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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
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 ;-)
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 ;-)
Friday, November 21, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
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......
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......
Monday, November 10, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
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 ;-)
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 ;-)
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
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.
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.
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