachel's blog. FJL has been found guilty of harrassment. She didn't attend court but was found guilty in her absence. Sentencing is awaited. Having broken bail terms (so I believe) there is a warrant issued for her and she could potentially be facing 5 years in prison. A stark warning, it would seem, to people who consider the internet (and blogging in particular) to be above or around the law. It isn't.

My heart goes out to Rachel and the issues she has faced, but I am also pleased that she has come through with grace and dignity and still able to look forward to her new, married, future.

Reflections

Occasionally, one overhears something about themselves which is unflattering. It is an odd thing, to hear oneself being described. When it is complimentary, it is strangely pleasing; when it is not, it is the rabbit in the headlights situation, unbearable to hear but unable to tear oneself away. The need to step into the conversation and say, actually, no it wasn't like that really, there was more to the situation than that, is overwhelming but it is also rather humiliating to hear ones behaviour disected and so one doesn't step in, doesn't provide the other side of the story or any defence, rather stand, sit, lie in silence thinking how huge the difference is between two peoples view of the same situation.

Occasionally, one views a situation from an odd perspective. It is as if one is watching the situation from afar, through the wrong end of a telescope. Viewing something happening and knowing that one is powerless to change the outcome. To see oneself as someone else might, rude, diffident, dismissive, exclusive, but feeling unable to change the course. Hard to take, hard to change, and like a coward, one from which one retreats, runs, hides.

Occasionally, one is able to sit down and look back at recent events as if they are watching it on a screen, from a distance. To write and reflect and realise that things need to be addressed, to be changed, to be rectified. It is so very easy to do that, but so very hard to actually make the changes. Saying sorry isn't the hardest part; saying sorry and changing behaviour is the hardest part.

Occasionally, one can be so self-absorbed that they make a situation all about them. It isn't.

Beautiful Brands networking event

It was the second MarmaLADYa networking event last night at Sketch. Entitled Beautiful Brands, the evening featured two friends -turned mums - turned business partners who run a boutique in Bath called Mee. Tamara Sturtz-Filby and Emma Mandell-Linn described their beautiful shop and website and their journey from fashion journalists to running their own brand.

Although both women were clearly nervous at addressing such a crowd, they each spoke and their love of their business was clear. Whilst Mee seems typical of many Lifestyle boutiques that I have seen in London (and even Exeter) they did manage to persuade me that their shop was a product of themselves and worth a visit. The emphasis of Mee is clearly on the luxurious and 'treat to self' mentality, something which I think is, in principal, a great idea. When I visited the website though, I found it slightly confusing and it didn't stand out enough to persuade me to but anything through them rather than other shops in London. I did find a nice pair of flip-flops reduced on the sale pages, but at £5 standard UK delivery, this would have almost doubled the price of delivery. I also found the cost of some of the products prohibitively high. Worth a look if one is in Bath though.

The evening itself was typical of MarmaLADYa events so far; beautiful venue, lovely drinks and delicious cupcakes, many readers, business owners and marmaLADYa team members all there to meet each other and find out more about each others' lives and jobs. Networking, but intimate and relaxed. I enjoyed talking to Fleur Britten, a writer and journalist whose work I have read for years. I also spoke to Toby Hunt of Pebble.it (more on that later I hope), Sally Ragbourne of Ox Eye Daisy (Marmaladya's website designer) and Nora Radecke from Christie's Auction House. Other guests and speakers included Nadia Finer from Theres More to Life Than Shoes, Gaby Neubert-Luckner from Luckners Online Auctioneers and the Golden Goose PR girls. All in all an enjoyable evening, and a gorgeous Mee themed goody bag to take home in the end.


Update: A few people have asked what was in the goody bag? Well, there was a trademark 'kiss me quick' red OPI lipstick, a Vuju vodka smoothie, a Theresmoretolifethanshoes.com notebook, a strand of beautiful MEE butterflies, a sample notecard and information about some of the other brands.

Photograph by Rebecca Portsmouth

Sunday evening

Back in London after a weekend in the country. Spent yesterday afternoon at Avebury and enjoying a rather bracing walk around the standing stones, along with a few druids, one of which was engaged in a rather strange conversation with a crow. Was wonderful to blow away a few cobwebs and get some fresh air and peace and quiet.

We then had some champagne last night and then some again tonight with M's family to celebrate my new job. I handed in my notice last week and it is pretty much official. I am to start a training contract in a few weeks. Once that commences I will have even less time to blog than usual. On the upside though, broadband has suddenly started working again. Very odd. Anyhow, I'd best be off to bed as despite last weeks news, I still need to get to work on time.

Timing

Orange Broadband is officially the worst broadband supplier, according to a survey by Watchdog. Great, I thought, sitting with a cup of tea watching the programme, we have Orange Broadband. This doesn't bode well for our current problem.

The credits had just started to roll when my mobile rang.

"Hello" I said, cautiously, as it was an unidentified 0800 number

"Hi" she said, "I'm calling from Orange Broadband. I'd like to offer you an upgrade..."

"Interesting", I replied, "Did you know that you have just been voted number one worst broadband supplier of all time? And whilst you're on the phone, perhaps you could explain why I can't use my Broadband with Microsoft Vista?"

She asked if I'd hold the line, which I did. It was their call after all. In a few moments she was back.

"I'm sorry" she said, "Microsoft Vista isn't compatible with our broadband and we're not sure when it will be".

"I see", I replied, "Then in answer to your initial question, seeing as the service we have currently doesn't work at all, I think it would be unlikely if we agreed to pay for an upgrade."

And so there you have it. My posting will be restricted to the occasional lunchtime for the foreseeable future.

My Visual DNA

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Still alive

Please don't worry. I'm sure you weren't, but just in case, I thought I'd post a quick message. I am still alive, just have been rather busy (but not anything interesting enough to post about). Except for an evening in the Hawley Arms for C's birthday. But that can be summed up in 3 words (rum and coke) so I didn't bother posting especially about that. Hopefully life will calm down a bit after today and I will be able to sort out the computer and start writing again. To be continued...

Back soon

Having a little trouble with our computer, Microsoft Vista and the broadband router. Once the problem is solved and each machine starts talking to each other again, I will be able to finish my account of Morocco. There is too much to think about at work to try and cram the writing into my lunch break.

Went to Chinawhite last night with the Marmaladya girls to have a few drinks and watch a band. The singer persuaded M to get up on the 'stage' and to pretend to be Bobbie Gillespie (and later Robbie Williams). And he was fab. What a rock star!

Red Nose Day Book

It will be Comic Relief on 16 March and Troubled Diva has a big idea for the big day. The idea is that British Bloggers will submit a funny post from the archives of their blog and these will be compiled into a book, which will be sold in aid of comic relief. Sounds good? The catch - it will be published within seven days. Have a look here for further details. I'm off to have a browse of my archives and see if I can find anything I've written which is funny enough to sumbit.

Remembering Morocco (3)

We spent the first four days of our trip in Marrakech. Each morning we ate breakfast overlooking the square, each afternoon we watched the sun set from the roof terrace. Marrakech is a very flat city. Each building is supposed to be no higher than the height of a palm tree, except for the mosques, which tower over the city and look beautiful silhouetted against the sunset. The oldest of them all, the Katoubia, was built in the eleventh century and set a trend, both in dimension (the 1 to 5 ratio) and the beautiful tiling around the top. They stand imposing, the call to prayer sounding from loud speakers attached to their tops. All of the other building are of a similar height. It seems that there are two Marrakechs, the one at street level and the one at roof level. I stand, watching the sun set over the limits of the city, the snowy tips of the Atlas mountains visible in the distance, looking over the roofs, the many many satellite dishes and wondering if I could walk over the top of the city if I wanted, jumping from terrace to terrace over the tiny alley ways which divide the houses.


But after four days of wandering through souks and sitting in gardens, we decided that it was time to do something a bit different. We rose early on the fifth morning, earlier than usual, about the same time that we would do at home to go to work. By 8.30am we were sitting in Djemma El Fna, waiting for Omar to pick us up. All we knew was that we were going for 3 days. One night we were to stay in a riad, the other a tent. We knew we were heading over the High Atlas, across the desert the other side, eventually for the sand seas of Erg Chebbi, near to the Algerian border. We had been told 8.30am. It came and it went. The minutes ticked by towards 9am and we began to wonder if it had been such a good idea after all. And then, there was a white landie pulling up. A man jumped out. He loaded our bags in and we climbed aboard. An English voice greeted us. "Hi" she said. "I'm Fizz". And that was the last time we doubted Omar.

Remembering Morocco (2)

Our riad doesn't serve breakfast. It is more towards the backpacker end of the market. So we start each day with a quick walk across the Djemma El Fna to one of the cafés with roof terraces looking over the square. We soon settle on a favourite, which has fewer English speaking tourists, metal chairs with cushions and proper (rather than paper) tablecloths. We order the usual 'petit dejeuner', a basket of bread with a pot of butter, a pot of 'confiture' (which is sometimes jam, sometimes marmalade, occasionally honey), very fluffy orange juice and a cafe au lait and sit back in our chairs, enjoying the morning sun, which already feels rather warm, and watching the movement below in the square. Sometimes we read, sometimes I paint but mostly we sit and watch the people go by. Everyone seems very busy doing not very much at all. The snakes charmers gather under their green umbrellas, their white coats and yellow shoes distinct from the old ladies in black who sit armed with henna under their umbrellas. There are five, six, seven men all identically dressed, taking it in turns to sit and play haunting but garish riffs on what appear to be metal recorders, trying to provoke their snakes into moving, whilst others try and draw in people to watch, to photograph and most importantly to pay. The crowds shift and move rather like tides. Circles gather around raconteurs and acrobats. Men lie in the shade of their umbrellas. A group of men with wheelbarrow like carts sleep in them whilst waiting for business. The orange juice sellers call out for business. It is a strangely compelling place, the Djemma El Fna.

And through it runs a road although it is barely delineated, if at all. More scooters, more bikes, horses, donkeys, men pushing wheelbarrows, delivery vans, the occasional 4x4. One man we see has about 20 boxes of 16 eggs piled on the back of his scooter, held on by two bungees. Another man is on a bike carrying an enormous basket of bread between his legs, his knees bent out right to the side, peddling away. One woman appears to be carrying a TV. She is riding on the back of a scooter. There is a certain scooter style - left leg turned out, foot hanging off, more often than not with the left arm carelessly draped towards the back of the bike. Some have small black helmets (straps undone) perched on their heads. Most are wearing cloaks, open backed shoes, plain muted colours. It is not until I visit a hamaam that I see a non tourist woman without a hejab or similar.

The hamaam we visit it not a tourist one. It is further down the street on which our riad is, further into the 'residential' part of the Medina. There are 2 entrances, separate ones for women and men. We go in at the same time, M and I, so that neither has to wait around. I don't get hassled very much when I am walking next to M. But in the ten minutes that I stand outside afterwards, waiting for M, I get watched, stared at and called to more than the rest of the trip put together. I am nervous going in on my own, my French is more limited than M's. But all the French in the world wouldn't have helped me, once inside, as the women in there appear to only speak Arabic. They gesture to me to remove me clothes. I had read that full nakedness is taboo, so I change under my towel. I put on bikini top and bottoms. The women gesture at me to remove the top.

She takes off all her clothes and changes into an enormous pair of knickers. Wearing only bikini bottoms and flip flops, I follow her. We walk through a room which is full of naked ladies, sitting on the floor surrounded by buckets of water. They are chatting and washing, catching up on gossip I cannot understand but recognise by tones, glances and body language. They look at me with detached interest. I am taller, skinnier, whiter and blonder than all of them. But I don't feel awkward, not at that point. I follow the lady assigned to me through to the next room. She fills buckets at a tap and washes down the floor. She gestures and I sit down. She soaps me with brown gooey soap, which I later discover is 'savon noir' and then scrubs me with a mitt, all over, no part left untouched. Behind the ears, inside elbows, ankles, the lot. I feel like my skin is coming off, but also invigorated and as if my blood is circulating better. And then, just as quickly as it started, it is over. She is waving her arms. I can't understand her. I try gesturing. We still can't understand each other. A younger girl is called over. "Parlez-vous francais?" "Un petit peu" "c'est finit". I follow her out into the slightly cooler changing area and she hands me my towel which I had hung just fifteen or so minutes earlier on a peg. I get dry and changed. The atmosphere has shifted. It no longer feels like people are watching me with distracted fascination. I feel an intruder in their private social space, alienated because we cannot communicate with each other. I do not know the customs of a traditional native hamaam and feel that they feel I am rude for waiting until they indicate by gesture what I must do. My bag is handed back to me and she stands there waiting. She is after a tip. But I only have 2 dirham. I hand it over and she tuts. I cannot tell if the amount I gave her was reasonable or whether she was just hoping for more because I am a tourist. An academic thought though, as I have no more money with me. She limps off muttering and I leave, starting to feel claustrophobic, with a general "au reviour". The ladies have returned to their soup making and tea drinking and do not even look up.

Remembering Morocco (1)

And so our trip started by watching the sun set from the plane, a fantastic sight as all the colours of the rainbow were visible around the tilt of the earth with darkness above and below the rainbow, with only the wing of the plane visible as a silhouette against the rainbow.

We landed at Marrakech airport which had no shops to speak of save for a stand selling drinks. A cat, the first of many cats we were to see throughout our time in Morocco (although we didn't know it at the time), wondered over to say hello. We changed some money and then followed the 'sortie' signs. Into a car park. Where several beige cars were parked, surrounded by a gaggle of men wearing long cloaks with pointed hoods. "taxi" they said. "Djemma El Fna". And so began a period of haggling, where they tried to make us pay three times the amount our guide book suggested, and we told them "c'est plus cher". Eventually the arrival of a German couple meant that we managed to persuade them to take us all for a price we were both happy with. And then we were off. Weaving in and out of bikes, scooters, petit taxis, grande taxis and an assortment of cars and horse drawn caleches. Each bike had two or more occupants, most with a man driving, a woman hanging on the back and a child sat on the lap of the woman. Although it was dark the air was still warm, hotter here at night than the daytime England we had left behind and the city walls glowed red in the glare of the street lamps. Benches lined the walls, each one occupied by a couple, here and there a moped or scooter parked next to them.

And then we had stopped and we were in the middle of what seemed to be a festival. People were everywhere, small children offered biscuits from baskets, others talking loudly to each other, shouting over the crowds. More scooters weaved in and out. Smoke drifted up from many stands gathered in the square, the place, the assembly of the dead. The Djemma El Fna.



Through the chaos we managed to get our bearings and began finding our way down winding narrow streets full of more bikes, mopeds and people. It was a street off the southern side of the Djemma El Fna and seemed all the narrower for the shops, wares and people spilling out from the sides. People walked down the right leaving the centre clear for mopeds, bikes, donkeys pulling carts. The air thick with the smell of hundreds of suppers being cooked, of drains, of donkeys and occasionally spices or perfumes from one of the shops. But this road wasn't one of the souks; this was a more residential street. Each even tinier alleyway off to the side had many doors opening off it. Cats lurked in every corner. Men lounged or squatted by every shop. People spoke to us in Arabic, in French. A small boy followed us, trying to ask us where we were going. "Non monsieur" repeated in ever stronger tones, and still he persisted. And then suddenly, we found the riad (guest house).
Arriving finally. Finally. But no, "c'est complete", "but we have a reservation". He comes out, shutting the door behind him. He leads us to another riad several streets away. We are shown to a room. He leaves. The new proprietor asks for more money than the reservation. We haggle. He finally relents. The room is basic but functional. The walls are red and cold. There is no hot water. We drink the first of many mint teas in the courtyard, the tea poured from a great height into a small glass, to aerate it and allow the mint and sugar to mix. We start to realise that we may be on the same timeframe GMT wise, but everything in Morocco takes its own time.

And so it goes on. Very hot by day, cooler by night. Local women are covered up, wearing more clothes than I thought possible in that heat. I buy a scarf, even in the moderate clothing I brought I feel exposed. Other tourists wear shorts and vest tops but I feel more respectful to their culture my way. Call to prayer punctuates the air five times daily, a mournful lament of a wail, broadcast over a loud speaker system from the tops of the mosques, each on slightly different and an altered tone or timing. The air is full of sound. And smells. Spices, leather, bad drains, mint, food cooking, horse pee. The sun shines through the gaps in separated rays and is full of dust. Everyone calls out to you, "lovely jubbly", "fish and chips" "only to look" "I give you good price". Each shop-owner knows these English phrases but no more.

We wander through the souks, everything you could want, many times over said Canetti, and he was right. Rows and rows of colourful shoes, scarves, carpets. We haggle for a few minutes over a small handbag. He starts high, I start low. He says I am a Berber, I tell him his price is too expensive. I start to walk away. A hand on my arm "excuse me" and he lowers his price. We finally settle on a price which suits us both. I soon learn to keep my sunglasses on, stopping only to admire things that I am prepared to actually buy. We both realise that no matter how much you think you will stick to your best price, you often will go slightly higher. We wander and admire and finally emerge in small squares, blinking at the bright light after the darker alleys of the souks. We realise that the map in our guide book is not much use. You simply have to wander and eventually come across the Djemma El Fna and our bearings can return. Everything here takes it own time.

Marrakech

Camel trekking in the Erb Chebbi sand seas near to Merzouga. More to follow.

Morocco

Am looking forward to visiting Morocco very much. These pictures were taken by Larry Broder (via Maryam in Marrakech). I hope the photos that I take live up to the ones that I have seen by other photographers.

marmaSOIREE

Finished work at 6pm and duly trotted off to Jermyn Street to attend the very first marmaSOIREE. Despite leaving the office slightly later than I intended, I somehow managed to arrive at 6.20pm. I'm not sure that this has ever happened to me before and it caught me so much off guard that I stood under the clock on Jermyn Street trying to remember what I was doing. Oh yes. M1nt. Number 57. Only it appeared to be an office. Cue trying to balance hideously overstuffed handbag on one knee whilst digging through make-up bag, novel, spare ballet pumps (in case 4" heels got a bit waring), purse, crumpled receipts, tampons, packs of paracetemol and the other assorted paraphernalia that I persistently carry around on a daily basis to find my diary. Squinting to try and read my scrawl I see that it does indeed say 57. I peer through the door. It's definitely an office. "Are you looking for M1nt?" I turn around and another marmaREADER is standing on the street behind me, indicating the (now very obvious) stairwell to my left. "I think it's down here."

I follow her down the stairs and we are asked to put our coats in the cloakroom. I have only got my one handbag, which I am clearly not going to be leaving in a cloakroom, no matter how nice the venue. Which means that I spend the rest of the night hauling it around and having to negotiate all manner of rubbish every time I need to hand out my card. Note to self. Next time attending any kind of event, bring two bags. Lucy and Julia are on hand, both looking gorgeous and I start to regret having not changed out of my work suit into something, I don't know, more inspiring. Or less suit like? Never mind, something to remember next time.

Lucy hands me a complimentary cocktail voucher and asks me to put on my name badge. It is only later in the evening that I realise that everyone else has put their first and surname and their occupation/job. I have written, in slightly crooked writing, 'Rachel'. Thankfully I remembered to bring some cards with my details on though, so all is not lost. I collect my pink diamond cocktail and start chatting to a girl who looks vaguely familiar. We introduce ourselves and I realise that she is Danielle Proud. We chat for a while and she tells me about her book, House Proud, her Topshop line, her forthcoming BBC 2 show and her husband's new bar and I realise two things. That these networking events could actually be really useful as well as fun, and that if I ever want to get out of the job rut I have landed in, I really need to get my act together.

I spend the rest of the evening talking to a variety of interesting women and learning about their choices and businesses. I make arrangements with Janey from Fit for a Princess to sort out my vitality and Georgia from My Fashionista to do a wardrobe analysis. I catch up with some of the girls from the Fulham WI and have my photo taken by the marmaphotographer. I speak to a few girls who went to the same university as I did, one who photographs dogs (pawtraits) and many who are in fashion pr and personal shopping. Evreryone is friendly, enthusiastic about their business or job and willing to give and take advice. It is not how I thought networking events would be. There is real passion, real desire, a real drive for women specifically to succeed. Everyone is nicely dressed, groomed and no-one gets drunk. And then the place starts to empty. Girls leave for supper reservations or to meet up with friends. No-one outstays their welcome or hangs around looking for free drinks. Goody bags are civilly collected at the door. There is no grabbing; everyone there has manners and isn’t afraid to use them. It was enlightening. And the cupcakes were fabulous.

Wedding Bells

Rather a heavy weekend, this one. Friends over on Friday night. Frisbee on Primrose Hill on Saturday afternoon. It was so warm I ended up stripping down to my t-shirt. In February. Bought salami and bread and lemonade and ate them sat on a bench watching people walking up and down the paths, some with dogs, some with babies in prams, others with small children in tow, couples laughing, in love, couples arguing. Some singles and many families. All enjoying the rather unseasonal warm sunshine. And then we meandered back to the house, walking down Regent's Park Road. All the tables outside the cafes full, people talking and laughing, drinking coffee and reading the Saturday papers. So very London.

And then to Angel on Saturday night, to an engagement party for some dear friends. Who asked me if I would be a bridesmaid. Which I am honoured to do. And so we partied until 4am, first in the pub and then in a friend's flat, celebrating the bond which links two people, which draws them together and convinces them that they should spend the rest of their lives together.

Valentine's Day

Hope everyone had a calm and peaceful day yesterday, with or without valentine. Back just as soon as the computer is.

For M

The highway is full of big cars going nowhere fast

And folks is smoking anything that’ll burn

Some people wrap their lives around a cocktail glass

And you sit wondering where you’re going to turn

I got it.

Come. And be my baby.

Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow

But others say we've got a week or two

The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror

And you sit wondering what you’re gonna do.

I got it.

Come. And be my baby.

Maya Angelou

Pause for thought

You may have noticed that I haven't been able to make many posts over the last few days. Sadly the computer has had to leave us for a while to be mended, so have had to resort to using a friend's computer to check my e mails. So the post about women and children will follow when the computer has returned. For those that are interested, I apologise for the delay.

And in other news, friends of mine got engaged last weekend. So very exciting. Am looking forward to the enormous party we are going to hold in their honour. The ring is beautiful and I am so pleased for them. On the same day though, I found out that a friend from a long time ago had given up on her desperate battle with a mental illness. Days like that rather put all other more mundane problems into perspective.

Have to hand back the computer now, will be back as soon as possible.

The Year of Living Gorgeously

Via Maryam in Marrakech I discovered The Year of Living Gorgeously. It is full of tips and recipes and ideas as to how to make your life and your house gorgeous. They also run monthly photography competitions, in which I have entered my photographs of Regent's Park. Ihope they will not mind me using their photograph above but I just love the way that the books are colour-coded. I might have to try that myself...

Regent's Park (2)

What a difference a day makes! These photos were also taken in Regent's Park on my way to work this morning. Back soon with the woman and child post.

Regent's Park

Just another quick post tonight as I have some other writing to complete (my next marmaladya article and the post about women and children). Have been trying to walk to work every day at the moment; I took these photographs in Regent's Park yesterday morning and was very nearly late as the sight of the sun on the trees and buildings in comparison to the frost on the ground and the low lying mist was rather beautiful and distracting. If the weather forcast is anything to go by tonight, I will be able to take some rather different photographs tomorrow...

Monday

I was hoping to post something about my views on whether or not a woman has a right to have a child, but it will have to wait for a couple of days as I am rather busy and I haven't had the time to research it properly. Was going to begin writing it yesterday but ended up participating in a marathon pool playing afternoon. Sunday started well. After my walk up to Parliament Hill on Hampstead Heath M cooked supper and we watched Pirates of the Carribean - Dead Man's Chest which was very enjoyable. We managed to get another reasonably early night and as we had friends over for lunch we got up early and finished off some clearing up. 8 of us crowded into the kitchen and had a beautiful meal of sausages, yorkshire pudding, bubble and squeak patties and salsa followed by cheese, biscuits and apple pie. Despite being rather full we headed to the pub to watch the football (or in my case, read the Sunday papers). Once the football ended we started playing pool and only stopped when we asked to leave. A lovely afternoon but what a mess at the flat!

So this evening after work I elected to come straight home work rather than attend the WI meeting (as I hadn't been feeling too well all afternoon) and make a start on the clearing up, so that we can relax properly. We are also about to eat - a far more reasonable time than usual - so I had better be off.

Hampstead Heath

Hampstead Heath at sunset. Post regarding a womans right to children to follow.

Erg Chebbi

The planning for the Marrakech trip continues, sporadically, when I get a chance. So many things to sort out. It's no wonder that people simply book all inclusive holidays with flights and hotel and insurance. It's been fun doing all the research ourselves though. what I can't find though is the information that I am looking for regarding hammams. Some things I've read suggest that one needs to take ones own bucket, soap, scrubby things etc. Other accounts I've read would indicate that you just turn up and pay and it's done for you.

The other thing which I am really looking forward to is the camel trekking. I've been in touch with 2 other people who are joining the same trek and it is making it all seem a little more real. I've also been trying to research the area and what we can expect to see. I believe that we will be driving over the Atlas Mountains which may well still have snow at the highest points. We will continue our drive until we reach a village called Merzouga and from there we will pick up camels, trekking out into the Saharan desert and the sand sea of Erg Chebbi. We will sleep in a nomadic style Berber tent and then trek back to Merzouga the following day. The picture above is of a camel train near Merzouga. I hope to be able to post some photographs of my own on our return.

But for the moment, back to reality and back to London. I am writing this whilst watching In Her Shoes but as TJ is also cooking, I can't hear it too well. I will have to wait for an evening on my own and I will watch it again. Have been trying out a DVD service from Blockbuster, which is free for two weeks. It is one of the offers which can be sampled here at the free gifts website which I mentioned the other day. I signed up for the offer on Monday and had three DVDs in the post yesterday which I then post back, in pre-paid envelopes, and I then receive the next three DVDs on my list. An excellent service and well worth at least a trial.

Just one more thing to mention: won an Ecover tea-towel which arrived out of the blue yesterday morning with a note attached stating that I was a winner in their December newsletter competition. A lovely surprise and a much better way to start the morning than today (when I was woken up by a phone call at 9.30am and was late). I left early enough yesterday morning to walk to work through Regents Park in the sunshine. Although it was cold it was not unpleasant. There was some residual ground fog over the field which was being slowly burnt off by the sun, backed by the grand buildings in the middle distance and the more blurred office blocks in the far distance. A much better morning 'commute' than getting the tube!