Love Is...

Followed a link from a link from a link. And found this poem.

Love Is...

Love is...
Love is feeling cold in the back of vans
Love is a fanclub with only two fans
Love is walking holding paintstained hands
Love is.

Love is fish and chips on winter nights
Love is blankets full of strange delights
Love is when you don't put out the light
Love is

Love is the presents in Christmas shops
Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops
Love is what happens when the music stops
Love is

Love is white panties lying all forlorn
Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm
Love is when you have to leave at dawn
Love is

Love is you and love is me
Love is a prison and love is free
Love's what's there when you are away from me
Love is...

Adrian Henri

Ken v Boris

Still undecided about who you should vote for on 1 May 2008? Have a look at this helpful website and actually think about your opinion on some of the issues.

Small World Syndrome example 3

Supper last night with a good friend. Whilst standing in the kitchen, drinking wine and eating chilli prawns which M made as a starter I told them both the story of BestFriend's flatmate being the ex-boyfriend of a school friend. What I didn't expect was a further link. "You know Suitor*", my friend asked, "well, he and BestFriend went for a drink and it turns out that Suitor works with BestFriend's flatmate".


*Suitor is a school friend of the person who came over for supper. Suitor did once rather like BestFriend.

Small World Syndrome example 2

Rushed home last night as M had invited a few friends round to watch the football. I had been keen to avoid going to the pub to watch the game so I had said I would cook. All day my phone kept beeping "X's coming. Hope that's ok sweet" until I ended up cooking spaghetti bolognese for 9. Thankfully I not only had a girlfriend there to keep me sane (who helped with the cooking) but Liverpool won.

------

Had an e-mail from an old school friend this morning. "Rach" it read, "Do you know someone called X? Because if you don't, your doppelganger is on her fridge!" Turns out, the fridge in question belongs to the girlfriend mentioned above. "I do know her" I replied. " She's my BestFriend. What were you doing at her house?". Turned out that old school friend used to date BestFriend's flatmate whilst they both lived abroad and she had been round to their flat for supper last night whereon she had seen the picture of BestFriend and I together on the fridge.

Playing Detective

Reading the Times AlphaMummy blog has convinced me that I know one of the regular commenters. She has given enough detail about her life (divorce, number of children, some of their ages, high paid job, being back at work after only 2 weeks after the birth of her first child) that I am sure that she is a lawyer with whom I used to sing in the London Lawyers Chorus. If she is, and I am right, it is further proof that it is a small world. The most annoying thing though is that I will never know whether or not I am right.

Hospital Tales Part 5 - The Farce Continues

I finally got to speak to the clinic which I was having trouble with earlier in the week and they have received my referral. "You are now on a waiting list" she informed me. "We will write to you to tell you that you are on a waiting list and will be contacted within a maximum of 4 weeks". "So I can't book an appointment now", I queried. "No", she said, speaking slowly as if I were stupid, "You will get a letter in 4 weeks asking you to call to make an appointment. We send out a bundle of letters and then it is first come first served as to the appointments".

So I have waited 2 weeks for the referral whereon I will have to wait another 4 weeks to receive the opportunity to fight to get an appointment on a first come, first served basis from a clinic which will only answer their telephones on Monday, Wednesday and Friday until 4pm, except if you call at lunchtime, when they don't answer them and you get put through to Islington PCT and the line goes dead.

There has to be a better system.

Alpha Mummy

The Alpha Mummy posters are up in arms again today. For once they are not at war over the stay-at-home vs working mothers debate (although no doubt that will re-surface presently). No, they are outraged because some people have 'hijacked' their debate. It seems the Alpha Mummies want to ban anyone from commenting on 'their' threads who is not an 'Alpha Mummy'.

It seems that what has got them het up is a MAN has infiltrated the blog attached to a national newspaper which is ONLY FOR ALPHA MUMMIES. And not only a man but one who expressed a different opinion, although it has to be said, in a slightly oafish fashion. To be fair to him I don't think his method of expressing himself varied that much from some of the other regular commenters. His crime was to start off his comment (on a post debating the pros and cons of the embryo bill - a view on which cannot surely be limited to mothers) by stating where his point of view comes from (male, a father, a catholic, a scientist and lawyer) which I think can be helpful on a thread which contains so many separate points of view. His basic, if long winded point, seemed to be that life starts some point between conception and birth and at that point (whenever it is) the embryo is entitled to protection. Ergo if 'it' is entitled to protection then it is not right for 'it' to be sacrificed for the grearer good; his viewpoint was that this point was at conception therefore embryo research in this context should not be permitted. What the alpha mummies objected to was this statement: "unless there is/are god/s then all ethics are abitrary." In actual fact, I think he is using arbitary to mean something other than coming from nowhere, rather that ethics are not based in concrete facts, to which I agree. It seems an unusual place to start an argument though, as it the existence of god/s is not something that can be 'proved' in the scientific sense. However, it is not necessarily a statement which deserved jumping on in such vitriolic fashion ending with Jane writing "My original objection to xx's behaviour here was that he arrives out of the blue, not an Alpha mummy but as a guest, and then posts in a way that makes me think his ambition is to control the debate by setting the questions that he wants us to answer".

How they wish for an alpha mummy to be defined, I don't know. Certainly some of the regular commenters go by female names and appear to have children, but as we all know, you can take on any persona on the internet. Most of them claim to have Oxbridge firsts and be busy, but quite frankly they can't be that busy if they debate so often during the day. They also seem to be unaware that they are attacking people for behaving as they are doing.

Unpackaged

Tried to leave work early tonight. Finally managed to leave at 6.38pm and ran all the way to Exmouth Market to try to get to the Unpackaged shop before it closed at 7pm. I got there with one minute to spare and was very pleased that Catherine had not shut.

I had brought with me my empty Ecover washing up liquid and washing liquid containers so I had them refilled whilst I had a quick look round the shop. Large bins filled with flour, rice, oats, pasta and other dry food stand in the middle of the shop whilst shelves surround the other sides of this beautiful old converted dairy. I didn't have any time to remember what else I wanted and I hadn't brought any of my containers so I left it for the evening but I will be bringing back my empty oil and vingar bottles to be re-filled and stocking up on dried goods next week.

The owner, Catherine, was very sweet and would have stayed open later if I had wanted to buy anything else. We had a great chat about the products that she sells and the ethos behind her shop. If anyone lives anywhere near, the Unpackaged shop is a fantastic local retailer and if you bring your own containers you get a 50p discount per item which is a great incentive for people to cut down on packaging as well as just recycling it.

Hospital Tales Part 4

Just when I thought my experiences with the NHS were getting better, this happened.

Referral from my GP to a(nother) clinic. According to the paper she gave me I needed to ring them 2 working days after the referral to make an appointment which would be approximately in 6 weeks time. Instead of being able to ring up each day of the week and arrange an appointment when available, I could only ring on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday, with each day relating to appointments booked for a specific day. I.e. call on Monday for a Thursday or Friday appointment. So far, so good, if a little confusing. I, however, was referred last Tuesday so the next day that they were open to book appointments was the Friday. Which was a bank holiday. Or Monday, which was also a bank holiday. I finally called the following Wednesday where the conversation went along the lines of this:

Me: "I'm calling to make an appointment for XX clinic. My GP referred me last week"
Them: "Date of birth"
Me: "xxx"
Them: "which clinic"
Me: (repeats initial statement)
Them: "what's your name?"
Me: (spells name)
Them: "your date of birth?"
Me: (repeats date of birth, again")
Them: "how do you spell your name?"
Me: (spells name)

Turns out, they couldn't find my referral. "Your GP must not have sent it. Contact them and ask them to fax it, marked urgent". Phone went dead. So I called the GP surgery where I was greeted with a barked "hold the line". A few minutes later I explained the issue. "Date of birth?" she asked... "Yes, you were referred to XX clinic last Monday" she confirmed, confidently. "Well", I responded, "they don't seem to have any record of it being received. Can you re-fax it today, marked urgent?", I pleaded. "OK" she snapped and again the line went dead. So, as I have to wait 2 (clear) working days, that will bring me to Monday, two weeks after the initial referral.

Strikes me that Islington PCT could do with an integrated computer system...

Hospital Tales Part 3

Back to the hospital for another scan today. Same hospital; different department. Last week I wrote about the problems with administration which I encountered. Over the weekend I went for a drink with some friends, a group which included one who works for the NHS. "How do you find the administration in your hospital?" I asked her, explaining that at the hospital I go to I had found it lacking. "Appalling" she replied cheerfully, considering the wine list in the bar that we were in. "Last week", she continued, pointing to a bottle, "we had a live donor op. You know, kidney passing from mother to daughter, or whatever". I nodded, both in agreement to the wine and also concurring that I was following her story. "Well, the donor was on the table in theatre when suddenly someone realised that the donee had a temperature and was still on the ward". She ordered the bottle and the bar man handed me the glasses, "someone had forgotten to write it down and pass on the message". We went to sit down and she ended, "still, at least they hadn't started cutting" and poured the wine.

So it was with some surprise that I found myself back on the street a mere 10 minutes after the scheduled time for my scan. Granted, the department was much larger than the one I visited last week, being an entire outpatients department rather than simply a clinic, with a much more ordered reception desk, queuing system, note system. In fact, the whole system seemed far superior to that of the clinic upstairs, perhaps simply because these staff appeared familiar with theirs and knew (or appeared at the very least) what was going on. Anyway, I arrived with ten minutes to spare, presented my letter, my notes were found and details checked. I had just sat down to read whilst waiting and I was called in. It was over and done with in ten minutes and I was free to leave. I was so surprised I didn't know what to do with myself.

So I called a friend who works from home and went to his house and am sitting drinking tea, playing with his cats and waiting for him to finish work so we can go and watch another friend's band this evening.

Easter Weekend

As a child Easter meant a trip to Yorkshire, to see Grandparents, packed into the back of our Volvo with my two sisters, Dad driving through the night and carrying us into the house in the early hours of the morning. It meant a service on Good Friday, usually outside in the Cattle Market/Auction Mart. On other days the yard would be full of farm trucks and land rovers, animals being loaded and unloaded by farmers in green wellies and tweed jackets, the air thick with the sound (and smell) of dozens and dozens of sheep and cows, the auctioneer's voice raised above the general melee. Yet on Good Friday the only sounds were the voices of 30 or so villagers singing hymns and the preacher's voice against the quiet air, punctuated only by the occasional wheeling cry of a curlew, the yard quiet in contemplation and prayer, faces lifted to the warmth of the spring sun. Saturday morning was always spent at the church, helping Granny construct the miniature Easter garden, complete with a large stone rolled away and real flowers hidden in tiny glass vases behind stones and moss, which would then be blessed by the vicar at the Sunday morning service, prior to the Easter Egg hunt in the church garden.

This year was supposed to follow suit only illness put a stop to it and so we found ourselves at my parent's house instead. It didn't really feel like Easter at all, with it being so early in the year and being in Berkshire and neither of my sisters being present. While we used the opportunity to catch up with other friends and see, for the first time ever at Easter, my other grandparents, I felt rather nostalgic for the security of the familiarity of childhood.

Petition calling Chinese Governement to respect Tibet

I just signed an urgent petition calling on the Chinese government to respect human rights in Tibet and engage in meaningful dialogue with the Dalai Lama.

"After nearly 50 years of Chinese rule, the Tibetans are sending out a global cry for change. But violence is spreading across Tibet and neighbouring regions, and the Chinese regime is right now considering a choice between increasing brutality or dialogue, that could determine the future of Tibet and China. We can affect this historic choice. China does care about its international reputation. Its economy is totally dependent on "Made in China" exports that we all buy, and it is keen to make the Olympics in Beijing this summer a celebration of a new China that is a respected world power. President Hu needs to hear that 'Brand China' and the Olympics can succeed only if he makes the right choice. But it will take an avalanche of global people power to get his attention. Click below to join me and sign a petition to President Hu calling for restraint in Tibet and dialogue with the Dalai Lama -- and tell absolutely everyone you can right away. The petition is organized by Avaaz, and they are urgently aiming to reach 1 million signatures to deliver directly to Chinese officials"

Please join in with your support and sign the petition.

Ladybird

It is what seems like another day in an endless stream of grey and rainy days; cold, damp and miserable. Walking home last night it could have been November were it not for the sudden strong scent of wet blossom glistening in the orange light of the street lamps. This small reminder that spring is on her way provided a small amount of compensation for my wet muddy feet which left little sock prints all down the hall when I finally returned home.

Yet Saturday will not be remembered solely for the rain or the fact that I went all the way to the Tate to sit in the members cafe and count the cranes on the sky-line. No, Saturday for me will be remembered as the day I ate a ladybird and realised just why they are so brightly coloured.

More hospital tales

Arrived at hospital for appointment at 10am at 9.55am. Waited at reception counter for a few minutes until it was my turn. There were several administration staff at the desk, all equally incompetent, rifling pieces of paper attempting to look efficient but becoming increasingly flustered. "I've got an appointment at 10am" I said and she finally found my name of a piece of paper and started filling in the form. "Can I check your details?" she asked and proceeded to reel off my personal information, all correct. Until she reached my GP surgery, which was the old one. "Sorry", I said, "that's the old one. I wrote a letter to you to tell you the new details". She looked annoyed "I wasn't here that day" she replied, although I had said nothing about when I sent the letter. I gave her the new details although given the early time of day and my tired state I accidentally said "x x surgery" instead of health centre. I was instructed to take a seat and wait for my appointment so I asked how long the wait would be. Obviously I wasn't expecting a precise time but I was a little surprised to find that they were still on the 9.05am appointments and it was now 10.10am. I called work, explained the situation and sat down to read my book. After a few minutes the administrator accusingly called me to the desk: "You said x x surgery but it is actually x x health center. I have found it now" (implication that this was my fault although I had attempted to update records via letter), "we have updated your hospital record but not this scan clinic record. I have updated it now for you". Which is presumably why my GP never received the results of the last scan and why, after the scan which finally happened at 11am or so, I asked the consultant if I could take the letter to my GP myself. He agreed. Presumably he too has witnessed the inefficiency of the administrators.

Laughter

Bought some new liquid soap type thing for the shower. Laughter, it says, "conjures up the early evening paseo, when bathed and refreshed after a day on the beach, locals enjoy a leisurely stroll along the Spanish sea front. An uplifting blend of lime, rosemary and juniper enlivened by an unexpected sweet, spicy bite of ginger carried in the breeze".

Sounds a lot better than plain old body wash, non?

De-cluttering

An unexpectedly free Saturday afternoon. The day dawned rainy and grey and I thought I would make the most of a few spare hours by doing some de-cluttering and cleaning.

I am a hoarder. I keep everything 'just in case'. Even the 2 bags of clothes destined for the charity shop have not made it past the front door. Today I decided to tackle the papers which were stacked inside the shredder. Those shredded and re-cycled I decided to take the brave step and shred some more things. Hidden at the bottom of my bookcase were 3 paper carrier bags of brochures, application forms and rejection letters; the product of 4 years of job applications. One by one I fed them through the shredder, watching years of trying and failing to secure my career being eaten by the whirring jaws and been spat out as I should have seen them all along. Little pieces of paper.

Book Review: Petite Anglaise by Catherine Sanderson

Another day, another book of another blog...

As you might or might not know, depending on what you read and whether you are a blogger or at least reader of blogs, Petite Anglaise is not only the nom-de-plume of Catherine Sanderson, a 35 year old British girl who lives in Paris who started blogging to escape from her reality of motherhood, an imperfect relationship and the grind of everyday life, but her first book as well.

Though the blog Petite Anglaise has lost a little of its initial charm - these days there is a only a blurred distinction between Petite and Catherine; the majority of the Catherine's writing is promotion of the book - it is still an interesting read. The blog's inception was as a comment on her life in Paris but gradually Petite Anglaise took on a life of its own. Indeed, Catherine wrote somewhere that Petite became a glossier, wittier version of herself; a character whose first name was Petite, surname Anglaise. Catherine began living a duel life - as Catherine/Mamam she looked after her daughter and her long-term partner, worked as a bi-lingual secretary and carried on much as before in her beloved but increasingly care-worn Paris. In the evenings via her blog and then at blogging events in person, Catherine became Petite. She moved on from merely describing Paris to examining details of her personal life - the more her partner worked and pulled away from her, the more she craved his attention, using her blog to write open letters to him, knowing that he would never read them. But others read it, in their droves. It wasn't too long before Catherine started chatting to some of her regular readers, one in particular. It wasn't much longer before she started an affair with this man, initially through e-mails and texts but eventually a rendezvous in a hotel whilst she was to supposed to be at work. In that moment, in the one afternoon where Catherine and Petite collided, Catherine's life (and those of her family) altered irrevocably. Returning home to her partner and daughter, she ended her long-term relationship and moved into life as a single mother. She later wrote about the meeting on her blog - something which when the blog finally reached her boss's radar was used to sack her immediately. She may have won her case when she took him to an employment tribunal but the damage was done. Petite continued to gather momentum; via crushing hurt when she discovered that Lover realised that he had fallen in love with Petite but not necessarily Catherine and that he couldn't love either enough to carry on with their relationship to the sacking which brought with it an 'outing', as well as readers in their thousands. A book deal and eventually a new relationship and an engagement in the early hours of New Years Day followed.

And on that note, to the book. Most people reading it will know the background in one form or another yet it is an intriguing book, Petite Anglaise. As a reader of the blog details of Catherine's life are not unfamiliar yet this was not a collection of posts lifted from the blog. This was a year in her life, a background context if you will, to the subject of her blog. She returns to her initial blogging subject - her love of Paris and life as an English girl living in Paris - fitting into it an analysis and commentary of her actions and thoughts in relation to her blog. She attempts to examine herself and some of her motives behind what and why she writes yet the style is that of the familiar chick-lit formulae emphasised by the pink cover with line drawings. Catherine occasionally indulges in standard cliches but by and large it is readable.

It is an odd thing critiquing someone's book which you know is actually about their life. There are clearly biased opinions and all the detail is saved for the descriptions of Paris rather than developing the characters. James (Lover) manages to come across as a rather weak character and one can only assume what he will make of his starring role in someone else's fame. Of Mr Frog, to whom the book is also dedicated, there is even less detail save that he seems bigger than could be expected to still treat Catherine kindly after all she put him through. I hesitate to criticise Catherine too strongly for I feel she, through the book, admits that she has not behaved entirely appropriately but managed to stay true to herself. For example, Catherine states that her relationship with Mr Frog was floundering when they decided to have a child. The moral streak in me suggests that those are not the best intentions with which to enter into parenthood let alone words to be written down where the child in question might one day read them. Yet Catherine has the ability to be honest and examine the rights and wrongs of those actions, so who I am to (necessarily and arbitrarily) judge them.

All in all, I enjoyed reading Petite Anglaise and would recommend it to any of the followers of her blog. It satisfied my curiosity to know more about Catherine and her life leading up to and behind Petite, although her admission that she occasionally embellished and distorted the truth to make better posting on her blog made me wonder if some of the elements of the book had not suffered the same fate. In general though I admired her honesty - she didn't paint herself as either a perfect person nor one who had suffered at the hands of others. Indeed at times she alluded to the fact that she became Petite and behaved how she had created her persona to behave. It will be interesting to see how she reconciles these suggestions as her blog continues post book launch and whether or not she feels the need to add a second installment to her memoirs.

16 or 26?

My body and mind are a little confused this week. A weekend involving a gymnastics class, watching some unsigned bands and attending an RN cadet event? Those were favoured past times of my sixteen year old self. So it was with some nostalgia that I met up with an old CCF friend whose URNU ship was moored alongside HMS President for the weekend on Saturday evening, joining the crew for scran which turned out to be spaghetti bolognese and discovering I had not lost the old art of sitting in a group of people I did not know, eating slightly bland food whilst the ship rolled and elbows banged and the noise level rose.

It was with more nervousness than nostalgia when I started my first gymnastics class in 10 years on Sunday afternoon. Despite being incredibly out of shape my body remembered all the moves (even if I am incapable of executing them presently) and I soon reverted to the discipline of a 2 hour advanced class. My muscles the next morning are a different story though as I can feel every single last one of them, long forgotten and protesting at their spring reawakening. Gymnastics class over I hurried to MacDonald's for a quick calorie level and salt upper before heading to watch a friend's band play a battle of the band style competition. My nostalgia returned more sharply than before as I remembered gigs where I would stand uncomfortably (my boyfriend being the bassist of a long forgotten band) watching the set and trying to look 'cool'. These days I care much less whether I fit in aesthetically, my emphasis being on individual style and, dare I say it, comfort. I had also forgotten my make-up bag so I was bare-faced in light blue skinny jeans, white converse, a cotton top/dress my sister brought back from Thailand and a cardigan. Not a drop of black in sight. Although I stood out rather from the rock/indie/metal-goers my 26 year old self didn't even worry about it. That I was also able to consume beer without worrying about ID no doubt helped ease the situation.

So, from one extreme to the other. My 16 year old past-times relived 10 years on, interspersed with my normal 26 year old activities. A dinner with friends on Friday evening followed by a prolonged poker game. Retiring to bed as it got light knowing my days of staying up all night and carrying straight on with the next day are long since over. Housework, laundry, cleaning, tidying, eating lunch complete with chutney I made myself. A visit to the Tate Gallery (members bar for lunch, followed by exhibitions). Walking along the South Bank. Getting up for work.

Book Review: Breath of Corruption by Caro Fraser

I had been waiting to read this book for so long but in the end I was left rather disappointed.

Breath of Corruption is the seventh book in the Caper Court Series which was published at the end of 2007. The series is set around the set of chambers 5 Caper Court, a commercial set which specialises in commercial litigation and shipping, situated in Middle Temple, and the lives of the barristers who work there. There are a core set of central characters: Anthony Cross & Leo Davies who are both members of chambers, Felicity, secretary turned successful clerk and their many and intertwined family members and relationships. This series has been described as the thinking woman's chick-lit and I would agree, despite disliking the phrase chick-lit. The first six books spend as much time describing the law, the legal settings and surroundings as they do on the human stories, meaning that 'law' is almost an extra character. For me at least I enjoyed the books so much more because of their legal issues and also (as the author had been a lawyer herself) their factual correctness. Also, as I work up the road, I have also been to the vast number of places in the series.

So it was with eager anticipation that I finally got round to ordering Breath of Corruption from Amazon (having tried but failed to find it in the book shops of Holborn Circus, High Holborn or Chancery Lane) and settled down to read it last night. My initial instinct when I opened the package was one of puzzlement; where the first six books had seemed to look like 'proper' novels (i.e. the right size, thickness, page texture and so on) this new edition seemed wrong. Too thin, too tall, font spacing odd - it screamed amateur.

It was hard to initially put my finger on what I didn't like about the book once I had finished it. Ostensibly all the components were present. It was still set in Caper Court, the main characters were there in name, the plot vaguely revolved around the law and life in chambers. It was as if someone else had written it though; had decided that they were fed up with waiting to find out what happened next and would continue the story themselves - and that they fell flat because they didn't have a clear idea of how to carry on the story, that they didn't want to make life too hard so they made it half the length, left out all but a handful of characters and invented many new ones and as they had no real legal knowledge their legal setting, description and detail were left lacking. Only Fraser appears to have written it herself - she claims to have been a shipping barrister prior to being a novelist and the first six books left me no reason to doubt her. I now wonder if all the legal detail was in the editing.

On reflection though, the thing which disappointed me the most was the reduction in detail and factual description. In the first six books the legal details transform ordinary stories about relationships to something which I consider more interesting. Fraser portrayed law as interesting, romantic, meaningful, a part of history. She made me love my job more and the historical buildings and framework within which I work. In the books the characters visited the same bars as I do, the same courts, the details of the cases were laid out in such detail perhaps only a fellow lawyer would really bother to read it all and feel such affection for it. Reasons why I read, re-read and re-read again the first six books. The seventh had none of this detail - there was no timelessness to the references. Instead legal detail and real passion for the law gave way to contemporary references (some of which were out of date by the time I read it, 3 months after publication) and two-dimensional relationships. New characters (not a new theme by any means as each book introduced new figures) remained detail-less and face-less. Important characters from the sixth book were not even mentioned in the seventh. In short, I was bitterly disappointed.

... .... ...

EDIT - I feel a little bad. I also left a shorter review on the author's blog and I received this in response:-

"OK. Point taken. It’s been a tough two years, and this book wasn’t as good as it should have been. I’m planning to reintroduce characters such as Sarah to the next one, and take more time over the plot and sub-plots. I hate criticism, but I think in this case it’s well-deserved. Sorry. Watch this space. Caro"

Many a time I've wanted to be able to give an author honest feedback. Such are the wonders of blogging I suppose, but I feel a little bad at being so disappointed by her hard work. Having said that, criticisms of the 7th book are only positive things about the first 6.

NHS saga

At 11pm on Tuesday evening I went to take my pill and realised it was the last in the packet. Unconcerned I went to get a new packet from the first-aid box and discovered that somehow I had managed to forget to get some more. Cue mild panic that I had 24 hours to procure some more. A relatively easy task one might think; I live in London, how hard can it be.

Pills do not qualify as an emergency so I couldn't call my doctor at 9am and make a same-day appointment. I am prepared for that though and for the past 2 years have instead made an appointment with the family planning clinic nearest my work. If they don't have any appointments left for the same day there is usually a clinic one can turn up to and wait. Not ideal but acceptable if one plans ahead and doesn't need same day treatment. I.e. Becomes an issue if you have an 'emergency' and need emergency contraception. I called as soon as I got to work and finally reached a recorded message indicating that they were closed until 12pm. At 12pm I started calling, going round and round their system until it finally kicked me out and then wouldn't let me back in, stating "this line is busy" ad infinitum. At 1.45pm I finally managed to speak to someone. They had no appointments (for that day or the next). Clinic times had also changed. They now closed at 3.30pm. Definitely not ideal. I couldn't leave work at 3pm at no notice. "What do you suggest I do" I enquired, "I really need to see someone today". "Call X in X" she replied and hung up. Called X at X clinic. Yes, they did have a clinic until 6.30pm every day. "Excellent", I said, "so as long as I get there before 6.30, I can see someone?". "No" came the answer " if you're not here before 5.30pm at the latest, we will have filled our quota and you won't be able to be seen". At least that one was open - I tried 3 others to be told the earliest I could be seen was next Tuesday.

Boss allowed me to leave at 5pm so I raced to get there before their seemingly random deadline, running down the road looking at a map hastily printed from google. I made it at 5.32pm only to hear the administrator attempting to turn away the girl at the desk in front of me. I explained the whole saga, the other girl explained hers. Administrator claimed that "on health and safety grounds we can only allow a certain number of people on the list" and "don't you know it's the end of the financial year". We negotiated for a while; in the end I found out that the whole of the area had been on a training course all morning and that all family planning clinics were closed that morning in the borough. Eventually she consented to letting us both wait and if the doctor (the only one on duty) had finished the list before the end of the clinic, she would see us. The administrator herself explained that she should have left 15 minutes earlier and left the clinic, handing me a printed piece of paper stating clinic hours - 5pm to 6.30pm. Presumably she was simply following instructions:she then said she was locking the doors on her way out so that no-one else could get in. And with that, she left. Nothing I could do but sit and wait and sit and hope. With growing frustration I watched the doctor accompany each patient back out into the reception area and place their notes in a basket and collect the next set of notes - a three or four minute time delay accompanying each patient. To the doctor's credit she did see me, eventually, at 6.40pm. She was so rushed she barely listened to any of the questions she fired off in rapid succession. 3 minutes later I had my pills and was back in reception, mission accomplished, finally.

In this specific instance it was in many ways my own fault for my mistake in not realising I needed to get more pills ahead of time, but it raised significant issues in my mind. The majority of the administrators I spoke to were more concerned with quotas, targets and so on than helping patients. No-one volunteered more information until I asked for it. The doctor seemed to be wasting time between each patient by having to collect and return each set of notes herself. There surely must be a more effective system. All of the clinics I spoke to seemed surprised I couldn't attend daytime clinics. I work 9.30 until whenever every day of the week. Thankfully my boss is fairly understanding about personal issues and generally lets me leave on time if I really need to and there is nothing of vital importance happening. The majority of days I wouldn't be able to leave on time as a matter of course. This is unfair on those who are attempting to be responsible by having a job and using effective contraception. If I had needed the morning after pill, such reduced options would mean I would in all probability have been forced to purchase it at a chemist for £25 when I should be able and am entitled to get it free. I could envisage a situation where someone with more dubious morals who found it hard to schedule an appointment for contraception would be tempted to leave it to chance, taking the morning after pill (if they could get it) or even simply arranging an abortion (which seems even easier to get than simply trying to arrange contraception in the first place). Surely we do not want our system to punish those trying to be responsible and to put quotas and targets ahead of patient care and safety? I am pleased people are being sent on training courses, but surely staggering them is a more viable option than crippling the system by closing everything on the same day. Until there is improvement in basic services, I cannot see confidence in the NHS improving.

You're Not the Only One...

A new bloggers collection has been brought to my attention, one which is for a great cause:

......

"One of the things that a lot of us love about blogging is that we share experiences. We may not meet or even see our fellow bloggers but we feel we know them. For many of us it's an important part of feeling connected, almost like having another support system. Recently I tagged some bloggers on memes requiring a bit more info on who they were and what they felt and what I read really moved me. They made me wish I could pay for their writing, to thank them for sharing, to give them something for giving me their words on their personal stories.

From that thought, and with the help of a small team (Sarah from He Loves Me Not, Ariel from From F**k Up To Fab, Ms R from Woman of Experience and Vi from Village Secrets) we've come up with a plan! We're putting together a book for WARCHILD written by bloggers and here's where you come in:

We would like you to submit (to us at bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk) a written piece about something you've been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share. It can literally be about anything: your relationships, your past, a road not taken, being a parent, an illness or your regrets etc.

We've called it "You're Not The Only One" to reflect the camaraderie of blogging.Proceeds will go to WARCHILD and, blatantly following in the same fashion as Troubled Diva (Mike Atkinson)'s Shaggy Blog Stories, we will be publishing it through http://www.lulu.com/.

WARCHILD is a uk based charity but it helps children all over the world, so we'd like as many submissions from as many places as possible."

See Peach for more details.

...

I have submitted my entry which is something I have not yet posted on my blog so is entirely original. If it doesn't make the book I might be persuaded to post it here instead. It's subject is something which happened to me a long time ago, which is, boringly, entitled Earthquake.

A is for ...

I have been tagged again by Diary of a Young Horse:-

The rules are...

• You must post the rules before you give your answers.


• After you've been tagged, you need to update your blog with your middle name and answers.


• You must list one fact about yourself for each letter of your middle name.


• Each fact must begin with that letter.


• If you don't have a middle name, just use your maiden name/last name.


• At the end of your post, you need to tag one person for each letter of your middle name. (Be sure to leave them a comment telling them they've been tagged and need to read your blog for details).

When Echo attempted this, she described characteristics for each of her letters. She only has 3 whereas I have 9. I am going to give actual facts as I cannot and do not want to start thinking about 9 attributes I could label myself. Good or bad.

C is for cartwheels. I spent the vast proportion of my childhood turning cartwheels, whether it be at gymnastics on apparatus, in the garden or on the beach for pleasure, there was something satisfying about the precision and rhythm of a cartwheel - the hand placing, the head alignment, the speed at which one could gain given a long enough space and the way that my hair would brush the floor as I went, one foot, one hand, second hand, one foot, linking them together in long chains.

A is for arriving on time, something which I am notoriously bad at. I used to pride myself on my manners. Now I have realised that I need to update them rather.

T is for Tea, surprisingly enough. My favourite drink be it made the English way or the Moroccan. Both are good; just not at the same time or a mixture of the two. Too much of the Moroccan version would surely rot your teeth.

H is for holidays. Hopefully France and Italy this summer, although both M and I would also like to go to Greece and put some of my studying of Classics into perspective. H is also for hindsight; mostly I wish I could employ the same information as foresight. Life would be a lot easier.

E is for envy. An emotion which is far too easy. Which is another E. I am more envious than easy. I would like to be neither.

R is for rain. The sound of rain pitter-pattering against material makes me think of holidays; the smell of rain in summer is the smell of summer holidays. In my mind's eye, it is always sunny. In my mind's sensory bank it is always raining. And Flanders and Swann always playing. The trusty tardis of a Volvo's windscreen is fogged up by too many occupants and several cups of tea resting on the dashboard. We are damp and salty from sailing and playing on the beach. There are sailing waterproofs and damp towels lying over every seat. Those are the kind of holidays I want my children to look back on.

I is for igloos. I have never seen a proper one or been to the North Pole. I would like to see the Northern Lights. When we were in Finland we were too far south (and in a city).

N is for not being able to get out of bed. I feel this is directly proportional to my inability to arrive anywhere punctually.

E is for eggs. I can't eat eggs cooked in their pure form. I am extremly able to eat eggs once they have been made into cakes or pancakes. I am unable to eat omlettes. I am definitely able to eat chocolate ones.

According to the rules, I have to now tag nine people. If anyone would like to take up this challenge please leave me a comment and I will add a link to you.

Little Miss Rachel

Little Miss Rachel - It came directly from my comments box, but I decided that it fitted rather too well. All week my blog has been bothering me; the line between anonymity and the personal too close for comfort. "Anonymity is the personal blogger's best friend. Lose it at your own peril" warned Petite Anglais, far too late for it to be any use to me.

I haven't achieved notoriety, fame or a book-deal but I haven't exactly managed the anonymity thing very well either. All my family know of it's presence (lurking rather menacingly in the background, providing a slightly irritating self conscious commentary on things, as I know people read it and everyone knows I write it). My name is in fact, my name. Rather dull, rather personal. Little Miss Rachel still involves my name (as I can't really escape it now), but it is more than my name. It conveys, somehow, that it is all about me. Which it seems to be, more and more these days. Not in a good way though, not in a way that I attempt; to give an 'interesting' insight into my life. My posts come across more as rants or insipid descriptions of parties attended, books read. I need to inject something more interesting, something which is more worthwhile reading back into the text.

But somehow, it just doesn't work. So whilst I try and recover from my blogger's block I thought I'd update the template instead.

20 Something Debates (II)

What made you feel more like an adult, your first job or you first car?

Another week, another 20 something debate. Perhaps my attempts at hypothetical debating will offer less offence than my personal observations of a foreign trip.

As with the other debate to which I gave my opinion the situation is hypothetical because I have never owned a car. Yes, Little Miss Rachel, retired Primrose Hill Princess (or whichever moniker one prefers to lift from my comments box) has never owned a car. In fact, she can probably count the number of times she has driven one on no more than her own hands and feet.

I passed my driving licence on my first attempt the day after A level results (something which I perhaps should have given more thought to when I booked the test) despite suffering from shaky knees and, briefly, closing my eyes as I drove onto a dual carriageway. Passing the test was merely forethought for convenience in later life; I had no intention of having a car - bpth parents and a boyfriend had one already so all my lift needs were covered but one day I thought I might want to drive my children around. Plus my parents paid for the lessons. All good reasons. I disappeared off to university shortly after and, apart from occasionally driving the boyfriend's car to keep my hand in, so to speak, I barely drove at all. The year after the boyfriend disappeared to study in America and there ended the car: I had driven two or three times on the motorway and still had trouble parking. There was a gap of three or four years until my youngest sister turned 17, passed her test, bought a car and then realised if she drove she couldn't drink. Somehow she persuaded my mother that if I were on her insurance that my mother could stop providing a taxi service and persuaded me that what I really wanted to do for an entire holiday period was to act as her personal chauffeur. Holidays over, she finished school, started a gap year, sold the car and went off travelling. No more car = no more insurance = no more driving. As we live in London there is no need for us to have a car and on the rare occasions we need one, M borrows his work delivery van.

Logically therefore it would seem that I must have felt more grown-up when I started my first job. Depends on your definition of first job. First time I earned any money or first time that I had to have a job to pay the rent and the bills? My first paid job, as I had always dreamt as a small child during endless games with my sisters, was selling shoes. For £3.53 p/h I worked on the shoe concession in Dorothy Perkins, running up and down stairs to the stockroom and doing the figures for my manager (a 24 year old with a 9 year old son and 6 year old daughter) so she could pretend to her manager she had done them herself. I worked for 6 hours on a Saturday afternoon, coveting the latest shoes which I could purchase at 25% discount and reserve my size the moment that they came into the shop. Once the shop had closed, been tidied and re-stocked I would walk round to Halfords where my boyfriend worked and he would drive me home for supper and so I could change before we went to wherever the gig was that evening. He was the bassist in a band. I may only have been earning £3.53 but, after shoes, it paid for beer. I felt very grown-up.

Looking back on it today, I smile inwardly at how young I seem in the memories and how different things are, 9 years on. My first 'proper' job where if I didn't work, my rent wasn't paid came immediately after graduating from law school in 2005. Suddenly, after 5 years of university where I had worked summer jobs and spent the proceeds on holidays and term-time drinking, with a loan to cover rent and bills, I realised what it meant to work because I had to. I came back from Glastonbury to the end of my student bubble. I was 23 with 2 degrees, an LPC, no job, no money. Life in it's reality kicked in and I started applying for temporary work. 7/7 came and went and I managed to line up a variety of legally related temporary work, mostly reception and switchboard cover which served not only as a money earner but a daily reminder as to why I had gone to law school and fuelled my desire for a training contract all the more.

Obtaining my training contract, finally, at the start of 2007 was the first time when I went to work feeling an adult. A year and a half of work (I managed to get a semi-legally-related permanent job in September 2005) had allowed me know what it was like to work, to be tired, to have deadlines and to achieve them. The start of my training contract was more than a new job, it was the job. The start of my career.

A clarification

Blogging - it's a hard line to tread. Expressing opinions without offending other readers or family members whilst staying true to myself. Most family members know I have a blog. I didn't realise anything of them really read it. For the record, I stand by my opinions but I would like to make the following points:

1. I had a fantastic time at the wedding. I thought it was the perfect day for the pair in question. I enjoyed every aspect of the day with the exception of having to walk through snow in high-heeled shoes and a floor length dress. I have been looking forward to seeing all the photographs, checking facebook morning and evening to see if anyone has uploaded any. Despite all of the things which had to be organised and the business of the weeks leading up to the wedding I have been missing both bride and groom since our return to London and am constantly wondering where they are and how they are enjoying their honeymoon.

2. Whilst on reflection I did not care much for Finland I enjoyed the experience, learning about a new culture and country.

3. IBS, stomach problems and on-going illness and malaise do not mix with a change in diet and time differences. This was not necessarily because it was Finland. Recovering from the norovirus and flying in a large party of many ages do not really lend themselves to an enjoyable flight. Trying to carry out bridesmaid duties whilst stuffing anti-diarrhea tablets and paracetamol down one's throat whilst dying for a proper cup of tea and some recognisable food which did not make one run to the loo do not make for a happy person. Their views as a result may be slightly warped, particularly if they are prone to pessimism and moaning.

4. I would not, myself, personally choose to fly RyanAir if there was another feasible option or choice. I was perfectly happy with all the arrangements made on my behalf and I realise that when travelling with a 92 year old Granny in a wheelchair going via somewhere else and a train is not a viable option. I loved the hotel in which we stayed, the views and the architecture. I enjoyed learning how to take a sauna Finnish style. I was incredibly grateful that I did not have to book any of the flights or hotel.

So, in conclusion, my sincere apologies to anyone that I may have offended by either the tone or content of my reflections on Finland. I have learnt my lesson that regardless of whether I stand by my opinions I should consider the reader and how they will be affected by my words.

It does make me wonder though how many people truly read all of what I have written or whether they, under the guise of anon, feel simply like making sweeping comments. I really don't feel like I acted like an embarrassing English person abroad. My reflections were made afterwards and were admittedly probably skewed from having been ill the entire time, exacerbated by the food which I ate. I really don't feel that I in any way made the wedding all about me (which is why I was forced to take the 3 or 4 min taxi ride as I didn't want the bride to know that on any other occasion I would have remained in the loo), although if anyone who attended it would like to contradict me, anonomously or otherwise, I will apologise. I don't even feel I made the week all about me, but again, if opinion differs I will stand corrected and learn from it.

Here Comes Your Man

they knelt before the priest, a curious mix of grown up but looking so young (rather like a new school child in their first blazer and tie), her in an intricately pleated silk dress of her own design, he in his own version of morning dress. he had stood nervously at the front of the sparse but cavernous cathedral expecting her imminent arrival. the bridesmaids led the way up the aisle and then her entrance. his face lit up and he beamed at his bride as she walked confidently on the arm of her father, her outside appearance giving away none of the anxiety of the day to which she had professed as she had been helped into her dress.

they knelt before the priest, watched by 3 bridesmaids and his best man, in front of an audience of 75 of their closest friends and family, dwarfed by the magnificence of the cathedral. he helped her back to her feet and they looked at each other in excitement and with true love as they spoke their vows and exchanged their rings. they left the church as man and wife, showered with rice which glistened in her hair as she listened to his speech in which he stated that love changes ones reality, like a tiger in a room, and she was part tiger, part love of his life.

they stood together in front of their friends as the music started to play, and they danced the quickstep and their faces next to each other were a perfect emotion of love, of stillness in the spinning room, in the spinning world.

Finland (II)

I feel my first post about Finland may have been misleading and made me out to be a whiny Brit abroad who is an embarrassment abroad (paraphrasing Emma, in any event) to which I disagree.

I think it is perfectly acceptable to visit somewhere with an open mind and then on return and reflection to decide that one didn't much like it. I expected it to be cold and snowy, which it was (although I didn't somehow expect that all the snow would be piled in great huge dirty heaps next to the road). I had hoped I would like the food better (although as I had been told that Chirac thought the only thing worse than British food to be Finnish food, I wasn't that surprised) and I made an effort to try traditional foods, sampling meatballs, herrings, reindeer, rice cake things but having to draw the line at black-pudding sausage. I found negotiating a wedding in high-heels and a floor length formal gown tedious due to the snow and cold but I had a good time. I found the change in food and drink to make my stomach worse so that by the time we left I had barely eaten anything for a few days. I had read about the history of the country before we left, although I accept I mis-remembered some of the facts.

I went to an espionage museum and learnt about espionage and the Finnish role in spying, which given their geographical position is greater than I had ever imagined. I went to the Lenin museum (in the Workers Hall where Lenin met Stalin in Tampere) and learnt about the Soviet-Finnish relationship, about how Lenin had moved there in 1905 and remained there until 1907 and that he returned again in 1917. I learnt also that he had been instrumental in helping Finland achieve independence in 1917 and that his name was one of the first on the petition for independence. I found the museum to be insular and almost propaganda based (despite what the website says), that nothing was explained on a global level, but as it is run by the Finland-Russia Society this did not surprise me.

I was intrigued by the architecture of Tampere. It was rather like stepping into a Lowry painting and the place looked at once Russian and like (what I imagine) Manchester at the time of the industrial revolution. Tampere is full of textile factories, which to my mind are characterised by their distinctive red brickwork and long tall brick chimneys. It had me itching for a sketch-book but by the time I had a moment to contemplate any drawing the fog had come down and it was hard to make out much at all.

Finland, Finland, Finland

Ordinarily, I write for myself; my thoughts and opinions on what I see, read, watch, my views on life as I live it. I pride myself on being honest about my thoughts, feelings and how I record them.

Occasionally, I have to decide that there are bigger things in life than my thoughts and on reflection, this is one of them. Therefore, I have decided to remove what was previously here although I have left the comments.

Wedding Preparations

This time next week I shall be in Finland for M's brother's wedding. The hen party safely over, it has been a frantic few weeks helping with the various other preparations. I have been helping put together my bridesmaid dress in sessions which felt rather like advanced couture dress-making the modular version as I learnt extremely quickly why one does not, if one can help it, cut fabric from a piece of material spread on a sheet over floorboards in a room which only has side-lighting ("it looks like a mouse bit it out of the fabric Rachel") or why when one is sewing French-seams it is better to have in mind the overall objective first rather than trying to do each of the four parts in turn and find that mistakes made on each stage have dire implications for the progress of the seam. Still, the next time I need to make a boned bodice I am well equipped to make a decent stab at it likewise the next time I need to cut out pattern pieces from silk chiffon crepe I know that I am to refuse.


Given the amount of wedding preparations going on around us it was nice to escape for a night out with M yesterday. We decided to celebrate our anniversary with a meal at Firehouse in South Kensington. The food was wonderful, the service even better and we had a fabulous night. We spent three hours over our meal, ending with chocolate fondue with strawberries, raspberries and marshmallows to dunk and beautifully made espressos before heading down to the bar to linger over mojitos.

Goodbye, Hello & other short films

Was woken this morning by rain lashing against my window and the wind howling outside. A previous occupant left some sort of chime hanging outside near the window and it was chiming and tinkling madly. It was too cold to get up so I snuggled back under the duvet. When I re-surfaced I was late. I rushed around frantically looking for clean clothes for work and an outfit for this evening's dinner. I had to leave the house with wet hair so it was sticking up wildly by the time that I emerged from the tube at Chancery Lane. I discovered whilst listening to the fruit-seller chant "banana banana... let's go to Havana" or something similar whilst weighing my grapes that I only had one of my pearl earrings in. I am hoping that I left the other one on my dressing table because I was on the phone to my mother, rather than because it had fallen off on the tube. The fact that someone has decided to dig up the road outside my office again, having waited patiently for the previous workmen to re-lay the tarmac only compounded my annoyance.

The irritation of the morning may or may not bear direct relation to last night's activities. Last night I went to watch the premier of two short films which were produced by two of my friends. They were screened back to back at the National Gallery and entitled SE One and Goodbye, Hello. Although I spent several modules of my English degree analysing films this was the first time I had really encountered shorts and the first time I had needed to express my opinions on the subject. They were both excellent in different ways - the first was a snapshot of London life, an encounter on the streets of SE1 between 2 men and the consequences of their actions and behaviour. Although thought provoking and making excellent use of long exposure to get a beautiful effect of car lights, I preferred the second film which explored the start and end of a relationship between a young couple moving in together for the first time. This film intertwined the moving in and the moving out, leaving the viewer to piece together the story and the circumstances. The female actress was, in my opinion, better than the male (who seemed rather removed and unrealistic) although the female actress appeared to have been studying Keira Knightley a little too much for inspiration. I thought that the plot was very realistic although the location and the costumes/clothing less so. All in all though great work from a clearly talented team. It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

Seven things you might not know about me...

... and probably wished you still didn't know. Yes, I have been tagged by the lovely Echo at Diary of a Young Horse. Actually, Echo is the horse and Sz is the writer/rider/trainer but I shall let that slide for now.

So, here goes:

7 facts people might not know about me.

1. I have never had a pet. Unless you count the goldfish I won at a fair in California and who died after 2 weeks (not my fault). I am fond of both dogs and cats although I believe London (flat size, main roads, long hours) to be an unsuitable place to start. We have an adopted cat which comes to visit every now and then (with his owners consent - we are not allowed to feed him). That will have to be enough for me, for now.

2. We live fairly near the Arsenal stadium. I despise it when there is a match on as all the supporters are loud and miserable looking and seem unable to pass by places without dropping large volumes of rubbish. The tube station is practically afloat with beer cans, sandwich packets and discarded newspapers by the time kick-off occurs. There is however, a man who sells the sort of sweets usually found in pick&mix at 2 bags for £1. Every time there is a game and I am in the area I always go and buy the same sweets from the sweetie-man (fizzy cola bottles and white choc buttons with hundreds and thousands - these are the combination of sweets I have bought since I was a little girl with pocket money from Granny and I see no reason to change my selection now).

3. I read lots of blogs about parenting - it started with Alpha Mummy and Wife in the North. Now it has been extended to The Potty Diaries, A Way Ahead and Bub and Pie. I also read Petite Anglais which is, strictly speaking, a parenting blog but it has such wide readership that most would conclude that it is further reaching than it's main subject. It does not, for example, have posts entitled "Done a Poo, Mummy!" which some of the others have been known to have (although to be fair to the author of that post, the subject is actually worthy of consideration as it brings up the issue of how much children are influenced by what they watch and therefore what they should be allowed to watch and at what age). Actually, even Petite has it's fair share of what I would term 'I'm only interesting to read because I write about my child' syndrome.

Why do I read them? Well, information, I suppose. I like to be informed about things. Parenting blogs are not the only blogs I read. I would like to have children at some point and I find it is something that one really knows little about until it actually happens. It also makes me think how lucky I am not have children at the moment and how I would need to be very sure and financially settled before even thinking about having a family.

4. When I moved house I moved every copy of Vogue that I have bought in the past four years to my new house. They filled a dustbin (which is where, my friends who helped us move, suggested they should remain) and are currently performing an excellent duty as posing as a side table in the sitting room. And yes, I do re-read them. Occasionally.

5. I dislike spiders. Years of being rescued by my father have given way to being able to capture the silly things in a glass with a postcard and deposit them outside. And the funny thing is, abstractly, I rather like spiders. Charlotte for example has done wonders for the PR of spiders. It's just in reality, they appear too suddenly and move too quickly and there doesn't appear to be a surface or plane they cannot or won't walk on. They are also prone to leaping off things near my head and dangling there looking menacing.

6. I am a fan of free-cycle. I have also just discovered e-bay. Now I need to de-clutter and give away or sell on an equal number of things to the new additions. It would be fair to say that I have hording tendencies. It would also be fair to say that our house has limited (i.e. none whatsoever) storage. These two facts do not make a happy situation. We do, at times, look like we live in a souk. In fact, one friend on coming to our flat peered round the folding doors which separate our bedroom from the sitting room and asked "is that a room, or the world's largest cupboard?".

7. I carry around far too much stuff in my handbag on a daily basis. Today, whilst looking for my phone (which incidentally turned out not to be in there) I found the following: a novel, my diary, address book, notebook, pen, A-Z, make-up bag, small bag with tablets and so on, purse, hand cream, full sized bottle of perfume (4/5 empty) miscellaneous toiletries, a small wrapped Easter egg, a packet of hairgrips (the card was empty and all the hairgrips were at the bottom), about £2 in very small loose change, rail card, oyster card, i-pod, work keys, house keys, a tea-bag (un-used and wrapped), a conker, 2 lip-balms, 2 lip-glosses, umbrella, packet of nail files. That is a lot of stuff to replace if I lose my handbag. And I dread to think what it is doing to my back.

And in return, I tag: James at the Ink, Cumbrian and Admin Girl.

Bored of chain coffee shops?

Use this website to find your nearest independent coffee shop instead.

NHS

I paid a visit to UCH yesterday to undergo some tests. I've had some unusual pains recently and after a visit to my GP was referred to the hospital. I have two fears - that the tests will either show up something serious or that the tests will show up precisely nothing and I will be left with the realisation that it is all in my head. That I am stressed or anxious or exhausted and allowing this to affect my physical health. I realised whilst I was waiting for the scan that I was worrying about catching something worse from the hospital, that I was concerned about the lack of sanitizer to clean my hands, that all the doors had handles which must be touched rather than just lent against, that there was lumps of dust and clumps of hair all over the corridors, that the place smelt (and not of disinfectant) and that I could not understand the nurse as English was not his first language.

The nurse showed me to the room and then left. It was dark. I didn't know what to do so I put my bag on the chair and took off my coat. A doctor came in. She didn't check my name. She said to get onto the bed and to take my scarf off because I might get hot. I started to wonder what she was going to do to make me so hot that I would be glad that I had taken me scarf off. She didn't elaborate but started doing the scan. "It's a good job that you're skinny" she said, putting cold gel on my stomach and peering at her computer imaging screen. "Too many fat people wonder why it takes so long. How am I supposed to scan properly through all that fat". Once it was over I asked if she could see on the computer what had happened to my other appointment. She couldn't tell as there was no proper centralised record. Instead she directed me to another department where the other scan would take place. After walking along miles of grubby corridors with no hand cleanser in sight I found where I was meant to be. A very tall receptionist wearing her handbag was sat behind the desk. I wondered whether NHS cuts meant that they now had to wear their handbags as there were no lockers. I explained I was still waiting to hear in regards to an appointment date. She responded that there was a 500 patient backlog and no staff to process the appointments. I sat down whilst she went to find out about my appointment. They have never heard of privacy as the entire conversation relating to the nature of the scan was conducted infront of all the other people sitting waiting. After a few minutes she returned and offered me an appointment for Thursday afternoon of the same week. There are free appointments but not enough staff to process the forms to allocate patients to those appointments. The back-log must be getting larger everyday. No wonder the official figures say that there is a 14 week waiting list for such scans - perhaps if they employed some admin staff they would be able to reduce this dramatically.

Not for the first time, I wished that I still had my private health insurance which I had enjoyed as a perk of my previous job and which had allowed for me to have my impacted wisdom teeth removed in a private hospital which was beautifully clean. Not for the first time, I considered the NHS hospital, where non-smoking rules mean that in order to get into the front door one has to walk past a line of patients in their hospital gowns attached to drips/monitors and so on, pale and yellowish, smoking outside the front door of the hospital which fronts directly onto a busy A road, the most polluted road in London. Not for the first time, I thought of my friends that are doctors and nurses and must come to places like these every day to work.

Too many cooks?

The government has announced plans that teenagers are to be given compulsory cooking lessons (one hour per week for one term for children ages 11-14), and, surprise surprise, the mothers and commenters at Alpha Mummy are up in arms again. Not content with bickering over the virtues of stay-at-home mother vs working-mother and all other aspects of parenting, they have to give their 'considered' opinions here too.

I thought that so-called 'Alpha-Mummies' would be the first to think that learning to cook was a positive thing. That proper mothers cooked proper meals and would involve their children from the start, encouraging them to make up their own minds relating to the ethics of vegetarianism and so-on. But no, all the 'usual suspects' have their own views. There is Theta Sigma Mummy who is abhorred by the idea of someone involving meat in the lives of her off-spring. There are various mothers arguing about how many A-levels they got, Oxbridge entrance and music lessons being more important than cookery. There is 'BaggofBones' who says and I quote "Whatever you can't work out for yourself from reading a recipe, M&S can provide in ready-made form".Then there is Supermother, someone who thinks she is the last word in the opinions of working mothers (and she may well be for all I know, but she and the other commenters have pigeon-holed her to the extent that she now seems to believe her hype as well). I could go on but I can't bear to as it is rather off my original topic.

It rather seems that none of these mothers think before they start arguing the same old points over and over again. Ideally we want our children to be well rounded creatures who are capable of looking after themselves emotionally, financially, nutritionally and also career-wise with a job which suits them and allows security in the first three areas. I agree that there are some aspects of these areas which are more ideally suited to home or school learning. There are some lucky children who will learn all of these things at home and the school education will merely reinforce and further their education. Sadly, there are many more children whose home lives are lacking in some fashion and will never learn anything academic let alone anything which might actually be useful.

Cooking, I think, is a great place to start with education. I am not necessarily saying that I agree with the current proposals for secondary school but I think that properly worked through and perhaps starting when they are tiny that there is mileage in this idea. After all, food is essential to us, second only to water (and some might argue, sleep). If someone can feed themselves, nutritionally, on basic rations, that seems like a good starting point for dealing with life in general, let alone obesity. Cooking can be used as a medium which is interactive and practical and a light relief but which teaches reading, mathematics (weights, conversions, percentages and so on) budgeting, science ( e.g. chemistry: ice - water -steam; biology: parts of the body and so on). Taken to it's logical conclusion with older children it can involve business models, customer care, financial advice, literary criticism and writing skills. The list must be endless.

I am not suggesting that cooking should take the place of academic subjects. However, I think that a course or curriculum could be devised which would take place instead of say, one general studies lesson every two weeks and which could use cooking as the medium for more serious learning, thereby enforcing within children's minds that cooking is easy and cheaper than its ready-made cousin, that diet, nutrition and being able to look after oneself is an important aspect of life and that cooking is not something merely for women or 'the thick ones' (as one Alpha Mummy commenter suggested). It would also reinforce the idea for children that they can be their own person. Just because Mummy or Daddy is vegetarian (or not) doesn't mean that the child should be subjected to this too. S/he should be able to make their own decisions, but informed decisions. This should extend to ethical decisions regarding price versus animal welfare and other age appropriate issues on which people should be able to debate rationally.

It's all in the details (part II)

So now that the hen weekend has passed I feel I am able to divuldge a few of the details.

The theme: As I'm sure could be guessed from the photograph which accompanied my last post, our theme was "Holly Golightly" - black dresses, pearls, evening gloves, big hair and bigger sunglasses.

The destination: We spent the weekend in Bath which is a beautiful, very English, city even if it rains the whole weekend as it did for us. We arrived late on Friday evening and stayed in a beautiful guest-house with a friendly if slightly eccentric proprietress. After cocktails at Sub-13 we retired to bed in preparation for our busy Saturday.

The venues: We started the day in the gloriously girly Mee boutique which I have written about before although I have never been to the actual shop (it more than lived up to expectation). The Mee girls were beautiful and friendly and complemented the gorgeous shop which was full of decadent bits and pieces. We were given a warm welcome, glasses of champagne and goody bags. I bought a beautiful umbrella to make rainy days a little more cheerful.



We spent the rest of the morning perusing the rest of Bath's shopping before lunch at the Pump Rooms. Here we sat at an enormous table with the tallest vase of flowers I have ever seen and ate beautiful soups and salads followed by tea and more tea until it was time to leave for the spa. The Thermae Spa is Britain's only natural spa where all the water in the baths is naturally warm at 35 degrees. We lounged in the roof-top open air pool, breathed deeply in the oil-scented steam rooms, chatted whilst we all sat with our feet in the foot spas and swam about in the basement thermal pool, jacuzzi and massage jets.

We then returned to the guest house to change into our Holly outfits before heading to a gastropub for a meal. Despite seeming to have no knowledge of our booking they found us a table, some wine, didn't seem to mind the endless posing for photos, and made us some beautiful food. After which we headed to the BlueRooms for some champagne, dancing and lots more posing until the end of the night.

20 Something Debates

Twenty Something Bloggers asks in this fortnights debate:

If I won the lottery would I keep it a secret?

Well, first of all, in order to win the lottery logically this has to involve participating in the lottery and purchasing a ticket. Perhaps more than one ticket. As I do not purchase lottery tickets I could not win the lottery therefore I would have nothing to tell or not to tell people. But that doesn't really answer the question in the spirit in which it was asked.

Secondly, I question why money needs to be kept a secret or not. If we received an unexpected pay rise or bonus, would we feel the need to keep it a secret or alternatively shout to all and sundry. Are these really the only options? Perhaps what really needs to be asked here is why money is such a taboo subject. In a world where we will discuss our most intimate thoughts on all other subjects why do we find it a dilemma as far as money is concerned.

So, for these purposes, I am assuming that I have ignored my father, who once said I'd statistically far more chance of being run over by a bus than winning anything on the lottery, and purchased a ticket. I suppose my decision to tell people would depend on three things: if anyone knew that I had purchased a ticket, how much money I had won and whether or not I would be using the cash publicly. If no-one knew that I had bought a ticket and the winnings were medium sized, i.e. £100 - £20,000 I think that I would simply tell M (financial secrets are hard to keep in a joint household) and then pay off my credit card and law school loans. If I won a small amount of money i.e. under £100 I think I would tell my friends and buy some champagne the next time I went out. If it were a significant amount of money I would tell selected people (the new access to cash would seem out of place and I wouldn't want people to speculate where else the money might have come from) and again pay off my loan, buy a house, give money to M, parents, family and charity and invest the rest. I would tell nearest and dearest only but others if the need arose. I would not go around shouting about it but I would be honest if questionned, just the same as I am now about my lack of money.

(I did play the lottery once, as it happens, on the evening of the day that the horse M and I picked won the Grand National and earned us £50 or so. We thought we'd see if our luck held. It didn't)

Alternative Views:

The Ink

It's all in the details

The time is almost nigh. This Friday is the weekend of the hen party. The one that I have been seemingly organising all year, pretty much since the engagement was announced last February. It is a pretty important wedding, at least in terms of family, and ergo, it is important that the hen party is just right and runs smoothly. This time last week I was pretty calm. The accommodation has been booked, the spa, the restaurant, the taxi to the restaurant, the guests have been invited, the theme has been announced. The presents have been bought, ordered and organised. Now it is the week beforehand and I am not so calm. I cannot find the parts for my own themed outfit which I had hoped, so I have had to opt for second best. I am worried that I have missed something out which will ruin the weekend. Last week I thought I had prepared for every eventuality and had back-up options. This week I cannot say that I am in the same frame of mind. I cannot get through to any bars or nightclubs so I am starting to worry we will not be able to go dancing.

I should not be worrying about this. It is a celebration not a curse to be involved with a hen party. It is an honour to be asked to be a bridesmaid. What does it matter if things do not run according to plan, or in the way that I envisioned them, as long as the bride to be has a fun weekend filled with the presence of her closest friends. Who really minds exactly what games are played or the venue for the dancing as long as everyone has a fun night? When she looks back on the weekend, I am sure she won't even remember the little things in any great detail, only that she went away with her friends and it was a great party. Hopefully.

Swallows and Amazons

I am so excited about this I can't believe I forgot to post this before. On Saturday, my 26th birthday, M brought me breakfast in bed along with the paper. I lay there reading it and discovered this article.

Arthur Ransome is one of my favourite authors and I am so pleased that they are to make 'Swallows and Amazons' into a new film. I think the 1974 one is fine but it does not really do justice to the book. Virginia McKenna is very good as mother but it is rather too tame for my liking. The sailing is not exciting enough and I do not think it capture's Ransome's world properly.

I was also pleased to read that the BBC are trying to buy the options to all of the books. I would love to see Secret Water or Pigeon Post on the big screen, as long as it is pre-war and done 'properly'. Pigeon Post is my absolute favourite book, about which one day I must write a review.

Chivalry

Chivalry. Something which I think (some) men are lacking and to which, whenever I bring it up at dinner parties and the like, my male friends argue, I cannot have if women are to be equal to men. But I do not want women to be equal to men. We are very different and I wish to celebrate our differences. I see no reason why two people doing the same job should not be remunerated equally and I see no reason why (fatherhood excepted) women cannot do the same jobs as men. But jobs are not what define us, either as women, men or as equals. Who we are is what defines us, and, taken to the extreme, I accept that this can include career choices but it need not.

I am in favour of manners. Of treating each other politely, as we would expect to be treated ourselves. I am in favour of self-respect, of ourselves and of others. Manners, I would argue, extend to letting a woman sit down on the tube or bus. But manners also indicate that a woman sitting should not take precedent over an elderly or disabled or pregnant person. It is all about relativity. Manners need to be modern too. One of my male friends is so well mannered that he will stand when I leave the table. I think that this is lovely but it is not something which I expect any other males to do and I do not think any the less of them if they don't. I appreciate it when men steer clear of dominating the conversation but I do not hold it against those who engage in long discussions relating to the finer points of the beautiful game. What I cannot bear are people who behave entirely selfishly. Queue jumpers (such as the man in Cafe Nero this morning who slid into the queue in front of me, deliberately), people who talk inappropriately loudly or who break rules (such as no phones in the silent carriage - after all, there are plenty of other places on the train to stand and shout), people who don't say thank you.

This month's Vogue has an interesting article about Chivalry being dead. The writer suggests that perhaps modern men are no longer taught by their parents that they should walk on the outside of the road to prevent the female from being splashed with mud or water. I am not a man, but I clearly remember my father coming to walk me home from Brownies and always walking on the outside and explaining why, when I asked why he changed sides when we crossed the road. I thought it was such a lovely thing for him to do, even as a 7 year old girl, and when M first walked with me to my house 6 years ago in Exeter, I noticed that he too did the same thing. 6 years into our relationship he probably lets me walk on the outside now and then, but he still opens doors, carries heavy bags, holds my coat (when we are sober) and looks after me. This is not to say that I don't look after him. We share out the housework though, rather than me doing all of it as it might once have been, but we work equally long hours. He does the cooking, I do the washing, and so on. If he is tired or particularly busy, I have been even been known to cook.

I think perhaps chivalry needs updating. It needs to be more equal. It is nice when a man opens the door for us. It is even nicer when we say thank you rather than indicating that we feel he thinks we are too feeble to even open a door. It is only a door and he is being polite, thinking of others. If we all made each other's lives a little easier, the world might be a nicer place.

Highbury Barn

A late finish at work last night so arranged to meet M for a drink. We had thought we might try out the Highbury Barn pub on Highbury Park as it had been listed among the gold award winners for a beer and pub award in the Evening Standard. We were sorely disappointed. It lacked any atmosphere, had surly looking men occupying tables individually, the bar maid was using the back of her hand to wipe her nose and in response to my request she shouted "Maa-rrk, how do I make a bloody mary" across the bar. We left. And then stumbled upon a lovely Italian restaurant where we managed to get a starter, 2 main courses and beers for about £20 between us which we ate quickly, hungrily and companiably.

As we left the restaurant at about 10.30pm the rain began. Slow spots at first, but it was pouring by the time we reached the house 5 minutes later. With the rain lashing and the wind howling we made a dash for our door. Only to realise that the morning brought recycling day and we needed to get our Christmas tree to the edge of the property. We dragged it outside and M walked to the shop to buy some milk whilst I tidied up. As M dried off I made milky coffees with our new coffee machine and we settled down on the sofa to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's (for research purposes only, you understand, for the hen party that I am organising). Actually, it is one of my favourite films and I am only to happy to have an excuse to watch it again.

End of the Year

It is my birthday tomorrow. I could get used to three day weeks followed by a weekend of parties involving all of my friends. Work has been busy but it has been nice to be back (and even nicer knowing it was only three days). It is the sign of the right job I think when you are pleased to be there. Obviously I very much enjoyed my time off but it would not be special if it happened all the time. I am now back at work until the first week of February whereon we are off to Finland for a week for a wedding. It is becoming something of a trend (if 3 years in a row can be termed a trend) of taking a holiday in February or March. In 2006 we went to the French/Italian border to go snowboarding. In 2007 we spent 2 weeks in Morocco. In 2008 we shall spend a week in Finland. It is rather nice having something to look forward to in that dull patch between the excitement of Christmas/New Year/Birthday and the arrival of spring. It is also nice to get some sunshine, winter or otherwise, or at least a break from the London rain. We didn't even get a dusting of snow as promised by the weatherman here in London yesterday, just some bloody cold drizzle around lunchtime.

Now, since this blog is supposedly about parties and book reviews I perhaps should get round to writing some more. Christmas has always traditionally been a time in our house where many books are exchanged and read. This year has been no exception, although so far I have read far more non-fiction than fiction. My stocking contained several books including one from the Caper Court series by Caro Fraser which I had not read. As she also published the 7th last November I shall be trying to track that one down too. I used some present money to buy Debrett's Etiquette for Girls (Fleur Britten) and A Girl for All Seasons (Camilla Morton) both of which were enjoyable reads, the former being a lot more accurate than the latter (Morton appears to think that 1918 was during the Second World War, which didn't exactly endear me to the remainder of the text). Last night I finished reading The Insider by Piers Morgan (tag line - the private diaries of a scandalous decade). It was an interesting read and I couldn't decide if Morgan was simply embracing his role as a tabloid editor or was in fact an arrogant p***k. Or a combination of the two. Without reading the combined diaries the Blairs, Campbell, Murdoch, Wade, various members of the Royal Family and many many others it is hard to say whether or not he portrayed private meetings accurately but he seemed to embody the phrase "if you don't ask, you'll never know".

How London mornings will be for me from now on

Carmen ( Homage to Munkacsi) coat by Cardin, Place Francois-Premier Paris, 1957

© Richard Avedon, courtesy Fraenkel Gallery, San Francisco