Why do all men make hair removal jokes about the iMac?

You could put money on it and get a reasonable return; I knew once I had posted on Facebook "Debsylee is so excited to be getting her iMac and Adobe CS4 software; how sad is that??!" that the old hair removal gag would be aired again (well, not that old given that the iMac hasn't been around too long....)

Tom did not disappoint with "I thought it had been rebranded as Veet" scrawled across my wall on Boxing Day night, closely followed with a volley exchange of quick-fire gags which ended with a legend shot from me.

I think I must have offended TomBob with that one because I haven't heard from him since.

Come back Tom; it's usually me who spits her dummy out ;-)

So, Christmas is all but over in the house of Debsy, save for a turkey lunch with all the trimmings at my parents' house today in honour of my boy who returned to the fold on Saturday.

To be fair the festive season has this year been rather entertaining, very philosophical and not quite so laden with food and drink as is the norm. Entertaining in that there were some very interesting (and a few eye-opening) texts from around the globe, philosophical in that I had to prepare for the internal investigation on my recent handling of a certain situation that I knew would start around now, but hey, at least I don't have to go on a diet this year.

My lovely Mum and Auntie spoiled me with some gorgeously fab pressies, and my wonderful Dad rode in on his white charger (metaphorically speaking) and offered to put up the money I needed to buy the new iMac and all-singing Adobe software I have been yearning for with my whole being.

I had actually espied a MacPro recently acquired by a friend of mine at his abode and I am ashamed to say I think I actually dribbled. Further to a rather half-baked pathetic attempt to persuade him to part company and upgrade, I conceded defeat and accepted that his thing of beauty was not destined for my grasp, hence the Christmas Day conversation with my papa. I do, however, think that once the threat of abduction is gone with the purchase of a Debsy iMac, I could nip in there like a ninja and be off with his goods in an instant. Be very careful, my friend; sometimes the girl will stop at nothing to get her hands on Cinema display....that's all I will say.

So that's the hardware and software issues sorted for the next couple of years (one hopes); now I need to work on my ability to bring matters of the heart to a close in an appropriate way as they head towards the final scene.

Sadly I have to admit that when Mr Enough looks at his own image in the mirror and says "yep, that's Enough alright", I turn into the iciest ice queen this side of the ice mountain.

I know my well-informed posse will say it was deserved and appropriate given the circumstances, but I had hoped for better from myself if I'm honest.

Everyone has their own coping mechanisms, I guess; mine is to erase all memory of a person in the hope that tomorrow I'll wake up and it won't even be a memory anymore. It's a bit childish, slightly irrational and a tad unrealistic but you know what they say about animals being at their most dangerous when they're injured. I don't think we have evolved much beyond that, especially women.

Sometimes it's just better to say nothing at all.

However, as this year draws to an end and I realise that it's unlikely I'll pen another posting before we say "bonjour" to 2009, I do need to say a this:

I am ending this year on a high; many of you have helped me, supported me and, most importantly, made me laugh like a drain this year, and for that you have a special place in my heart. I'm very privileged to call you my friends.

I wish you all lots of love, health and prosperity for the New Year that is almost upon us.

Now... go forth, and party like you just don't care ;-)

If you don't believe in Father Christmas, you ain't coming in....

Around two months ago now I purchased a moldavite crystal pendant after reading that, if worn regularly, it can "change your life at breakneck speed"....but in a good way, I was reassured. And I have to say that has so far held true.

Whilst I haven't exactly had to hold onto my seat, there have been a few events that have winded me, but hey, life goes on, friends come, some go, and so forth. And whilst I'm not exactly dancing a jig right now, I can see why certain movements need to take place to make way for the coming experience.

My pal Ullie says you should expect nothing from the people who come into your life, and I would say that is the best approach I've heard in a long time. It does, however, become a bit of a test of will when you invest months of effort and hope in certain relationships and they still go poof! in front of your eyes..... but I can see where she is coming from.

I like to think the universe has big plans for me this coming year, and it has decided that, owing to my total ineptitude and inability to clear my decks of complicated issue-related stuff and messy bits and pieces, it will do it for me.

POOF! it's all clear now. Bring on 2009.

I am, of course, talking about the universe dressed in seasonal Father Christmas garb, and shouting "ho! ho! ho! little Debsylee!! Have you been a good girl?? Of course you haven't....some things never change. Here's our present to you any way...you're not going to like it, but touch, feel, smell......it will grow on you, we promise..."

And to make the bitter pills easier to swallow, the universe sends great stuff to me to make me laugh, like this morning on my local radio station... A chap is interviewing stone masons who work at Lincoln Cathedral (aforementioned great building of outstanding beauty and imposing magnificence).

He continues his interview..."so, Fred Smith, you started work here as a stone mason three years ago after finishing college. Is working at Lincoln Cathedral a bit like playing for Man U?"

Sorry???

Now, I get where he was going with that question, but can you think of any job that is less like playing for Manchester United than being a stone mason at Lincoln Cathedral?

I am loving the local radio stations around here, I have to tell you.

So the moldavite seems to be doing it's thang. And with a bit of universally-applied comedic stuff, I seem equipped to slay the odd dragon of life's challenges.

The piece de resistance this Christmas has to be the fact that my boy is at that peak of excited anticipation that this time of year brings, totally buying into the whole magic of it and asking with unnerving regularity "is it Christmas tonight?"

And because he laps up every bit of detail, I tend to go overboard with the tales of the intricate plans that are afoot to reward him with special presents for being a good boy this year. My masterpiece is that the Red Arrows have got a very special treat in store for him.....

He has a special card to open in the morning with the Red Arrows on the front adorned by glittery snowflakes, and a message inside that reads:

"Dear Ben, we hear that you have been a very good boy for your Mummy this year, so Ben Murphy (Red 7) is flying in his Red Arrow to the North Pole to take some special presents from us to Father Christmas for you....Happy Christmas! Love from the Red Arrows xxx"

Sometimes, having a bespoke card business pays dividends, I can tell you.

I just know that tomorrow morning he is going to be overcome with excitement when he gets that card. That is what Christmas is all about. It's magic.

I need to end on another giggle-fest....Gavin and Stacey.

I never really paid too much attention to this programme, initially thinking it was another series fashioned in the same style as Two Pints of Lager et al (i.e. not my cup of Darjeeling) But it is quite different.

This trailer in no way conveys the true brilliance of the programme, but it makes me laugh every time....

2009......the year of living dangerously

As Christmas approaches I am filled with an overwhelming desire to get the thing over with; fast forward to New Years Eve, do the "rah rah" thing and just get stuck straight into 2009.

I normally love Christmas, but this year my cracker has lost it's snap. My Ben won't be with me until 27th December. I relinquish him to his father on Christmas Eve, at which point I intend to crank the heating up, put my shorts on and pretend it's the height of summer. Pimms, anyone?

The most obvious part of being a parent is that you have to be responsible, to do the right thing and to be an example to your child. But this year I have realised the following:

* The one song guaranteed to get me dancing after a few drinks is Mr Loverman by Shabba Ranks,
* You should only watch the news these days if you are on some form of medication,
* A second cup of tea never tastes as good as the first...
* If you get a bad feeling about someone there will be a good reason for it,
* Always acknowledge and pay homage to your inner child; otherwise she will go crazy, do something stupid and get you into deep doo-dah,
* When people speak to you in an undeserved disdainful tone, delete them with lightening speed from your contacts, phone and your life in general,
* Robbie should rejoin Take That.......how great would that be? Seriously... fantastic.

None of these things are particularly logical or responsible, but neither is taking out a mortgage or buying a new car........when it was possible to do those things, that is.

I have made some huge life changes in 2008, but they have all been safe changes. As a result, I am now in "safe mode"......which I have to say is not Debsylee in the slightest. I am boxed in with nowhere to run, or so it seems. I never liked having to run my PC in safe mode, so running my life in a similar manner is not exactly setting me on fire.

So 2009 is the year to mix it up a bit and take it to the edge more often.

It's time to calculate the risk of living dangerously, against the risk of doing nothing.

Sadly I never met Friedrich Nietzsche, given that he died in 1900 and was a famous German philosopher, but all that time ago he was effusing...

Believe me! The secret of reaping the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment from life is to live dangerously....

You've convinced me, Herr Nietzsche.

Lightning strikes......maybe once, maybe twice.

I'm very fortunate that my life has been filled with people and experiences that, in the main, I have loved, enjoyed and am very grateful for. Some admittedly I could have done without, but hey, how can you appreciate the really good stuff unless there's a bit of cack in there too?

But I think that without music, my appreciation of life would have fallen short of it's eventual mark. I don't have a collection of music, I have a wardrobe, and every morning I select what best fits my mood du jour. Often when I go out in my car I curse the fact that I haven't brought a few particular CDs with me and am still listening to the same ones that I placed in the player some six months ago. It's like going on a fortnights holiday and only remembering to take two pairs of shoes. Unthinkable.

Those of you who have a similar penchant and attachment to music will know how this feels; it can be more effective than any other mood enhancer I know of (not that I am that knowledgeable on the subject of mood enhancers, save for alcohol.....of which I have still not imbibed some three days later after my last excursion to the edge and back).

And so today I got to thinking.....what song would I chose to define my life?

I love conundrums like this; it's like desert island discs but you only get to pick one..... The pressure of it is immense.

My song found it's way again on to my airwaves today, over and over. That's a very annoying feature of mine; I will play a particular favourite song over and over and over.....the repeat button gets well used chez debsylee.

Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac.

So I'm back, to the velvet underground
Back to the floor, that I love
To a room with some lace and paper flowers
Back to the gypsy that I was...

There is a part of me that is a bit boho. People often don't believe me on that, but seriously, if long flowing skirts had suited me better than pencil skirts, I would have given Kate Bush a run for her money.

Fleetwood Mac always, always, always puts me in a good mood, particularly this track. It is the ultimate free spirit song; tales of flying into life's experience and taking your leave when you need to....

And it all comes down to you
Well, you know that it does
Well, lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice
Ah, and it lights up the night
And you see your gypsy....

You see I've decided that it's only good to remain a part of people's lives if you're enhancing them; once you stop doing that it's time to fly off. If you light up their night, then you stick around and ignite a few more torches.

It all sounds very transitory, but really it isn't at all. Some nights can last a whole lifetime if you both want them to.

Lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice
And it all comes down to you...

Everybody thinks Dreams was their best track, but if you're not familiar with Gypsy, give this a whirl.........magical. Stevie Nicks at her best.

What this girl wants for Christmas......and other reflections

It may seem derisory to a few that I still refer to myself as a "girl"...but the truth is I often feel more like a child now than I probably ever did. I was quite a serious little thing growing up, often pondering life's variables and seeking my fathers' praise at every twist and turn. Now I ponder and seek far less.....I make a cursory effort but I don't get bent out of shape any more over it.

So the end of 2008 draws near, and I'm sitting and contemplating lessons learnt, and also new friends found and those I've lost.

Life's lessons learnt....that is always the good old roasted chestnut, isn't it? My number one eureka moment I'd have to partly credit my friend Dean with.

We were discussing the law of attraction and other nuggets from "The Secret" when he uttered something quite brilliant in it's simplicity:

"If you keep failing in a particular direction, it's because you are on the wrong track and you should change course".

There is one direction that I felt sure was the right one for me this year, and yet I have been unseated, unnerved and altogether miserable in pursuit several times. Maybe it's been bad timing or poor judgment, or maybe both, but I now realise I need to reverse out of the cul-de-sac I've found myself in and accept it was never going anywhere.

Biggest 2008 lesson learnt? Giving unconditionally is fine, as long as people appreciate it. If they don't, get in that car, reverse like there is no tomorrow and deposit some rubber, baby.

As for friends lost, plenty of people will tell you that you can't keep everyone happy all the time, and we all make an effort to disprove the theory, but sadly it is very true. One thing I've learned this year is that seeking to elevate your profile and hence your business via the media hacks a lot of people off. Exactly why that would be I'm not entirely sure. Apparently the done thing is to keep your lips sealed tightly shut and say nothing; say nothing, that is, after you've explained to your child why there is no supper on the table and the house is freezing cold. Some people call it maintaining a dignified silence; I call it plain stupidity.

So in opting to go down the "publish and be damned" route, I find a few so-called 'friends' have fallen by the wayside. I suppose the true test of what constitutes a friend is their acceptance or otherwise that your motives are reasonable and justified. Some will choose to castigate you on the basis that you have acted dishonourably. I'd be lying if I said that this didn't hurt me when it happened fairly recently, but seeing as I can still look myself in the mirror without squirming I'd say their opinions are of no significance to me.

Number one on my list would therefore to eliminate self-righteousness. I realise we can all be guilty of it, but seriously, until you've walked in a person's shoes you have absolutely no right to judge, comment or berate. Ever.

The great thing is that for every person that chose to delete me as a Facebook friend (the shame of it...), probably twenty altogether fabulous friends replaced them.

Which leads me very neatly onto the very best bits of 2008....the bits that made it into my year-end highlights.

And the biggest highlight is that there are too many mini-highlights to list here...

But the nicest one was my journey back to the slightly indulgent and mischievous side of me that remains hidden most of the time, but when the timing is right and I come into contact with one similar, I won't hold back.

Amazing music, great company, honest exchanges and lots of side-splitting laughter. That is the photograph of 2008 I want to keep as a memento.

Why so big a deal? I hear you ask.

Little Feat, Average White Band and the Doobie Brothers.....a rare combination, but I found it. And I was more than impressed, let me tell you.

Some may think it peculiar, but it was exactly what this girl wanted for Christmas.

The Lincoln Imp....and indecorous intrigue

There is a little known fact about Lincoln (well, technically, about Lincoln's famous landmark) that many do not know of.......the little imp that resides inside the cathedral. On many a school trip I would search for it as we walked round; I often wonder if I could find it today (perhaps that can be a summer holiday activity to enjoy with Ben next year if I can manage to persuade him that Grandad doesn't actually sing there at all during the day..)

There are many stories about how the imp came to be there, but this is my favourite:

"...A version of the story with two imps is that they were sent by the devil to cause trouble in the cathedral and they soon started to annoy the angels in the cathedral. The angels told the two imps to leave but the first started to throw things at the angels and the second hid. The angels turned the first imp to stone but this gave the second imp a chance to escape. The second imp is said to have escaped with the help of a witch. The imp went off with the witch on her broomstick but the witch was so fond of the imp she turned the imp into a black cat...."

Of course, anything that involves witches and broomsticks and I'm sold; add a black cat to the mix and there is no contest.

So, that said, imagine how an imp situated in the city of your birth might impact on your character... As this dawned on me this afternoon I have to say much became clearer to me, if only I had thought to blame my life's' transgressions on that little stony scamp. When all is said, there has to be some implication, does there not? A reasonably engrained desire to seek an imp out must influence somehow over the years...

So my albeit relaxed fascination this week became slightly clearer....

How do you go from thinking there is little to attract you to a place, to retain your interest, to stir up intrigue....to being fully engaged with your present and immediate future? Somewhere there has to be an imp up to no good.

My silver dress....and the silver lining

Thank you so much to everyone for your concern over the last few days; I am absolutely fine and dandy despite a few curved balls being thrown my way (and some not quite so curved.....)

Today, however, is a day for kicking off my heels and cracking open the bubbly because.... Woman and Home has hit the shelves (Jan 09 edition) and I am on the whole of page 45!!

I can barely type with the excitement of it.....so here endeth this posting ;-)

Congested optimism.... (and why the camera never lies)

Along with his boundless energy, never ending curiosity and flawless skin, there is one more thing about my son that I am deeply envious of, and that is his ability to sleep through illness.

When he first displayed signs of a cold around a week ago, I knew it was only a matter of time before a dreaded sore throat took hold of me and sent me into a sniffling nosedive. And so here I am, box of tissues by my side, tapping away on my laptop at some unearthly hour on a Sunday morning.

Of course, tossing and turning, wrestling with the duvet and sneezing and spluttering for a couple of hours is the perfect recipe for yet another soul-searching "why me?" kind of post, but having already deleted one from yesterday for being too obscure, I am determined that this shall be clear, concise and to the point.

That's the intention; I feel sure the end result may not match it, but here goes nothing...

I've talked a few times about Patricia, my psychic friend, who has imparted to me much wisdom and cause for reflection over the years. Whether you believe in all things mystical or not, Patricia has the capability to decipher and decode an emotionally confusing mess, particularly those which concern the opposite sex. She has a clear mind and an all seeing talent that cuts through swathes of histrionic wreckage in a manner that instantly clarifies your thinking.

When she delivered my yearly astrological reading on my birthday earlier this year, there were two aspects that made an immediate impression. One was that it was gong to be a difficult year for me financially, and the second was that I would not hesitate to cut away anything that wasn't beneficial. My heart sank at the financial comment, but having realised just a few minutes ago that I have a little over two months left to my next reading, I feel sure that I can limp to the finishing line.

The second "de-cluttering" observation has come to pass also, although not without a disorienting moment or two. I still maintain that relationships and circumstances should be given the time and opportunity to develop and flourish, with some reasonable timeframes agreed upfront. Sometimes you just have to hold on to your belief when something feels right.

There is, I believe, a lot to be said for optimism. Frequently these days you hear the term "cautious optimism" which to me is like saying "a little bit hot" or "sort of sweet". Either it is or it isn't; don't stick a precursor in there as a get-out clause. Commit or don't bother at all.

It puts me in mind of people who say "I want to keep my options open". Oh, really? In that case would you please go and join the camp over there marked "no courage of our convictions".

So, hopefully, that has cleared up the small point of being optimistic. I am so. Not slightly or cautiously, but totally. The basis for such being that most days I don't see how things could get much worse....perhaps that qualifies as "inverted pessimism" or "retrograde despair". It helps me to maintain the perverse streak of humour running through my being, as I am sure you will have noticed.

I have already alluded to being a big believer in fate, but I now realise that, even if you sit at home with your front door well and truly bolted, it will come and find you. Fate will, as it were, come knocking.

Take Randy the angel for instance, who appeared at my front door back in October. And yesterday another significant meeting took place on my doorstep, this time in the form of Steve the photographer, who came to capture images of my family and I at the behest of a woman's magazine in which we are to appear.

I don't think it can be mere coincidence that I know and have known quite a few photographers over the years. Two of my very good friends are photographers and I enjoyed a brief but passionate dalliance with another some time ago. I have effortlessly networked and worked alongside a number of others over the years; it must be down to similarly creative and enquiring minds.

There is something about the photographic image which I think surpasses any other medium, other than perhaps painting, which I suppose you could argue was the predecessor of photography.

When the lens opens for the briefest moment, it comes and takes a part of you away to be stored for posterity. Even silly little snaps taken on your mobile phone are little records of time, emotion, feeling.....proof of the moment, proof that it existed and that you didn't dream it. And then the lens shuts as quickly as it opened and it's taken you away.

Steve arranged us in poses that exemplified the piece that the photos are to accompany, namely familial, supportive stances. I am surprised to hear myself say that some of them felt strange and uncomfortable, namely the ones where I stood flanked by my parents who each would have a hand on my arm. It doesn't read oddly, so I'm not at all sure why it felt that way....We were never an overly demonstrative family but we had our moments, so it is a little puzzling.

There is an honesty about a photograph, and I would hazard a guess that is why I've never had a problem having the camera pointed at me. I don't feel I've anything to hide and I'm quite happy to be judged on the resulting image, especially if it's taken by Steve with a most impressive range of cameras, lenses and supporting capability to airbrush and touch-up back at base.

I suppose that this piece gives rise to the question are we regarded for what we say or how we look? That is one of the reasons I love to write because I know we live in an image-driven society, a society that I admit to being a fully paid-up member of. Writing allows people to look into your soul and see the parts that the camera can't reach.

Very occasionally I scare myself with my openness; I worry that someone may take advantage by adopting a false persona that will irresistibly appeal to me. It's not difficult to draw up a list of do's and don'ts when someone is an open book.

I have no doubt that I have been and will be taken advantage of, but I know the fact that I've never deceived or coerced to get what I want will see me as the better person when all comes to pass.

Truth, openness and honesty will never be regrets of mine, about that I am very optimistic. And I will soon have the photos to prove it.

Help! I have a blockage.....again

A few months before I left the leafy pastures of Berkshire I had one almighty leak in my bathroom that resulted in a total refit. I can somehow hear some of you sniggering at that beautifully penned sentence, so let me clarify that by "I had one almighty leak" I am referring to a leakage of water behind my shower which resulted in much blackness and rotting to the walls and surrounding area.

On or around that time I discussed the aquatic horror with my friend Patricia who is knowledgeable and learned in all things psychic, and she shrugged her shoulders and said "I'm not too surprised..."

As someone who doesn't do upheaval too well, even on a good day, I asked her to elaborate.

"Water signifies the emotions. You have an emotional blockage and this is manifesting in the problem with your bathroom. Not only has there been a leak, but now you can't get the insurance claim sorted. You need to unblock your emotions"

All interesting stuff I pondered, as indeed I had been at loggerheads with Big Useless Insurance Company plc (or BUIC plc...) for around six months in pursuance of a claim settlement. I deduced that the emotional stalemate Patricia referred to was owing to the fact that I needed to move on, in every sense of the word. The south east for me had seen the birth of my son and the discovery of some amazing friends, but beyond that I was struggling to find anything going in its' favour.

I cannot remember the actual day that I decided to relocate to Lincolnshire, but it would have been early in November 2007. I should remember the date because on the very same day I had the idea to take my Nokia N95 mobile phone into the bathroom and make a short film with accompanying narrative, showing the decrepit conditions my young child and I had to endure and how if anyone was thinking of switching to BUIC plc, they should think again. Long and very hard.

One quick download on the internet and voila, it was on YouTube under the brilliant title, "Insured With BUIC plc? Thinking Of Making A Claim? Good Luck".

I thought a few key players at BUIC plc should enjoy the production that had been inspired by their gross inability to function as anything like an insurance company, so I sent them the link via e-mail.

As it generated over four hundred hits in twenty-four hours and started to generate less than complimentary comments about BUIC plc, they not only increased their settlement figure from £970 to £4,400 but they also posted me a cheque within three working days.

I can therefore offer double dose of advice here, firstly if you are in dispute with any large conglomerate and are heading to "Nowhere Central" fast, get yourself on YouTube. There is nothing more painful and incalculable to these types than bad publicity. Secondly, if you are emotionally blocked and your domestic plumbing proves it, sit and wait for the answer to come to you; it will if you give it time.

So, somewhere around a year later and we are now in residence in Lincolnshire, altogether happier and grateful for the fresher air, the quieter roads but not altogether enamoured with the horrific council tax....(I am the only person alive, to my knowledge, that managed to relocate from the second most expensive council to the numero uno council).

Like everyone I have the odd emotional blockage still, but these days my emotions are reasonably free-flowing and positive. So imagine my grand displeasure this morning when I discover my kitchen ceiling is leaking water from the overhead en suite...... I swiftly call my landlord to report the less than great news, and as we speak on the phone, I look out of the kitchen window to snowflakes the size of dinner plates cascading from the heavens. More water designed to cause me grief, this time of a frozen variety design to create maximum chaos for the imminent school run.

At this point I remember a winter some thirty years ago when the village I grew up in was cut off from civilisation thanks to a fairly monumental snowfall. I recall my mother opening the lounge curtains and the room remaining in total darkness because the snow had drifted up the side of the house. We walked into the village to buy milk from the back of a local dairy farmers' trailer, straight from the cow, not treated and we all survived......remarkable.

I think back to those halcyon days and realise they probably only amounted to maybe ninety-six hours or so, but we had the most fantastic adventure. Once the Louth bus made it's way through, however, the party was well and truly over.

Thankfully this mornings covering was all but a distant memory by twelve o'clock, by which time I had returned back to Patricia's theory of emotional blockages and problems with water in the home. In keeping with my tendency to analyse the pips out of every incident, it occurred to me that this was slightly different....

This was water leaking out of one room (en suite) into another (kitchen), and both rooms have water. There has to be one big emotional blockage going on somewhere chez nous....and I know exactly where it is.

Do you know how sometimes you miscommunicate with someone close to the point that it's like watching a very bad slapstick comedy? But instead of flinging custard pies into the faces of unsuspecting clowns, this time you manage to make everything you say sound crass, uncaring and definitely not what you intended? That was your writer yesterday, and it has caused one big emotional blockage.

So am I surprised that water was seeping through my kitchen ceiling this morning? Not at all. Not now.

I tried briefly to unblock it last night, to no avail.

So, I'm hoping that sitting tight will make it better. Failing that, a few bashes with a monkey wrench should do it.

Humble pie, and how to avoid being forced to eat it.

I wonder if anyone feels more foolish than Gordon Ramsey right now. Blend that foolishness carefully with the right amount of dismal despair and finish by flambeing it with just a dash of stark realisation, and I suspect he's wishing he had just stuck to something simple from the menu, something maybe rustled up out of a tin at home by his beautiful and undeserving wife.

That's perhaps what you get when you dine out at a seemingly classy establishment that likes to push back the monogamous boundaries; a hefty bill at the end of it and a case of indigestion like you have never known.

Now I know what you are all thinking, "here we go, she's going to stick the Sabatier into Ramsey as the stereotypical cheating male", but you'd be wrong.

My concern is not him, nor is it for the reviled and scheming other woman that he enjoyed his various trysts with, but for his wife Tana.

Having read his book "Humble Pie" (I suspect he sorely wishes he had chosen another title now.....), he talks of his business relationship with Tana's father that led to his meeting her, falling in love, marrying and producing four children. Whilst I am in no way hugely knowledgeable on the subject, I would hazard a guess that Tana's father was/is very capable and authoritative, and that he easily commands respect.

That said, my instincts tell me that these were the qualities she identified in Ramsey, given that as girls many of us look for our fathers' characteristics in would-be partners. To that end, I would suspect that in addition to having to deal with the highly public humiliation she has had to endure, she is painfully having to come to terms with the monumental shock that a man she looked up to, admired and loved has done this to her. If he feels bad right now, you can multiply that by around two thousand and you might get close to how she feels.

Which leads me on to the age old debate.....why do men do this? Why do they take the risk?

Well, I think I have this kind of sorted and boxed off. I'm far from happy with my theory, but I think it's reasonably accurate and as close as I'm going to get. And frankly, I have got to a point in my life where I have given this so much thought that I desperately want to move on mentally.

A few weeks ago a male friend commented that men don't get past the emotional age of seven. At the time I thought that was a little harsh and a bit of a sweeping statement, but given that he was of said gender, I thought it had to carry some credence.

"Whenever a man does something to upset you, or wind you up, just think, 'seven years old', Think how a seven year old boy would act in the same circumstances, and voila". And you know, this theory fits so perfectly that I struggle to imagine another that could topple it.

Take Gordon Ramsey. As my S.O. rightly pointed out, he must have women throwing themselves at him like exocets, so the temptation must have been greater than a Millefeuille à la Framboise (OK, enough with the food gags now...). It clearly had nothing to do with his wife "letting herself go"....as it didn't when Cheryl Cole and hoards of beautiful women before her got themselves unfairly hit by the cheating stick.

So my guess is....he did it because he wanted to, and why, why, oh why shouldn't he? Seven years old.

I think men will do it if they believe there is no chance of being found out. Because they can. And because they want to. Seven years old.

Before any man decides to so much as contemplate cheating on his partner, whether she be a wife of thirty years or a less-important girlfriend, my advice is this:

If you are going to mess around, make absolutely, totally and completely sure that you do not get found out (that's assuming you want to continue your relationship after you have shown total disrespect for your partner).

There is only one thing more unbearable to a woman than the discovery of her partners' infidelity, and that is the pain that follows it. Spare them this. Cover your tracks, check to see they are covered and then go back and recover them again.

I am reliably informed that men can very easily separate sex and love, therefore making it easy for them to have sex with another woman whilst being in love with their longterm partner. Men, listen up: we might acknowledge this if you are very lucky, but we will never, ever truly empathise with it.

And do not assume your partner is stupid. Men do this all the time; they think they are invincible, irresistible and much cleverer than they are. If you are capable of cheating, she probably knows this already. She may chose to ignore it, but you can be sure that won't last forever.

I should make the point rather forcibly that I am not advocating that faithlessness is acceptable on these terms, but if men really feel they cannot keep their trousers on and that temptation is just too great then they should do their partners the common courtesy of making sure their indiscretions never see the light of day in any way, shape or form.

As for Tana Ramsey, I wish her well and I really hope she can find it in her heart to trust him again. And I hope he understands what an immensely huge task he has before him in order for her to do that.

Brickbats and bouquets....musings on a snowy Sunday

At the risk of over-egging an already very yolky omelette, it's Sunday, the snow is falling and I'm in "pensive and thankful" mode....no change there, then!

I had just penned the title of this posting when a good friend Skype'd me from Austria and we got into a discussion about the trials and tribulations of love, our associated neuroses and the resulting "euphoria-to-despair in 60 seconds flat" feeling that can result.

Some people are meant to come into our lives at certain times, I am certain of it. Ulrike is one such friend for me.

There is a slight language barrier, but I don't think I've bonded as quickly and closely with another girlfriend for a long, long time. We don't need the exact right words to communicate, we just know.

I convey generally what I'm feeling, she gets it and vice-versa. Absolutely perfect. And completely what the doctor ordered; friends like this restore your perspective much quicker than any self-help book could.

So Ulrike, I'm sending you a bouquet of the most gorgeous exotic flowers, because I know when you get it, you above all others, will appreciate it ;-)

A bouquet also to my beautiful boy Ben, who spent Friday night being horribly sick, something that happens very infrequently these days.

During the day he made a swift recovery in time to accompany his Grandma to the village fair taking place in the local hall. I duly gave him two pounds to spend on anything that took his fancy (save for loose women and hard liquor, naturally)

When I went to collect him yesterday evening he announced that there had been nothing there to spend his two pounds on for little boys, but went on to present me with some chocolate cakes and a jar of home-made marmalade that he said he thought I would like.

And that is how a four year old can quite innocently reduce a woman to tears. I can't even blame raging hormones this time....

Brickbat time.

This time I'm covering pomposity (and the necessary elimination thereof), why the need for honesty is paramount (not strictly a brickbat, but I can't shoe-horn in into the bouquet section....) and the pain that is a bikini wax.....(I will never, ever come to terms with it, much in the same way I never came to terms with Bernard Manning)

Many will know that I regularly frequent a business networking site.

Deep down I have to admit that I hate face-to-face networking, not because I struggle to strike up conversations but I frequently have found myself in a room full of people that are not interested in me nor I them; I've eaten a below-par meal and have parted with twenty-five pounds for the privilege.

Does that sound harsh? I don't mean it to be.

Let me say I have never attended any such event with the intention of initiating some big sales campaign; I take a more relaxed view to networking. I believe that if you aim to network with people with whom you have synergy, they will point business in your direction ultimately, and you will do the same for them. It's long lasting and ultimately more desirable than a hard-sell approach in my humble opinion.

So my online site cuts through all the unnecessaries and enables you to connect quickly with a vast number of people from around the globe (something you don't get at the local Beefeater).

And yet it appears there are a number of members of said site who feel the quickfire connection approach makes a "mockery of the networking process". They are at pains to declare that if you should so much as wish to even contemplate approaching them to connect, you should read their profile in fine detail (and they point out that they will check to see you have done this....) first and then approach them via personal message. They will then read through your details and decide whether they want to connect with you.

Utterly, utterly hilarious.

I posted a blog on the site yesterday voicing my opinion on this topic that was reasonably restrained, but the great thing is that on here, I can let rip. So here goes:

If your name is Alan Sugar or Richard Branson (or anyone of that ilk...), I would inwardly digest every detail of your profile to the point that I salivate and lick the screen. If yours isn't a name I have heard of, I will approach you in such a way that does not require me to bow and scrape.

If you see that as a mockery of the networking principle, then we don't need to connect anyway. Perhaps you should try and get a slot on the South Bank Show to voice your outrage.

Maybe this is what SO meant when he said "gobby"........hmmm.....

The need for honesty........ Crucial, and I suppose if you get this right then it translates as a bouquet.

This in essence formed part of my conversation with Ulrike.

It reminded me of an argument that broke out during my last marriage; he went on a business trip to Blackpool and swore blind he didn't visit any strip joints, lap dancing clubs, etc.

I think when you get to be a certain age as a woman, you accept that all men visit these places. It doesn't mean they are ripe for a one-night stand or an affair, they just have a curiosity that many women don't understand. If you accept our mutual differences in this regard, it makes it easier to deal with.

So why would a man not tell his partner? Why lie about it if it was "innocent curiosity"?

The seemingly white lie in this instance gives full force to the notion that there must be other more sinister things that have been kept from you. It is cancerous.

His defence was "I didn't want to hurt you".

When a seemingly insignificant thing is covered up because he "doesn't want to hurt" you, it leaves a nasty stain on the relationship. Such a nasty stain that no matter how many times you put it through the boil wash that is your reasoning, you will never truly shift it.

This type of occurrence is not confined to trips to strip clubs, of course. It exists wherever one partner feels that they have to keep details from the other, because they "wouldn't understand" or it's maybe perceived as "easier to not tell".

Coming clean may necessitate an uncomfortable conversation or two, but that's called communication which can never be a bad thing. In addition, it nurtures respect and understanding.

Unlike bikini waxing, which in my experience does not have a preferred angle for approach.

I should point out here that my natural colouring is very, very dark (my hair was jet black when I was born). This ultimately means waxing results in pain which is akin to the early stages of childbirth, and this time I pay fifteen pounds a time for the experience.

My lovely Lisa, who administers the aforementioned torture once a month, commented "there's no wonder it hurts, look at the roots on them!!" the first time she treated me... Oh, how I wished I hadn't looked. Now I feel my whimpering and squeals are justified.

Anyone who can suggest a less painful alternative, please get in touch. I'm not unreasonable about this, I know that pain will play a part at some point when it comes to this process.....I just want less of it, please.

And anyone that suggests not putting myself through it and giving up altogether.....well, that's funny. I do like a good belly laugh.

I feel I've mused enough; waxing lyrical has never been so much fun ;-)

Point a microphone at me and suddenly it all becomes clear....

When I moved back to the treasure that is my home county from the thriving hub that is Berkshire back in April of this year I have to admit I had a few reservations.

On paper it all made sense; practically (my parents were ready, willing and able to help and assist with caring of and for Ben), financially (you could purchase a small stately home here for what a four-bed detached cost in Berkshire.....pre-slump...), emotionally (I admit it; I love my family and it pained me to be two hundred miles down the road from them...) and in a spiritual sense (I know many will scoff, but I felt "ready" to come home).

There is an aspect to my emotional welfare that didn't make it onto the list because quite simply, as a contraindication, so it was better left off. My friends. My touchstones. I left them behind and the fact that I couldn't meet up with them for coffee or a glass of wine at the drop of a hat hurt me for a good few months. And on a practical and business-related level, many of my friends were part of my business network so that dissappeared on the sortie northward too... But the way I look at it is this; that's why we have motorways, mobile phones and Facebook. No friend is ever too far away these days that you can't reach out to them via some medium or other.

But there were also the unquantifiables that don't make it onto the page with all the practical and sensible reasons listed above. The issues that you know will bug you, but you dare not give voice to them as it would make you appear shallow and without a soul.

Starbucks. Space NK. Waterloo station. LK Bennett. John Lewis. Heathrow. The American Bar at the Savoy. So strike me down, I miss these things.

So I packed me, my son, my business and our worldly possessions into the appropriate vessels and we moved back to the green pastures of Lincolnshire.

Almost instantaneously I was presented with a highly acceptable and alluring treasure that Lincolnshire had to offer; a man that fair took the wind out of my sails. And for a non-seafaring type of girl that takes some doing, let me tell you.

It would be fair to say that we sailed a few stormy seas, but such is the voyage we choose to take when we embark on the search for personal and intimate fulfillment.

In truth, it was not just the romantic angle of my chart that struggled during the first few weeks, but also the one that missed my girls, my buddies. To say I was on an emotionally-powered roller coaster would be understating it slightly, but the show went on regardless.

The business has stuttered and spluttered a little, mainly due to another relocation some three months after moving up here back to my home office and away from the unreasonably expensive office in Lincoln that I initially signed up for. Having said all that, all remains in reasonably good shape, despite the economic doom and gloom we are fed on a daily basis.

And my son, as all children do, meets each day with unquestioning and keen optimism. He loves his new school, he likes his new teacher and he adores the fact that he can now see his Grandma and Grandad on a daily basis. In fact, some days I think he would forego contact with me, the mother who gave him life, to be with his grandparents. It's a thankless job being a mother sometimes, don't you find?

So this week I found myself some seven months down the line, being asked to comment on a local community radio station on how relocation had affected me and my business. Needless to say, as a local station, they inadvertently wanted me to "big" Lincolnshire up a bit and to dumb down all that may have been good about the South East.

To my surprise it wasn't a difficult task at all.

When I assessed my networking activity over the last six months I realised that most of it had been done via a couple of key and crucial business sites.

As a result I have made business contacts and friends in Holland, Belgium, Sweden, Denmark, Austria, Italy, South Africa, America, Mexico, Brazil, Australia as well as many more in London and the surrounding area.

You can pretty much guarantee I would not be interacting with these new found friends and acquaintances if I had still been resident in Berkshire; I would have stayed well within the comfort zone of my familiar network.

The world is now more accessible, and it is definitely smaller. It is easier than it has ever been to reach outside of your obvious and immediate space and touch what exists beyond. It is no longer relevant what postcode or locality you live in.

It now takes me just ten minutes longer to reach the centre of London by train than it did when I lived in Berkshire, and I have a much faster broadband connection. In addition it takes me no more than twenty minutes to get to wherever I need to be in the city, be it shopping amenities, bars or restaurants. There is never a traffic jam to battle with as I take my son to school, and that is after he has checked what the cows are doing in the field behind our house every morning.

I now have the pleasure of adding to my address book many wonderful and special friends as a result of reaching beyond my imagined limits; Ingrid from South Africa, Barbara from California, Lotte from Sweden, Sos from Denmark, Ulrike from Austria, Sam from New South Wales, Regina from Orlando, Tom from Norway....and of course I could not possibly miss out Nina, Stephanie, Brian, Jan, Amanda, Stella and Corinne from the UK.

So when I was asked by said radio station what difficulties I had encountered in relocating from the South East to the wilds of the Lincolnshire landscape, they caught me at precisely the right time to say....."none, really."

In fact it has moved me forcibly on to my next chapter, in more ways than one.

Pink fluffy slippers, adult toys and why Helen Mirren is my heroine....

There are so many reasons I love being forty-five that I could practically burst wide open and have them spilling out all over my desk......but that would be way too messy.

The main one that stands head and shoulder above all the others has to be that I really don't care that much about what other people think anymore.

I should stress the "that much" in the previous sentence, because there is occasion when someone very close passes comment and I give it the usual knee-jerk reaction before disappearing into a corner of my mind to contemplate "is that what he thinks of me? Is that a good or a bad thing?" and other such neurotic ramblings...

In this instance it was "you're self-opinionated, too much to say for yourself", closely followed by "I'm not saying that is a bad thing..."

I think the word "gobby" also made it somewhere into the sentence, but I'm hoping that his version of "gobby" doesn't put him in mind of Jade Goody quite in the same way it does me......

Anyway, this is how I see it: being self-opinionated is necessary in this society if you want to make any headway whatsoever. As long as your opinions don't offend, insult or otherwise hurt others, that's OK.

And one other thing darling (in case you're reading), there's only one thing worse than being too opinionated and that's having no opinion at all.... ;-)

Take my opinion on my prized fluffy pink slippers, for example; I grant you that they are not the most seductive footwear I possess but they do one thing and they do it very well.

When I calculate that my chances of coming face-to-face with my SO (a.k.a. significant other) are rare to slim and I want to snuggle down on the sofa with a glass of wine and Greys Anatomy (or something of that ilk), then out they come. They are not attractive in the classic footwear sense (and yet far, far better than Birkenstocks in my opinion) but I have two words to utter here and two words only- toasty toes.

They are a naughty indulgence, I suppose. "Naughty" as in I would never want to be seen in public wearing them, yet I clearly take no issue with admitting my fetish for warm feet on here.

Which leads me on to the term "adult toys", a term that I intend to clear of all wrong-doing and reinstate it's innocence and acceptability in general day-to-day conversation.

Now, we all know what image we conjure up with the term "adult toy", don't we? But why is that?

The inference is that, as adults, if we have a "toy" it must be of the bedroom variety. What about Ipods? What about those sexy new Macbook Airs? What about DIY hair removal laser kits? Are they not "toys"? Do we not get excited as we take delivery and sit for hours figuring out all the features? And do we not scream at the top of our voices to "get off that" if anyone so much as prods our new prized possession in the manner of the most obstinate child you ever heard?

So, do you see? The term "adult toys" is to be embraced, encouraged and nurtured. It should be used freely and without embarrassment. It is part of our grown-up way of life and we should acknowledge it as such.

I, for one, am hoping for a sackful of adult toys on Christmas morning and I don't mind admitting it.

Which leads me onto Helen Mirren, who I am sure has no issue with embarrassment over the term "adult toys" or any other for that matter.

I read in the Sunday Times mag this week with much alacrity that Ms Mirren met a journalist for an interview at a top hotel and opened the conversation with the announcement that she had just eaten eight croissants, a fact that she "seemed quite proud of".

You've got to love her, haven't you? Beautiful, sexy, intelligent, naughty and a love of fat-laden French pastries that she readily admits to.

I mean, come on girls, we all aspire to the likes of the thinnest "celeb du jour", but who would you rather have a night out with? I want to have dinner with someone who grabs for the dessert menu with mucho gusto at the the thought of yet more calories of no nutritional value.

My SO thinks Helen Mirren is very hot, as I am sure most men with a pulse do, so they may have read with some confusion in the interview to which I refer that she prefers women to men in all but the sexual sense.

I love her more with each day that passes. But not in the sexual sense.

Weekends and windmills....and have I been here before?

Something strange seems to happen to me on certain Saturdays, and I'm not entirely sure why. To be exact, I'm talking about Saturdays that see me as a single girl again (i.e. my boy is with his father for the weekend and my Significant Other is away). My mind seems to operate like a windmill, adopting a familiar sequence but picking up different notions and thoughts every time....

I can only put this down to the fact that, due to the enforced solitude, I have time to go through my mental inbox. And what makes it more of a challenge is that I will also delve into the filing cabinets of my mind and pull out long-forgotten episodes which should have been archived by now.

Bear with me here as I steer you through the long and winding path that my brain took today; all will be come clear. Or clearer, at least. I hope.

0800 hours and I am still in bed (such bliss....), cup of tea and lap top fired up. Now I know that many will see the "lap top" bit as being anything but perfect, but being Ben-less gives me an opportunity to concentrate on semi-complex documents that have been e-mailed to me rather than scanning through them whilst playing "snap" at the same time. Then I recall how I spectacularly got the whole mothering thing very wrong yesterday when I dropped Ben off for school complete in school uniform (him that is, not me....even I'm not that remiss in the morning) only to find that as it is Children in Need day and all the other children are in jeans and trainers.

I stumble into his classroom and babble to the classroom assistants how stupid I am, etc, etc. They tell me not to worry, it's fine, but all I can see is my boys' dejected face all day wondering why all his friends look super-cool and he's in uniform....... I last a full half hour after dropping him off before I ring the school and ask them to let me know if he gets upset and I will drop some jeans and trainers in for him.

"Well would you like to do that anyway?" comes the response

"Oh yes, thank you- I think I will..." Yesterday was not my finest hour as a mother.

Back to today. 0818 hours and I text Significant Other; I miss him.

0828 and he calls; the day takes on a cosy glow. He hates me getting slushy like this, but you can't escape the truth. The day just got better.

0900 hours, I'm in the shower and about to launch Operation Housework. I take on this mission with much vigour because I now realise one simple and inescapable truth after some twenty-five years of cleaning, dusting, polishing, bleaching, washing and vacuuming:

The sooner you start, the sooner you finish and can therefore put the kettle on before watching Spooks on Sky Plus.

Rupert Penry-Jones, I am choked to discover, has been killed off in this series.

Seriously, what is wrong with the BBC??

Having said that, it is still great; we are fighting the Russians it appears this time. When did they become our arch enemies? I vow to start watching Newsnight more frequently. Maybe Sky Plus can help in this regard, assuming I don't sit and watch eighteen episodes back-to-back as I am prone to do with certain programmes.

1300 hours and it is time to shop.

Christmas shopping. It gets more onerous every year.

I recall emptying out my money box as a little girl and going with my Mum to buy soaps and bath salts for my aunties and socks and handkerchiefs for my uncles. I then smile to myself as I recall wrapping up a packet of Embassy No 1 for my Dad. Since he stopped smoking thirty-three years ago he has been impossible to buy for.

As I drive into Lincoln I pass some impressive Victorian terrace houses and as I sit in traffic I wonder (as I always do) about all the people that have lived in those houses over the years. I imagine how the road outside looked a hundred years ago.

These thought processes always put me in mind of the past life regression I had with my psychic friend Patricia a couple of years ago. I lived (allegedly) at the turn of the last century as one of four daughters in a reasonably wealthy family; I married a cold and rather cruel man. I lost countless children during pregnancy and childbirth and finally ended up dying in a house fire trying to rescue my one true friend, our housekeeper. Happy times.

Then I was reborn shortly after; apparently you come back very quickly if you die in unresolved and/or tragic circumstances.

This time I recalled a band in playing and I was dressed in a red satin dress, dancing with a man who I knew was my husband. We were laughing and I remember saying this was the happiest time we had together. The happiest because the war started shortly after and he was killed; I was pregnant with our daughter at the time.

You see what I mean about my thought processes? Leave me sat outside some Victorian houses for too long and this is the speed at which they travel.

1500 hours and the Christmas shopping has started, and now it needs to finish. The one selfish redeeming factor is that I have purchased the most beautiful red croc skin notebook pour moi; I intend it to be "my book of ideas". Heaven forbid it falls into the wrong hands...

I call my auntie who I have agreed to meet in the Bail for a drink late afternoon. We agree to meet in the Cloud Bar in half an hour after I have battled to find a parking space (the Bail in Lincoln is the beautiful and historic part of the city, it is the part the tourists rightly flock to every year and it is notoriously difficult to park there on a Saturday.....)

I then go on to spend a very enjoyable hour and a half with my auntie and uncle who I haven't seen in a good three months.

My auntie, I should mention, was my heroine as a little girl. I remember her as being very glamorous and loving; I adored her and still do. Being four years younger than my Dad she always seemed so vibrant and trendy. To be truthful she still is.

This year saw my uncle being diagnosed with bowel cancer. Thankfully it was caught at a very early stage and he has been given the "all clear" following a lengthy operation. It has clearly changed his outlook on life in every possible sense, a point that he made several times this afternoon.

He talked about what was important to him now, and the realisation of his mortality coupled with the effect that the operation and his advancing years have had in terms of what he can and can't do. His words were those of a man who has come full circle in life and is now back at the point where it all makes sense again.

These are the moments when I give thanks for being a member of my family, and I mark them down as "special". I know life doesn't stand still, but I am grateful to have reached an age where I am lucky enough to still be able to appreciate those I love because most of them are still with me, or at least have not long since passed.

1630 hours and I'm driving home, via Waitrose to pick up something indulgent for supper. Maybe it's the dark nights but suddenly I'm walloped fairly and squarely by the fact that I am really missing Significant Other....

The good thing here is that it isn't a constant mooning around, painfully ticking days off a calendar until he is home. No, it isn't that, although a keen eye is always on the number of days left...

It is a short, sharp and acute realisation that strikes without notice and regard; it's a message to remind me that he isn't here and I am. And I'd be lying if I said it didn't hurt on a level that equates most definitely to where my heart lies.

1730 hours and I'm home; shopping unpacked and either refrigerated or laid away for later. I uncork the wine, pour a large glass and settle down to write this post.

1744 hours and my phone rings; it's him.

"I wanted to let you know that it's snowing here; the first snow of the year...."

What makes this so perfect is that he knows this is the sort of detail I appreciate.

The sails of the windmill are turning again, and this time I don't think I've been here before.

Take me to the banya.......and colour me senseless

There are countless differences between men and women, I am sure you will agree.

Now I have no wish to go into detail on those differences, except for the one; the ability to keep your mind focused in an alternative direction when......it starts to be a long time since you coloured with your special friend (I'm back to Sex and the City here.....the Movie, to be exact).

A man, I am told, will automatically think about colouring; it is part of their make-up to want to colour after a certain number of days. So they will go off and colour on their own somewhere, assuming their special friend is not available to colour with them. Apparently some are so keen to colour that they will even choose to not go for an early morning run, preferring to stay in bed and knock out some nifty artwork on their lonesome.

A woman, however, can simply switch off from colouring until such time as her special friend is available to create another masterpiece.

I am one such woman. In years gone by I have not so much as even glanced in the direction of the crayola for many a month, perhaps even years in some instances (please don't feel too sorry for me, I have been very liberal of late with my use of watercolours...)

That is all well and good, until the time someone describes, in very fine and perfect detail, what a "banya" is. And the reason they tell you is because that is where they are headed to shortly. Mmm.

In the interest of providing an accurate account I just typed the term into Google and found that the "Banya is a traditional Russian steam bath, where people go to wash, relax, and socialize". The one that receives much acclaim according to the web is Sandunovskie Banya in Moscow, which I have to say looks breathtakingly beautiful.

So, back to said description; this is the information I was given:

"I'm going to a banya, men only, getting severely hot, severely cold, beaten with eucalyptus twigs, then a massage, you get the smell of eucalyptus, plus all the toxins come to the surface and then cold, then hot, tea with honey the whole way through, then they cover you in honey head to toe, and you sauna the lot off.

OK, I must go, sleep well x"

Well...... thank you for that; I now have so many images dancing around in my head, men in a banya (which sounds like the best reason I've heard in a long time to get a visa sorted and head to Moscow), eucalyptus twigs, beatings, honey and saunas. Sleep well? I somehow think that is unlikely.

That is the problem when you miss your special colouring friend. A mere mention of the banya and suddenly the urge to get the pastels out is overwhelming.

And when you enjoy having supper, talking and laughing with your special friend, in addition to the oh-so-amazing colouring, you then miss them even more.

But the really great thing is this:

Soon he will be back. And we have, I can assure you, an infinite number of pictures left to create together......

The needs and the wants (and why we all just want to be rescued)

Many moons ago and during what now seems like another lifetime, I underwent a huge number of training courses in preparation for and the development of my sales career. Some would teach you fact-finding techniques, others how to uncover client hot buttons but they all did one thing (along with ensuring you spent too long in the bar the night before with your colleagues…), they all talked about needs and wants.

Needs were the boring, had-to-do’s:

“I need to go to the dry cleaners”

“I need to pay the electricity bill”

“I need to stop talking drivel”

Wants, on the other hand, are much more interesting, and a little bit sexy in the notion of a demand being on the table:

“I want champagne, not 3 for 2 dodgy Spanish table wine”

“I want that pair of Manolo Blahniks, dammit”

“I want ice cubes sending to my room now!”

There’s a bit of the prima donna in the wants, but apparently and according to the very best sales training courses, it is the wants and not the needs that will cause a person (i.e. your prospect) to take action.

Of course, in my twenties and as a fresh-faced eager-to-please sales recruit, I took all this on board without question. Off I went into the blue commercial yonder, keen to do business and full of unbridled enthusiasm.

Some twenty years down the line and I realise that the sales techniques of yesteryear are still being applied sadly. How many times do I have to practically hang my phone up when someone calls to try and sell me advertising? It’s not a great feeling, I can assure you; cold calling to me was like the sales version of having a root canal. But it appears some companies are still stuck there right back in the eighties, refusing to use up-to-date and more subtle techniques to attract custom (another post, another day, methinks)

They clearly need to up date their methods, but they obviously don’t want to.

So, at the risk of pushing the envelope beyond what is an acceptable use of paper, I would hazard a guess that the old needs and wants theory may be a little frayed around the edges, too.

“Why so?” I hear you ask.

Why? Because I now realise that many of the things we tell ourselves we don’t need, we actually do. And most probably in spade-loads.

I’m thinking here about taking time to sit and clear your mind every day of the constant mayhem that rages through it and about promising yourself that once a week you will have half an hour of “you-downtime” to do whatever takes your fancy. And most of all, I’m talking of learning to accept a helping hand when you are mentally and emotionally spent.

We don’t actually “need” any of these things on paper, but I will stick my neck out here and say that because we’ve probably shunned them for so long, we both need and want them now.

There is, as my friend Natalie will tell you, an episode of Sex and the City to mirror every eventuality in a woman’s life (and possibly for many men, too).

The episode “Where There’s Smoke..” sees the four girls discussing over brunch (as they do…as all girls do…) why firemen seem to be the archetypal female fantasy.

The very pretty yet seemingly naïve Charlotte blurts out “because deep down women just want to be rescued”

The other three sit motionless for a moment, catching each others’ eyes in the uncomfortable and silent acknowledgment of the truth.

Now I’m not too sure about when that episode was filmed, but I’d take a stab at around eight years ago at least, and as ever, we've moved on and our needs and wants have moved with us. I don’t believe women want to be rescued anymore; I think we need to be.

Of course the real challenge for a man here is, as we know, being able to identify when to switch into “fireman mode” and to haul you over his shoulder.

As a dyed-in-the-wool sales person I would recommend uncovering the need, and the want won’t be too far behind.

Missed demeanours (and why faking it gets you into trouble)

How many of us, I wonder, work so hard at crafting our public face that we neglect to acknowledge and pay attention to the private one? In "Change Your Life in Seven Days" Paul McKenna talks about how you will never find true happiness until you identify your true self and start living as that person, and how most of us spend our time and energies on the public persona.

Mr McKenna is, of course, a former DJ and he goes on to talk about how that, as his public self, he earned good money, always had a model girlfriend by his side but was totally miserable. We all know of his huge shift in direction and the success he has enjoyed since then; he is now, he maintains, his true self. This I can certify as being absolutely true, as a few months ago I met one of his former Radio One colleagues, Richard Skinner, and he described how in private Mr M would discuss hypnotherapy and other associated psychological phenomena. His true self was desperate to get out and be heard.

So I got to wondering earlier what that really means; is it purely in a professional sense, or a personal one? We all go to work to earn money, but how many of us feel energised and stimulated by our work? Some of my slightly cynical peers would say it isn't possible for everyone to pursue exactly the type of work they are cut out for, but maybe it isn't an issue for some, perhaps most?

My darling cousin Adam told me a short while ago that people were either "asleep" or "awake", i.e. we either accepted our lots in life, did not question and went about our daily business, or we did not accept our status quo, we strived for change and improvement and often we would go out on a limb to achieve it. I hasten to add he informed me I was in the latter category.....

So in terms of work and careers, I guess it depends on whether we are asleep or awake. I, being awake, opted to chuck in a well-paid job in sales to pursue a creative dream that pays next to nothing but fulfills me more than any astute closing technique ever did, along with the ensuing rewards. I hung the rationale at the time on the "new baby" peg, which actually was quite justified, given the fourteen hours I spent away from home each day.

In terms of personal faces, I can very quickly see how I have allowed my public face to fool everyone into thinking I'm independent to the point of occasional disinterest, with my mantra being "why let the truth get in the way of a good gag?"

To be fair, I am independent (good job, all things considered...) but I'd rather not be. Of course, years of such behaviour make it a hard habit to break, and when you do achieve a breakthrough to the other side, it can be very unsteadying.

And I do make jokes far more than I should, but it is, as I am sure everyone has worked out by now, a big fat defence mechanism designed to distract and disguise.

Amazingly I am still able to pull off this public persona given the headaches and pressures of the last few years, but the act is now starting to wear a bit thin to say the least.

Almost without question the reason for me penning a post of this nature is because something has happened or someone has said something that has demonstrated in no uncertain terms that the real, private me is far more fragile than the public me. Today is no exception.

I'm sure there is always an explanation as to why certain days are worse than others in this regard, and I'm positive that in my case it's a combination of hormones, planetary alignment and money (or the lack thereof). Today is one of those days.

To recall the event would be pointless, but needless to say it has led my nose back to Paul McKenna's book, and caused me to take a look at my own version of Frankenstein's monster.

Many have told me over the years that my main fault is that I refuse to let anyone see my vulnerability, counsellors and psychics among them. They are completely right. The problem therein is the "foot on the hosepipe" scenario. Take said foot off and, together with the predictable tears, a post like this comes spewing out......

Is it possible to change the habit of an adult lifetime? Some would say no, but it certainly pays to understand why you don't always get the reaction or result that, deep down, your true self is hoping for.

Now I need to go hug the real me, and make a promise to myself to stop faking it in future ;-)

A new day dawns, a new era beckons...

I guess it is an integral part of the little girl in me that continues to believe that magic does happen. Of late it has been in short supply admittedly, and when I have pointed it out to my nearest and dearest I have been told on occasion that I am being overly sentimental and "slushy".

Well, they may be right, but I want to believe. And I do believe, because last night we all saw what many would have thought impossible a few years ago.

Given the climate I suppose many of us are clinging to any piece of driftwood that masquerades as hope that happens to float by, but somehow I think Barack Obama will make the change he speaks of.

He appears to have the capability to unite, inspire and uplift; experience can be brought in, but those former three qualities are not so easily come by.

There are many aspects of America that make me very uncomfortable; indeed when my good friend Jo relocated there four years ago with her family I found myself of the opinion that it would never do for me.

But I have to say that a nation that sees first time voters queuing for up to six hours to vote, and when they do vote, they make the groundbreaking decision to ensure that their 44th president is African-American, I am full of admiration and, if I'm honest, more than a little dejected because I can't imagine that it could happen in Britain.

I woke at around 5.15am this morning to Obama making his acceptance speech live on the radio. As his words started to make sense and I became fully alert, I felt the history of the moment that people have talked of. Later as I took my boy to school I listened to a girl in New York tell of how she helped an African-American lady of a hundred and one years of age to the polling station so that she could vote for Obama.

I don't mind admitting this event has moved me to tears several times today, and I'm not even American. But today I wish I was.

The BBC; all that is British? Debate.....

No-one has been more defensive of the BBC over the years than me.

The odd slip made by a presenter you can forgive (except for when it is not edited out and subsequently is broadcast.....) and even the licence fee I could live with.

Admittedly certain episodes you can choose to overlook if you are of a humorous and light disposition; other times you really want to take far-reaching and explosive action to the point that people will hear the rumble of your ire approaching.

Take this morning. Weather is foggy and dismal. I am not in what I would describe a "positive" frame of mind for a number of persistent and niggling reasons, the details of which I will not bore you with. Needless to say it was not helped by driving my father to a market town some twenty-five miles away at 7.00am this morning to meet his retired chums for an "away day".

I turn on my CD player and it decides to jump all over the place; it is faulty and on my list of "things to replace/buy" when I have some of that rarest of commodities- disposable income.

So, for a change, I switch to Radio 2.

Radio 2. The Ken Bruce show.

I don't see myself as an avid fan, but I want relaxed, friendly banter and neutral music. It's foggy and cold outside, and I don't want anything taxing or controversial entering the vicinity of my ears.

There is no need to further explain what happened next, save for me to copy and paste in the complaint I have just sent to the BBC:

“I have just been listening to the Ken Bruce show in my car during which he made reference to the fact that "Lynne" was all "chav'ed up" and would "look at home in any branch of Lidl". This was broadcast at around 11.15am.

Let me explain to you while I find that comment so offensive.

I am a divorced single mother who is desperately trying to keep her business afloat in very difficult trading conditions. Coupled with these challenges I frequently lay awake at night and wonder how I will meet my mortgage payments and if I don't, will my house and my son's future inheritance be snatched from me without consultation. I am certain many people are in similar situations to me.

Given the financial pressures I find myself frequently shopping in Lidl.

I wonder, by Mr Bruce's rationale, does this make me a "chav" and a subject of ridicule?

Given the recent debacle your organisation has faced with the Jonathan Ross/ Russell Brand fiasco, I find it incredible that your presenters are making off-the-cuff comments like this with no regard to the difficulties so many people are facing.

Let me assure you of one thing, there is nothing "Council House And Violent" about me; I write a blog that receives much critical acclaim and I am confident I will see myself and my son out of our current situation. I should inform you, however, that I may still continue to shop from time to time in Lidl. How dreadful.

I can see a prompt below this text box asking me if I want a response; you can bet your licence fee I do.

Please e-mail me at ****@*****.com with an explanation of why you think the above is acceptable practice.”

Apparently the planets are aligned at the moment to signify huge changes on the horizon over the coming years, and today is a seismic day in being a catalyst for these changes.

Of course, everyone is pointing to the US election and the possibility of the first black president.

I for one am keeping everything crossed, because seismic or not, we need change and it can't come soon enough for me.

Quantum of Solace and other such spells...

I suppose I knew it wasn't going to be a great week when I decided to start my detox regime only to find that Walkers crisps were on offer (£1.99 for eighteen packets....) at my local supermarket. Given my penchant to "bag a bargain", they managed to find their way into my basket and, admittedly with some coaxing, into my kitchen cupboard (an eighteen-packet bag takes some manipulation, let me tell you)

When all is said and done they don't need to be eaten straight away, do they? And all other such ridiculously futile reasons and excuses like that.

Half-term week with my boy, and an hour into Monday morning and he is announcing he is bored, he wants to know what the Red Arrows are doing and if Girls Aloud love him (I should mention that the Red Arrows are based and practice locally....it's a chore but they have to do it somewhere).

Of course Girls Aloud love him, I announce. They phone me frequently to tell me.

I wonder how it must feel to have "blimey! which one of them do I marry?" as the biggest concern in life. Then I remember how I have sprinkled many notions into his little mind; that the Red Arrows turned out on the day he started school just for him, that Shrek lives in Market Rasen and that there are no ghosts around here (secretly, I'm hoping the last one is true).

As a relatively upbeat kind of girl I've never coped well with the darker moments in life. Nothing too drastic, just those "straw that broke the camels' back" moments blended with the right monthly hormonal levels and- bingo! I can self-deprecate with the best of them. Everything that was positive is now of no significance, because my life is such a load of it that it doesn't matter.

And it's better to let me rant when I'm like that because when this particular Duracell bunny gets going, she will screech that you know nothing if you dare to stop her in her tracks. That's if she can hear you amidst the beating of chest and wailing that ensues.

And this, my friends, is roughly approaching the state I found myself in yesterday afternoon.

Thankfully I had some sense gently prized into me by one who, despite knowing me a relatively short time, has mastered the art of switching my mood control from dim to lighter, and then to sparkling. His style is not to pander to my bottom-lip to any great extent; too much of that and I turn into Shirley Temple without the attitude.

So, today dawns and, though still wobbly, I feel brighter and closer to normal. I can hold my head above water to at least get a lung full of air which is a marked improvement on where I was twenty-four hours ago.

During a slight submersion this afternoon, there is a knock at my door. It is my very considerate and pleasant neighbour who has taken in a parcel from Amazon for me. I thank him and laugh as he remarks that I must read a lot; this, you understand, is not the first time he has done this favour for me. Then I recall that the last time the box was actually open (not, I am sure, the work of said neighbour) and that it contained books on tarot cards and the study thereof. This time the parcel was sealed firmly shut. It did not contain books about tarot but they were not of a nature that you would necessarily want to share with anyone that you were likely to bump into in Tescos.

I closed the door and sat down again at my desk. Pleasant neighbur walks back to his house; I wonder if he has any inkling of the various topics of my reading matter, tarot-related or otherwise. Suddenly I imagine my reputation on "The Close" may be developing as the raven haired, wild and wanton divorcee at number one.... Someone who casts spells to entice and hypnotise. A woman who is devoid of all inhibitions, who has bid farewell to conforming in order to re-engage with her inner sensual being....

Someone a bit like Kate Bush, but with more melody and sultry smiles.

Eyes open, and I'm back.

Escapism in the right dose is better than anything the doctor could prescribe.

My quantum of solace. And I didn't even need Daniel Craig to apply it.

Unfaithfulness, pt. 2...

A couple of people have suggested to me that this blog (and others of a similar ilk, I'm sure) really ignites with interest only when the topic of relationships is raised, and preferably in a manner that depicts some wrong-doing on the part of one who is involved. Given the barrage of comments to yesterday's posting, I'm convinced that they were entirely correct.

Maybe the comments are borne out of some unsavoury memory, or maybe we just like to defend and uphold the rights of the wronged party.

During the course of yesterday I also received a number of e-mails regarding the posting, one of which came from Sue. It's not good practice to reproduce such an e-mail in a posting like this, but I discussed it with Sue and she agreed to let me pass on some of her comments which you may agree make for interesting reading:

"As a couples counsellor and sex therapist I sadly see many couples and individuals who are facing the turmoil that infidelity brings in the same way that your friend Jen currently is.

Firstly, can I address the subject of “looking for signs” of infidelity?

In the early stages of a relationship there is invariably tremendous uncertainty; as your feelings start to grow for your partner the realisation sets in that they may be gaining the capacity to hurt you deeply. An obvious “check” that people make in this regard is “is she/he cheating on me?” It is completely normal to ask this question, but never forget that many “signs” of infidelity will not necessarily be all that they appear.

Take the champagne glasses, for example. There could be all sorts of reasons why they were in his dishwasher, and none of them connected to him having another woman to stay the night. They are circumstantial, not conclusive, evidence.

That said, the “intuition” you speak of is valid, but it is usually picking up on your partner’s behaviour and any very slight changes that will alert you to the fact that she/he may be cheating rather than suggestive signs such as champagne glasses in a dishwasher."

This is such a valid point. I know from experience that the desire to not get hurt within a new and untested relationship can drive you to the point of distraction. Sometimes you don't even need the "signs" Sue speaks of; you can invent them using your over-active and fertile imagination, i.e. "why hasn't he rung? I expect he's out for dinner with another woman. That has to be the reason, because he always rings me....."

It's like pulling at a loose thread. Once you start on that track, it is well nigh impossible to stop.

Of course, there is a world of difference between unreasonable conjecture, and knowing the signs are there and choosing to do nothing about them, both of which I have been guilty of so I speak from a position of experience.

I discussed with another friend yesterday Jen's point about him hiding his mobile phone. My friend commented that it was overly secretive and suspicious.

When I mentioned that I always have my phone on silent and keep it tucked away in my handbag when I see my man because I don't want us to be disturbed, he commented "that's just being courteous"

Where's the difference? You see my point?

Sue went on to comment:

"I completely understand why you reacted as you did given your friend’s predicament, and the three options are possibly valid where self-protection for the innocent party is paramount, save for option three which I believe would do none of the parties involved any favours in the long run (unless Jen terminates the relationship first)

I would, however, like to echo one of the comments left by Veronica; cheating is all about power.

Your friend appears to have an understanding of why her partner may be cheating on her. In this instance, she may want to consider perhaps helping him work towards the empowerment Veronica speaks of, i.e. feeling secure, comfortable and invigorated in the relationship, rather than embarking on a course of action that will possibly send him into more destructive behaviour. She should only do this, of course, if she believes the relationship is worth her further investment."

This, I suspect, will cause a huge intake of breath......!

But Sue is entirely right. If you love someone (and I mean not just "like them a lot") then you will want them to feel amazingly happy and safe with you. To me that is what love is; it's about giving with no regard for what you may or may not get back.

Almost certainly many will see this as acting like the proverbial doormat, others will think it shows strength, fortitude and character. I opt for the latter.

Thirteen years ago I found out my then boyfriend was cheating and it sent me to a place I never want to go back to; I was totally distraught for days. But at thirty-two I only saw the rejection, and I firmly believed it was my fault. Ignoring the "signs" gave me what I wanted; a few more days or weeks successfully kidding myself that we were "OK". At thirty-two you can afford to throw a few more logs of pointless hope onto the fire of your dreams.

At forty-five I see things very differently. I see that I should never have got involved with him in the first place for one, but secondly I see that knee-jerk responses to the subject of infidelity are inappropriate in certain cases, yet at the same time entirely understandable.

For the record, I still have my doubts about Ben, but I do now see this from both sides of the coin. If he makes my friend happy and he is prepared to embark on the long haul with her to reset the foundations of their relationship, then he may be not so bad after all.

The wrath of the coven isn't so hideous, is it? ;-)

Unfaithfulness, friendship and choices

The fabulous thing about having friends is their unswerving support at your hour of need, coupled with the fact that your friendship is never affected when you choose to completely ignore their well-meaning advice and head off in the direction they're telling you to avoid.

I have one particular friend (whom I won't name for fear of embarrassing her) who I am confident would weather any storm with me. She is also not afraid of imparting advice that cuts you to the bone, particularly in the area of relationships, but on my refusal to act on anything she says, she will simply respond with "as long as you're happy, I'm happy". Friends like that are rare; they shouldn't be, but they are.

The same friend recently accompanied me through a very worrying time during an illness which was rather spectacularly misdiagnosed by my GP. The supposed condition would have meant a lifetime of relapses, and the symptoms were quite miserable. She regularly called to support me and let me know about some more information she had uncovered on the internet. Unwittingly she is the best friend a girl could have; quick to rush to your side when you need her and just as quick to pick you up, clean your cuts and grazes and give you a hug even when you think you don't need her.

Of course, there comes a time when as a friend, you have to play this role yourself. And this happened five days ago in my case, not with the friend I've mentioned but for Jen who called me in a state of upset and confusion following some rather unpleasant discoveries at her boyfriends' house.

Jen has been seeing him for around six months now; it's been an up-and-down relationship but she is besotted with him. As her friends we all secretly despise him; he is guilty of the worst possible social crime, arrogant without a valid reason.

So, my phone rings at around 8pm and it's Jen.

"I stayed at Ben's last night and I know he had a woman there the night before"

Why?

"Telltale signs. Nothing obvious, just things like two champagne glasses in the dishwasher. He hates champagne."

I guess a logic-led person would say this was all conjecture, but I knew exactly what she meant because a similar thing happened to me around thirteen years ago and I chose to ignore it.

No matter how well men clear away the evidence, what they don't realise is that they cannot clear away the stench of the fact that it happened, and that is what gives them away.

"What do I do? I told him I thought someone had been there, but he says I'm wrong, it was a work colleague"

"OK, as I see it you have three choices here.

Firstly, you walk away. There will always be the doubt in your mind that, even if he admits it, and you patch it up, he could do it again. So walking will shield you from that"

"I don't want to walk away"

"I suspected you would say that. Secondly, you tell him you know (and add that his protestations are pathetic so he should just shut up). Ask him on what basis did he think it was OK to do this. He'll probably say he doesn't know why he did it (which he may not). Tell him to sort this out and get rid of her or else you are out of there."

"Hmmmm. OK..."

"Thirdly, accept the fact that he has now put your relationship onto a new footing. You start seeing other guys; sleep with them if you feel like it. You don't need to discuss it with him because he didn't consult you, did he?"

"What would you do if you were me?"

"If it happened to me in my current relationship, the second or the third, depending on if he approached me to discuss it. But you have to act, otherwise you will tell yourself you need firmer evidence so you'll start looking for it, driving past his house at midnight, for example. You will definitely find it and then your heart will be smashed to pieces. Act now"

Jen rang off shortly after and said she was going to consider the options. I have no idea yet what she's decided as she's not answering her phone.

It got me wondering why people do this to each other in relationships, especially relatively new ones? Why did he bother to start something with Jen when he knew she wanted commitment? There are plenty of women out there (according to the internet) who appear to want no-strings sex, so why bother going through the motions?

This type of episode makes my heart very heavy; I certainly feel like running a key down his car because I know Jen won't. She is so stoically defensive of him that it makes you want to cry.

It's one of life's ponderables that will never be fully answered, I have no doubt. One thing I am sure of is that he will feel much worse about this than Jen does in the final analysis.

Good. I hope he chokes on it. That's what friends are for.

City lights on country lanes...

Some weeks pass by relatively quietly, and yet others seem to teem with so many events and coincidences that even the most staunch believers in the lessons of life are left scratching their heads in disbelief.

A few years ago I remember watching the Oprah Winfrey show (in the days when I had the time to do that....) and she had a guest whose name escapes me, but I seem to think he was called Jim for some inexplicable reason (I'm pretty sure he has a surname too, but surnames have never been my forte). Jim talked about the lessons that life shows us on a daily basis, and he explained that there was a lesson in everything that happened in our lives, but it was up to us to decide whether we wanted to take notice of that lesson or not. In other words, seek, and ye shall find.

His words touched me to the point that they still echo around my head at times. At times like this last week.

It all started on Tuesday evening when I had a very pleasant evening recalling with my paramour our lost youths and the people we knew. I should point out this is not an over-populated county, so it was a bit of a surprise, but not a huge one, when we discovered that many of our "friends" had been mutual. He commented that it was amazing that we hadn't met in that previous existence, and if I had been sufficiently illuminated I'm sure I would have said that fate had determined that the time was not right and we had our respective spiritual paths to tread first, but I'm almost certain I didn't so I probably just nodded in agreement.

And I probably just nodded in agreement because I was recalling the rather uncomfortable feeling I had all those years ago, simply because I didn't quite fit into the "set" we were talking about. The "set" had the right surnames, the benefit of a private education and their families had land. I had none of those things but I had a reasonably pretty face which goes a long way in most circles, but never quite far enough in the one we were talking about.

My paramour, needless to say, was part of the "set".

Two rather large glasses of wine into the conversation and I'm feeling like I've been sent straight back to nineteen years of age, insecurity, wide eyes and all.

The morning breaks however, and I'm forty-five again, and I've recaptured the gloriously unyielding twenty-six years that took that wide-eyed nineteen year old and turned her into the woman I am today. Given the choice I would have preferred an easier ride, but I have no issue with who I've become, because today I see the outmoded class system we have in the UK as just that, outmoded.

Yesterday at precisely 9.37a.m. I skipped onto a train at Newark and skedaddled down to London for the day. I had a couple of meetings lined up; the first with a business contact I had been networking with and the second was an altogether glamorous affair, a photo shoot for a glossy women's monthly to accompany an interview I had already given.

As I alighted from the train (remembering to take all my belongings with me and minding the gap...) I wondered how the day was going to pan out. You see the last time I was in London in a work capacity was over five years ago, before my son was born, when I was working in a corporate sales job that I was quite good at but that I secretly hated. I earned lots of money, but the relentless commuting, the pressure and the perpetual inter-company politicking that went on was enough to dull the sparkle of the city for me.

I drove off in the taxi along the Marylebone Road and passed some of my familiar landmarks; the bust of JFK by Great Portland Street tube, the Globe pub opposite Madame Tussuad's where I and a colleague had celebrated a particularly good sales pitch, and the Landmark Hotel where I had met my much-missed colleague Jane Minnick a few times to discuss sales strategies.

Jane was a very loud, opinionated American who worked as an account manager for our chief supplier. She was outspoken to the point of occasionally being obnoxious, but when she laughed you could not help but laugh with her. She drove me nuts with her arrogance, but when you were in on her joke, it would make you cry with laughter. I recall one time when she called me bearly able to speak because she was laughing so hard at an e-mail I had sent her; I can't recall detail but I believe the e-mail was titled "Who is Jack Schitt" and Jane laughed like a drain. It was, in fairness, a pretty hilarious little ditty, but that is how I remember her, because two years later Jane was killed in a car crash. Yes, she was loud, but she was also larger than life, and sadly a life that is no longer with us.

So, I'm on the Marylebone Road heading out towards Ealing for my first meeting with Corinne. As I'm passing through the streets I'm realising that the heavy heart I had the last time I was here has gone; now it is all exciting, full of promise and allure.

I spend a fascinating hour with Corinne who, as a talented musician, producer and businesswoman, cannot fail to inspire. She tells me of the wealth dynamics profiling system that has enabled her to identify that she is a "creator", someone who is constantly bombarded with new ideas that sadly don't see implementation and fruition because the next set of ideas nudge them off the board. This sounds so strangely familiar. Corinne tels me that wealth dynamics profiling enables you to slay your demons in whichever quarter they may lurk.

This is something I need to do. And pronto....

On to meeting number two, said photo shoot which takes place at a very plush house (the residence of a highly respected actor). I know I am going to like it as I am shown through the house and there are hairstylists and makeup artists at work and lots of ladies shouting "fabulous, love!"

Sharon, the rather gorgeous picture editor of the mag, takes one look at me and says to her stylist "I'm thinking that little silver Ben di Lisi number for Deborah..."

I respond with "I'm liking the sound of that a lot.."

Two hours then commence of dressing, accessorising, hair being styled, makeup applied and the flash of the bulb as I'm asked to give it my all to the camera. In this respect, dear readers, I had no problem; treat me like I'm someone special and I am that person.

And that is who I was as I sat in the chauffeur-driven Mercedes back to Kings Cross; I was someone special. I realised that someone who maybe thought she wasn't quite good enough at nineteen was actually more than good enough now.

Now it's time to prove just how good.

The bright lights of the city continued to illuminate the road home from Newark station last night, all the way back to my front door. City lights on country lanes...I never thought I'd see it, but it is so very clear to me now.