soul wanderings

love love

2012-02-14T06:00:00.000Z

I generally do my best to ignore Valentine's Day, but the lovely amanda*rose charmed me into paying it close attention. So, in keeping with the general theme of the day you can read my unusually straightforward witterings about love and the boy here. (Some of those questions were disarmingly hard.) Because, who am I kidding? I love love. And we're a right pair of soppy romantics at heart, we are.

home sweet home

2012-02-13T11:51:00.000Z

Fifteen months is too damn long, sweethearts, and that's how long it's been since I've laid eyes on my sweet island home. Worse again four years, which is how long it's been since me and my best lady tore up the streets of Port-of-Spain making a mas together. Nevermind, this year we're doing it right and spectacularly making up for lost time. I'm flying out later this week, so will be back here in a couple weeks' time, tan, exhausted, another year older, hungover with sore feet, and happy beyond belief.

observations

2012-02-10T15:18:00.000Z

1. Colour does a body good. A lot of good. I see more fuschia in my future and I like the look of it. Especially on my lips. Can you believe that as a teenager I dreaded wearing lipstick because it brought too much attention to my mouth? Talk about undersexed. Anyway, thank goodness for the popularity of the trout pout; Ms Del Rey has nothing on me. Also, my mirror needs cleaning. Which quite possibly makes that self portrait the very definition of slatternly housewife. Whoops.

2. As for colour so too for home-cooking, apparently. This morning's magical realisation? My cellulite has all but disappeared. I am a 30 year old with a terrible couch habit and almost no cellulite. I eat cheese, and bread (see exhibit A, above), and enough butter to keep Nigel Slater himself content, but still over the last couple weeks this magical transformation has occurred. I haven't even really lost any weight, I just... look better. And the only thing that I've done differently is to prepare all my meals myself, thanks to the joys of plenty time and no money. I leave you to draw your own conclusions, but the only one I can make with any certainty is that there's a special place in hell for Chinese takeout cooks.

good hair

2012-02-05T18:09:00.002Z

Well. As if changing my job, my tax bracket, my quality of life, my moisturiser (bad move - some of life's essentials just ought not to be messed with), and my mindset weren't enough, I've decided to go ahead and change my hair. That's right, you heard me. I am changing my hair. Sweethearts, this shake up just got profound.

What exactly is the big deal about changing my hair? I'm guessing you are not a black woman who relaxes her hair on a six to eight weekly basis if you're needing to ask that question. The truth is, I've barely seen my real hair texture since I was about 10 years old. That is two decades of chemically modified hair, two thirds of my entire life span. To be fair, I had a brief flirtation with an afro about 10 years ago, but that's still an entire decade between me and the hair texture my peculiar combination of DNA gave me. For all the rest of that time, I've been trudging off to one expensive hair salon after another, lining some lovely stylists' pockets while paying them good money to torture my tresses into a poor imitation of, well... honestly? White hair. Whoops.

I had my reasons. When I was 10, I didn't know any better, and neither did my mom, who has differently textured hair than mine, and didn't have a clue what to do with my kinks. Once you've started it's tricky to stop, and lord knows those hugely profiteering hairstylists aren't going to encourage you. My first dalliance with a 'fro happened accidentally, after I came to the UK to study, and found myself in a small, very homogeneously white town, with the nearest hairdresser who looked at my hair with anything other than open terror to be found in London. Living the broke student life, I didn't have the money to go to London every couple months just to get my hair done, and more importantly (and thankfully - I think it says a lot about my sanity and sense then), I did not have the time. There was too much Fun Shit To Do while reinventing myself in new country, so, whatevs, I reinvented my hair. Gosh, life was so easy back then.

Then I moved town and started clinical school a couple years later, and had the sad notion that I had to look a certain way in order to be seen as professional, and to be taken seriously. I thought I needed to conform, but to what? I was the only black student in my year, the only black female in the entire clinical school during the three years I spent there. Whatever I had chosen to look like would have then been 'the norm' for black women in that particular population. My notions about the image to which I needed to conform certainly were not externally imposed, at least not by that group of people, but so it was, and so I went along to this larger, more ethnically diverse town's black hairdresser and subjected myself to the regular hair torment once again.

Because, that's the thing. All this time, I've not really enjoyed relaxing my hair. Yes, I've enjoyed how my hair's looked when it's at its most long, and shiny, and swishy, but I am a lazy person at heart, and I have always hugely resented the enormous upkeep involved in maintaining good hair. All those sunny Saturday afternoons wasted in a hairdresser's chair, all those deeply painful upper arm blowdry workouts rendered uselessly frizzy the moment I stepped outside into the British mizzle. No more.

I haven't fully decided how I'm going to go about this thing yet. For one thing, there's so much to learn about properly looking after this strange new texture of hair, and for another, I'm only a few months into not straightening my roots and I'm deeply unenthusiastic about revisiting the teeny-weeny afro with which I drastically made the change last time - I'm pretty sure that androgynous is a terribly unflattering look for me. Then again, this transitioning business sounds like a lot of work, and as I mentioned earlier, lazy. So, who knows where the next few weeks will take me. I know one thing for damn sure, though. It won't be back to my old hairdressing salon.

Thanks to the double discrediting whammy of Pinterest and Tumblr, I have no idea where this image is from. But I would love to. The lady has got good hair.

january

2012-02-02T11:38:00.000Z

exposition

2012-02-02T11:23:00.000Z

Let's be clear; I love being a doctor, and specifically being a psychiatrist. I am living a childhood dream, so I do not regret the path I have chosen (although it might have been quite nice to be the principal dancer of a corps de ballet, too, but maybe in another life). It is quite a privilege to be the person to whom others bring their distress, their pain, their sorrows, to be the one to whom they turn for succour in their hour of need. It is quite the investment of trust to find yourself charged with the weighty burden of responsibility of doing all that you can to make it better, put everything right, cure the pain.

But, here's the thing, we don't really cure anything, if by cure you mean administer that magic pill or procedure that will make everything perfect. We can't. Maybe it's because we don't know enough, or haven't got the right technology yet, or maybe it's simply that we are gloriously faulty and imperfect organisms, slowly degenerating almost from the moment we achieve full maturity, and therefore impossible to cure by our very nature. Maybe I'm talking ignorant bullshit, but it seems to me that apart from invasions of some part of our body by infective organisms, where we are mostly able to kill off the bulk of the foreign bugs with some drug or other, or episodes in which some very localised part of us misbehaves, and we can reach in and cut that naughty bit out, we don't actually cure, in the commonly used, heavily loaded, lay sense of the word, a damn thing. We spend the vast majority of our time helping people to manage, to ameliorate, and bear with, and make tolerable the discomforts of life in these broken vessels that we inhabit, and that's about the best we can do.

And that would be OK if we could all, doctors and patients both, acknowledge that this is what we're doing here. But none of us do; it's too painful a truth. And it would still be OK for patients to be spared that additional dose of painful reality and allowed to retreat into the magical reasoning that is often so necessary to see us through a period of illness, if their doctors were allowed occasional space and time to think about and process these crosses we so willingly bear. But that space and time is not there, and it's not valued or considered necessary in the culture in which we now work, aside from superficial offerings made by burying requirements for 'reflective practice' deep in your 'professional development portfolio' or some other pile of bureaucratic paperwork claptrap, that no one else is ever going to take the time to thoughtfully read, and help you unpick. No, we don't think, we heroically do, constantly, all the time, and maybe we need to because if we paused to reflect on exactly what it is we are doing, and the responsibilities that lay upon us, even just for a moment, we'd be paralysed by fear, and how utterly useless would that doctor be? So we shut that part of our brain down, and keep on trucking, and go save another life or whatever.

As it turns out, I need that space and time to think. I need it in the form of this six month career break of sorts that I've just begun, but I also need it in my day to day. I need to think about myself sure, but I also need the time to think about my patients, and I need to do a job that allows me to work thoughtfully alongside them, instead of just doing one crucially mindless task after another. I need the freedom to think creatively, instead of just pattern recognising pathology after pathology, then following the proscribed treatment algorithms (a gross reduction and simplification of the daily life of doctors everywhere, I know, but allow me my literary licence for the sake of driving home my point). For a myriad reasons, I could not find that capacity for creative thought within medicine, or psychiatry, but I lit upon it in spades within psychotherapy. In this specialty I've found a place that feels like home, work that feels like play.

I've found freedom.

and, scene

2012-01-31T21:25:00.000Z

As of tomorrow, I am officially unemployed. No, wait, that's not quite right; as of tomorrow I will be free.

I have no words to describe how constraining the last 5 and half years of my life have mostly been. I am not articulate enough to speak coherently about how painful it has been to draw the same conclusion over and over again - but feel too trapped by the time and the money and the endless, soul-crushing weight of expectation, all mine, invested in my career so far to change it - this is not the right path for me. How daunting it has felt to discover that I am a round peg being rammed into a square hole, but what a hole! And what an ass I would be to give up on it, and declare the last dozen years, almost half of this one wild and precious life that I have so far been granted, wasted.

Not wasted. It was not an easy road to have taken, but it brought me to the right place in the end, anyway, as these roads of ours tend to do, if we can but take the time to look up and notice where we're going. The sweet spot, this new beginning. It led me to joy, and it blessed me with a strength and wealth of experience that I would not give up on, oh no! I've seen some things, and hard as they may have been to witness I would not un-see them, not for twice as many days of easy-breezy happiness in their stead. Those days will come, and they will be the richer for the stories that have been woven in their yearning, and earning.

I've made it though, and where others thrive I may have just survived, and that's OK because now my next steps lay before me as clear as day, and I must trust that I could not have come to them save through this. So here I am, universe, wide open, ready and waiting. Let the next stage in, let it begin.

reciprocity

2012-01-29T18:49:00.002Z

I wrote this post some time ago, but felt too vulnerable to share it, so kept it to myself. It's played on my mind ever since, which makes me think I really do need to post it, and as this is my year to be brave and take risks, well... Here we go.

Something big shifted for me recently.As many of you are no doubt aware, a friend published a book. Now, I’m big on supporting people I love do things I believe in, so unsurprisingly, I was emotionally invested in said book doing well, but how much was a surprise even to me. When I recovered from the general emotional overwrought that overwhelmed me when it became very clear that the book was indeed going to do incredibly well, I had to ask myself what the bloody heck that was really about, because as amazing as the occasion itself was, the intensity of my reaction made me wonder whether there wasn’t rather more going on.

The thing that first struck me was how genuine my feelings were; how much I actually cared about this book, and about this community’s ability to make something great happen. That I wasn’t just being swept along in a tide of general excitement and fun - there was no shrug of ‘oh well, whatever’ tucked away in the back of my brain. And that disinterested nonchalance, a slightly distanced indifference is something I think I’ve unconsciously tried to preserve in my relationship to, well, this. To these online communities to which I belong. It is, I think, the essential reason for my ambivalence about what and how much to share, for the recent (and more recently reversed) cull of my blog and relative dearth of any substantial posts since. But, of course, since I am online largely who I am when unplugged, it isn’t strictly a virtual phenomenon. It’s also something I carry with me to a varying degree in my ‘real’ relationships, resulting in what I suppose must seem like a certain aloofness at times, just a little froideur.

However, I already knew much of that about myself. What I was able to realise in a profoundly heartfelt way for the first time that day was the simple idea of reciprocity. If I could genuinely care so much about the affairs of a friend of virtual origin, my friends of virtual origin could in turn potentially feel the same way about mine. Any of my friends could, virtual or not. It’s a simple concept, and a seemingly obvious one, but something that I increasingly think I’ve always struggled with. This idea that other people could really give a shit about you, for no other reason than your often incoherent, pointlessly rambling, inconsistently posting, irretrievably flawed self. A genuine belief that others can care, can think of you, be interested in your well-being, hold you in mind. And of course, this is something that I know, on an intellectual level, not to mention something I should have long grasped at a more deeply seated one for my virtual relationships, certainly at the very least when overwhelmed by the great outpouring of support when I debated taking this blog private. But there’s no accounting for how these things work, what makes some lessons stick while others are easily forgotten. But there it is and here we are, at last.

And so what now? As ever, I’m not entirely sure. But... I think I'm done playing it cool. Because, you know, you matter. So do I. I get that now.

how to be a domestic badass

2012-01-23T07:15:00.000Z

After this weekend, I'm somewhat grandiosely thinking that Nigella's got nothin' on me. But honestly, these savoury muffins are quite the business. I've been longing to be able to make something like this ever since eating the similar (but in a whole other league of deliciousness - I'm not actually delusional) ones served at Ottolenghi, going so far as to email the man himself begging for his recipe. (I was gently reminded that he needed a reason to keep me going back to his restaurants. I reckon he has at least twenty on any given day.) But then, lo! I happened upon the ridiculously quick and easy recipe for cheddar muffins in Leiths Baking bible, and this pretty yummy, if I may say so myself, adaptation was born.

Makes 12 muffins.

115g plain flour
115g polenta
1 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
a couple handfuls of pine nut kernels, lightly toasted
1 egg, beaten
4 tablespoons oil (I used the herbed olive oil that the sundried tomatoes came in)
225ml milk
100g goat's cheese (crumbly middle bit, no rind)
roughly 70g (drained weight) sundried tomatoes (half the jar, essentially)
12 little sticks of fresh rosemary for garnishing

1. Heat oven to 190C | 375F | gas mark 5. Lightly butter 12 muffin tins.
2. Sift the flour, polenta, salt, baking powder, and bicarbonate of soda into a bowl. Stir in the toasted pine nuts.
3. Mix together the egg, oil and milk in a separate bowl. Stir in the goat's cheese and sundried tomatoes.
4. Make a well in the centre of the flour mixture, pour in the milk mixture and stir quickly to make a (surprisingly runny) batter. Spoon into the muffin tins. Garnish with rosemary.
5. Bake for 20 minutes or until the muffins are well-risen and golden. Cool for five minutes, then remove from the tins and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
6. Devour.

all change

2012-01-20T15:27:00.000Z

Pumpkins. I'm updating the blog's url to match its new name. Please update your readers and blogrolls, and tell all your friends. The endless fun continues at www.soulwanderings.com. See you there.

lately

2012-01-18T21:34:00.001Z

I don't know how this became a thing, exactly, but I started the year with the innocent thought that it might be nice to bake a bit more, and somewhere along the line that exploded into setting myself the challenge to bake a cake each week all year. (I might be a little... competitive. With myself.) So far that's engendered ringing in the year with a warm pan of freshly baked, death by chocolate brownies, an apple cinnamon bundt which enlivened my purse and elevenses much of last week, and the current devouree, a rather scrumptious cheesecake whose baking was made all the more complicated by using someone else's kitchen (and listening to someone's unhelpful suggestions - yes, boy, I'm looking at you - regarding my choice of soft cheese). All I know is that I've usually made far less delicious resolutions in the past, so I have pretty high hopes of mostly keeping this one. Goodness knows my husband is smacking his lips, brushing crumbs from his beard, and totally banking on it.

I never understood the concept of morning after raccoon eyes before I started mucking about with liquid eyeliner. Despite the ubiquitous pigment deposits on my towels and pillowcases, I am determined to have mastered the art of the perfect flirty flick by my 31st birthday, which has meant daily attempts this week while I've been on holiday. It's also meant a lot of wonky eyes, but with the help of many useful internet tutorial (thanks, P.) videos, I'm getting there. Most helpful tip so far? With eyes as round as mine there's no point drawing the liner all around the eye, and a much more attractively feline look is achieved by starting somewhere halfway along. Most unhelpful biological quirk? My eyelashes are extremely curly just on their lonesome, which makes getting right above the lashline without feeling like I'm putting my eye out pretty damn tricksy. Practice makes perfect I'm told, so practice I do.

I had high hopes of finishing the great half-read of 2011 before the year ended. Ever delusional, that's me. But once I'm finally through with this lot, I've got a new resolution - one at a time. Incidentally, the first book on that new, improved, rational approach to reading list is lined up for interesting discussion over here. Feel free to join in - I've no doubt things might get lively.

not bad

2012-01-17T00:15:00.000Z

My very first effort with the new camera, taken over Christmas. The film was sadly scratched, and I don't yet know how to fix that in post-processing, and some of my absolute favourites were candid shots of the people around me, and well, they can't be posted here. Not as things currently stand.

My inner tyrant of a critic will only let me deem these not bad at all, but there's a little kernel deep inside that's quite proud, really. The entire roll could easily have been an out of focus, over or under-exposed, poorly composed mess. Maybe it is. Whatevs. It makes me happy anyway, and that's the damn point.

daydream believer

2012-01-12T21:46:00.000Z

Lately, I'd stopped dreaming.

By lately, I mean in the last few years or so, and by stopped dreaming, I mean that I can count on one hand the number of times I've woken up in the morning and had any idea what dreamscapes I might have inhabited during the night before over the past year. Of course, I must still be actually dreaming - I don't know a great deal about the science of sleep, but I think my brain might have fried if my REM sleep phase had actually ceased to exist - but for someone whose dreams were once so vivid that some are difficult to tease apart from actual memory, it's a notable change, and a significant loss.

Of course, there is the literal and the metaphorical, and as usual, they are linked. Of late, I have also found it extremely difficult to dream, in the sense of dreaming big, imagining wonderful possibilities for myself. I haven't dared for one thing, out of an irrationally superstitious fear that I might jinx the very thing that is so deeply desired, and a belief that I am not permitted, somehow. Otherwise, I've simply felt too mired in murk of my everyday to be able to even try.

Now I'm not sure what it is that I've done that's somehow unlocked my unconscious, but the madcap nocturnal adventures have very recently started again. They are most welcome. And since this seems to be the season of granting myself permission to do the things of which I was previously afraid, I'm letting myself dream in every other sense. They are all welcome.

The course has just started, so I haven't really formed a firm opinion on it one way or another, although so far so good. But I've leapt and committed myself, so there I am replacing scepticism with hope, bravely embracing whatever there might be for me, and simply showing up every day, because ultimately, that's all I can ever do.

Apparently, there's still room in the class, so if you were thinking of doing Mondo Beyondo, and needed a nudge from a friendly face, consider this it. If you've already taken the course, please feel free to let me know how you found it, either in the comments, or by dropping me an email.

Dreamy photographs all by vintjunky

a thousand words

2012-01-11T23:35:00.000Z

For Christmas, the boy got me everything I've ever wanted. Right now, everything I've ever wanted takes the form of a 35mm film camera to call my own, but actually the longing to freeze frame the world around me goes back some time. I still remember my very first, equally desired camera - I was 10, and it was florid pink and had two buttons, one to release the shutter and one to wind on the film. I had great fun with my conspicuous toy, and as I recall took a whole host of spectacularly terrible photos of a family holiday we took that year, before my creative urges were suppressed by the dawning realisation of my disheartening lack of skill. After that, I pretty much didn't take another photograph until I came to university and got a cheap digital compact for taking pictures of friends on drunken nights out, but it's really only since I began blogging that I let myself take pictures again.

Cue my husband, He Who Knows About Photography (he certainly knows a lot compared to my total ignorance), and Notices More Than He Lets On, and seemingly comes from a long line of Men Who Photograph Things. My half-assed fannying about with my point and shoot last year, coupled with his little sister going off to study photography at university seemed to renew his interest as well, and before I knew it we were inundated with second hand film cameras off eBay, most of which were not working but were being deconstructed for parts, and a shit ton of similarly sourced kit. (Boys, toys, etc, and he never does things by halves, this one.) As it turns out, some of those parts became my secretly longed for and very excitedly received Christmas present, so I can't be too crotchety about the fact that we've had to clear out an entire cupboard for this newfound interest/obsession of his/ours.

Since film photography is the best means I have yet found of teaching me the virtue of patience, there is nothing to show of my new present, despite the fact that engrossed in it is precisely where I've been since the start of the year. Whenever my so far relentless work schedule and the dismal, grey non-light allows, I've been out like my 10 year old self; playing with my slightly less conspicuous but not much more than two button camera, and absolutely loving it. Because this is the magical thing my husband really gave me for Christmas - he gave me permission to allow myself to play. While the camera itself is delightful and very much appreciated, there has always been one similar in the house, available for me to learn to use should I so choose. I didn't, couldn't, choose it. I had many excuses - I didn't know how, I had no talent for it, I'd be wasting film and money, perhaps I might break it in my ignorance - but really I was afraid. I was afraid to do something for no good reason at all other than the sheer creative pleasure of it. I was afraid to let go and just... play.

While waiting to finish my rolls of film, find the time to take them to be developed, and then find more time to go fetch the prints, and while trying very hard not to care about how invariably bad these first photos are likely to be, I've been playing a ton with the more immediately available camera on my phone. In lieu of sensible words, you can see a pictorial of my days here, of late mostly driven by this January photo a day challenge. (Although, who am I kidding, I'm always spouting mindless words on twitter, such is the unfortunate nature of my attention span.) But really, successfully completing the challenge, learning to use a camera, and maybe even figuring out how to take better photos along the way isn't the point, great as those things might be to achieve. The altogether critical point for me is simply learning how to let go, one playful step at a time. At last, I think I might be on my way.

(You guys, I really tried not to be so damn earnest. I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it. Flippant irreverance will be back one day soon, I'm sure. At least, I live in hope.)

Photo of me with the Polaroid by the mighty fabulous Juma Bannister of Relate Photography, he who should definitely be taking your wedding photos if you're getting married in the Caribbean. As you obviously should.

looking back, moving on

2012-01-04T09:00:00.000Z

On reviewing my goals for 2011 it's clear in hindsight that it was to be a year of reaching outward, in the sense of flailing around blindly as if for a life raft in the dark. Since I was not at all certain about what exactly I wanted for myself, it appears that on drawing up my list of goals for the year I concentrated on trying to seem sorted in the superficial sense, in the hope that an external semblance of order would help to relieve my internal sense of chaos. To an extent that strategy worked. Some of my goals were certainly met, with no little corresponding joy, but given how little attention I paid to my internal world in setting out my plans at the start of the year, it's no surprise that despite the not at all infrequent moments of contentment, the year ended up feeling as topsy turvy as it did.

The goals I've made for 2012 as are superficial in one sense, but they feel rather more inward in aim. Caring for myself, nurturing creativity. Caring for my home, my immediate space. Filling the space around me with loved ones. Really settling into here and now, instead of just hovering in the hope that I will soon be moving on to vistas new. Staying in the moment - looking at it, noting it down, and hopefully accepting it - then maybe doing my best to try to make that moment, this physical and emotional space surrounding me, as beautiful and playful as it can be.

I found the process of reflecting creatively on the previous year and looking ahead to this one really quite challenging, which surprised me as I thought I would be an old hand at that sort of exercise after a year of therapy. But no - apparently I should have only taken about half an hour to complete the Unravelling 2012 workbook, but I spent most of a day working through it. Effort well spent, though; I think I now know where I need to direct my energies and focus my attention this year, and I have something tangible (and pretty!) with which to ground myself should I get lost. A little security blanket to cling to when courage escapes me, a small light to inject a glimmer of hope when things appear bleak.

As with so much else lately, it's been quite a process, and as usual I feel somewhat late in getting there, but 2012, I think I'm finally ready for you. Feel free to bring it.

The joy of three

2012-01-03T09:00:00.000Z

Popular wisdom tells us that the first year of marriage isthe hardest. Based on our experience of the last three years I beg to differ.Our first year of married life was magical.The first few months were a long, slow comedown from the transcendental highof our wedding day, and the rest an extended honeymoon in which we played atthis novel, fun game of being husband and wife. All felt new, all was delightful,still bathed in the afterglow of the intense joy radiating out from the dayon which it began.

Year number two felt rather different, as we bedded downinto the mundane but gritty reality of our marriage. It was a year in which bigdecisions were made and future plans laid involving careers, finance andexpanding our family. It certainly had challenges of its own, including moving house, and parental illness, but also felt full of possibility. As we made our plans and coped with the occasional derailments of those that life threw at us, I came to understandthat within this marriage we can make anything happen. No small revelation, that one.

This year, I felt incredibly grateful for the solidgrounding of the last year, and the euphoria of the first. Otherwise, it would have been all too easy to despair, or dismiss our third year of marriage as the shitty one in which things just didn't happen for us, instead of seeing it as the valuable fire that it was, forging us into stronger, truer versions of ourselves. I didn't get a job. I didn't get(stay) pregnant. We didn't live together. Contending with any one of those in ayear would have been a big deal, so all of them at once? Trying times, let metell you. It was without doubt the hardest year of my life so far, far less thetoughest one of our marriage, but still we made it through with grace andlove, emerging strengthened, and almost as full of laughter as we were at the very beginning. A little more wary (and weary) perhaps, certainly more worn, but still as joyful as we were when we giddily wound our way home at the close of our wedding day.

Joy. Despite having endured our hardest year together, the primary emotion that comes to mind when I think of our marriage is still joy; the most common sound to echo round my heart in response, laughter. That near-spiritual bliss still exists in its most pure andunadulterated form. Because, as my beloved helpfully reminded me after a storm of tears following yet another disappointment, nothing has essentially changed. Our external circumstances may look very different, but at its heart our marriage is still just him and me, as it was at the beginning, as it will hopefully be till the end. And for him and me, that joy runs deep.

Happy anniversary, my love. May our each and every year continue to be immeasurably more joyful than the last.

If this all looks somewhat familiar... well it is. It's an edited excerpt of a longer post running on A Practical Wedding today, whot I wrote. Oh look! I just outed myself to anybody who didn't already know who I was, but let's still play at the anonymity game round these parts, m'kay? It makes me very happy, that one.

Photo by the wedding photography supreme beings of awesomeness that make up Relate Photography.

hello, 2012

2012-01-01T00:00:00.000Z

For you, I resolve to be brave enough to leap when required, to have faith that loved ones will be there to catch me should I fall, and to trust that I may indeed very well just fly.

This year, may all of our dreams take flight.

Beautiful image by Susannah Conway.

home away from home

2011-12-28T20:58:00.000Z

Out of the car they tumbled, a girl cramped and cold from the journey, a boy worn out from the effort of the rain and wind-lashed drive, and a kitten miserable from hours of incomprehensible confinement, bringing with them a carload of stuff; clothing, holiday reading, and no matter how well edited or thoughtfully chosen or pared to a minimum still seemingly too many presents. The door of the house in front of which they’d just arrived flew open and the warm welcome on which their holiday hopes were pinned quickly made itself apparent. Once enveloped in the firelit warmth of the interior, their own interiors sufficiently warmed and cares lifted by supper and wine, all three set about the varied and various tasks of making themselves at home in this house thrown open to them for as long as they wished to stay.

Not a word she ever thought would accurately describe her relationship with this place, as kind and loving as her time here has always been. Despite the multiplication of sites deserving of the term over her nomadic years, it never felt quite right here, in among this, her legally-defined but not it would yet seem fully adopted family.

What exactly brought about this change was hard to pinpoint. Maybe it was the fact that this was simply one more Christmas at the in-laws in a now long line of Christmases at the in-laws, the girl now as well inured to the traditions of this family as to her own. Maybe it was the presence of her sister-in-law’s fiancé, attending his first seasonal celebration, making her no longer the newest comer round the familiar hearth. Maybe it was a result of her recent solitary trips there, each small stay acting as a catalyst for the subtle but significant transformationfrom guest of the beloved to precious visitor in her own right. Or maybe it was just the influence of time, that which wears all walls down, renders all who may wander intimate.

Whatever the cause, it is not begrudged; the unhurried transition welcomed by one to whom all change must come slowly.

Home.
Family.
Holidays.
Hearth.
Heart.

Exactly as it should be.

Beautiful photo by Peonies.

out of the darkness

2011-12-22T08:29:00.004Z

The winter solstice has passed. All will be light again.

wishing you

2011-12-20T10:10:00.000Z

A whole season full of it.

Off the bookshelf: A Practical Wedding

2011-12-19T03:00:00.000Z

Quite simply, this is an excellent book, absolutely full of hugely readable, warm and empathic, but blessedly smart, pragmatic, and reliable good sense about how to go about planning your wedding, while not forgetting to prepare yourself for marriage. It is every sound piece of wedding planning advice that I've heard or learnt, put together in one well written, humourous package, that stays sharply focused on the things that truly matter, while not shying away from the grittier and more difficult aspects of what is essentially a major life event, and which will certainly get you through what can be quite the intense process in one sane, graceful piece. Unsurprisingly - Meg has made a living of writing good wedding planning sense after all - but having the best of that distilled into one portable paperback is an absolute gift. Every single engaged friend from here on in is getting a copy, the lucky little buggers.

And no, that's not just because then my friends will get to see my name and two cents of advice in print. Although that bit? That bit is pretty fun.

Careful what you wish for

2011-12-17T11:00:00.000Z

I have spent a long time, a long, tedious, broken record years amount of time, complaining about How Things Are With Work. About how disillusioned I have felt, and how trapped on this conveyor belt of a postgraduate specialty training system that seemed to have looped round on itself to become the hamster wheel from hell - a huge amount of effort to get absolutely nowhere. But for all that whining (patiently put up with by he who should heretofore be known as The Saint), I never felt able to do anything differently. To change. Stepping off the conveyor belt and plotting my own unique course through the surrounding uncharted wilderness seemed like such an outrageous idea to me, that I couldn't seriously entertain it. It seemed a terrifying leap of unimaginable magnitude into an endless void, with no telling where I'd land, or if I'd even survive the impact.

Even when I finally glimpsed the light at the end of this long, dark tunnel, and lit upon this thing that I'm now passionate about and want to wake up and do every day with a singing heart, even when I'd actually conceived an off-the-beaten-path diversion that I could quite happily see myself taking some time out to explore, that I increasingly longed to sidestep into from my conventional training pathway, in order to better prepare myself for the necessary home stretch on that conveyor belt, but really just to give myself pause... A moment to stop, breathe, think. Even then, when I knew how badly I needed this space, I just couldn't bring myself to voluntarily, you know, do it. To take that leap. To go my own way for a bit. It was just too daunting, too hard.

As it turns out, I got what I wished for, regardless. And despite my increasing certainty now that I actually find myself here that this is precisely where I need to be, it has most definitely been hard taking the not quite voluntary, but probably unconsciously negotiated leap to get here. Almost inexpressibly so, still. I was right to fear the landing - all the molecules of my being have been shaken by its terrific force, and I do not yet know what configuration they will assume when the reverberations of this fall have finally quietened.

But, still. I fell into the void and I survived. This is quite the thing to know for when the time comes again to leap.

Top image from Encyclolydia, bottom by barn owl primitives, both via Pinterest.

Ice skating in hell

2011-12-14T09:03:00.000Z

On the 2nd day of Christmas my true love gave to me a 30 day bootcamp workout DVD.

Oh no, he didn't. Much as he is concerned about my current level of un-fitness, not being as convinced of the surely soon to be proven cardiovascular benefits of couch-surfing as I am, this is something I've brought entirely on myself. Necessarily.

So, day 3. Of a workout bootcamp. A workout bootcamp over Christmas. I've either lost my mind or finally gained the lofty heights of genius. I'm guessing we'll soon find out which...

P.S. You can probably blame The Legs™.

Weekending

2011-12-12T08:00:00.000Z

Lazy, leisurely, luxurious, lush. Folks, it was a good 'un. As is The Marriage Plot. Then again, after Lily's recommendation, I didn't really have any doubt.

After tallying up this week's corker of a to-do list, it's looking to be everything that the weekend was not, so I'm bracing myself for the icy plunge in, and hoping that it doesn't leave me too breathless. Ah, Mondays. Always such a pleasure.

12 days

2011-12-11T21:07:00.001Z

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me a partridge in a pear tree.

Then he shot and plucked that sucker, pot roast it in cider with apples and shallots, flambéd it with brandy, and fed it to me for my supper. YUM.

The twelve days may not have yet begun, but it's already apparent that it's going to be a very delicious season. I hope yours is gearing up to be at least half as tasty.

P.S. The print is actually an advent calendar. This is my third year using it. I love it muchly.

From the bottom of my soul

2011-12-09T07:03:00.001Z

It's probably apparent to anyone paying the tiniest bit of attention that there's been some sort of an identity crisis round here lately. That said, I'm sure friends don't rub friends' noses in their frailties, even when these might take the form of depressingly trendy quarter-life crises (or depressingly morbid mid-life ones). Instead friends nod, and smile, and do their best not to get too befuddled when trying to recall what the heck it is that she's called nowadays again, while kindly refraining from pointing out that she wasn't kidding anyone by calling herself a girl all this time, because, well now, really.

Sanity

2011-12-06T20:43:00.001Z

Finally, it's here, y'all. A long-awaited, much-needed breath of wedding planning sanity. Do every engaged person you know a massive favour, and buy them (and yourself!) a copy. All with the satisfaction of knowing that you're simultaneously sticking it to the (WIC*-wo)man. Because, I mean, fuck yeah.

P.S. Buy it today and make it bestseller! I mean. Fuck yeah!

Declaration of interest: Meg's a friend, and it's so hot of the press I haven't read it yet, and I'm apparently quoted in it (fancy!), but all of that aside, I am pretty damn sure that this is one purchase you and your engaged friends will never regret.

*Wedding Industrial Complex. I MEAN. Just buy the book already.

Photo by One Love Photo

Mixed messages

2011-12-03T18:47:00.001Z

Winter cherry blossom. Who knew? I certainly didn't. Just like I didn't know that opportunities seemingly lost could be tantalisingly hung within one's potential grasp again, maybe, just when one had given up on them altogether and resigned oneself to a not wholly undesirable plan b. Talk about a headfuck.

Don't push the river, it flows by itself - I first heard this from a midwife to a birthing mother, but I can't think of anything more apt for me to hold onto under the current circumstances. Meg says that something big is being born, and I need to stop, look away, and just let it happen without my interference. She is ever wise, but that's a big ask of a perfectionist control freak. Somehow, it's looking like I've got no other choice.

All is a dark, terrifying void, spiralling downward into uncertain chaos, and I must blindly tumble.

Newsflash

2011-11-30T19:43:00.001Z

I fucked it up, guys. Royally.

It's still too soon; I'm still too sore. So far, all I know for sure is this: the Boy has my back. And with his help, I hope that we can turn this grounding into one hell of an adventure.

Countdown

2011-11-21T22:09:00.001Z

3 MONTHS.

SO EXCITED.

Tunnel vision

2011-11-20T18:04:00.001Z

Mostly hoping that light is about to appear at the end of the tunnel. So tired of groping along in the dark.

In the meantime, friends and laughter guide the way. For which I count myself eternally grateful.

If wishes were horses

2011-11-16T15:54:00.000Z

This beggar would ride.

Wish me luck! Today, more than any other day, I need it.

Declaration of love

2011-11-13T15:46:00.001Z

"Other than work, what are you passionate about? What are your great loves?"

"Um... My husband? ..."

Other than work, I have a few great loves. My husband, to be sure. Family and friends. Whichever is my favourite book/ movie/ TV series du jour. Dance. My cat. But if one rates one's passions according to the time and attention one devotes to them, there are two things which have consistently received more of my love than almost anything else over the last few years - writing and photography. And yet I hesitate, always, to list them as things that I do, loves of mine, parts of myself, despite knowing that they are all of that and then some. Why do I disregard them so? Do they shame me? No. But somehow I feel that I shame them.

Even at the height of my dancing prowess I would never have thought to call myself a dancer. That would have seemed the most heinous insult to actual dancers everywhere. I feel absolutely the same about referring to myself as a writer or photographer now; to use either term in relation to my level of skill or talent seems laughable. But back when I was gracelessly sweating it out in various dance classes every week, putting my limbs through their paces for the pure enjoyment of it, I at least allowed myself to declare my love. I could freely say that I was someone who loved to dance. Whether or not I was any good at it had no bearing on how I felt about what I was doing. And so it is now, with these.

Where my current loves are concerned, the time for affecting nonchalance has long passed. I love to write. I love to take photographs. It is as simple as that.

Weekending

2011-11-13T15:28:00.001Z

As activities go, this one takes win. Particularly when the best scenes happen off camera.

Cat got your tongue?

2011-11-11T09:23:00.001Z

Maybe. If anxiety was a really BIG cat.

Note to self

2011-11-01T14:10:00.001Z

Regarding the decadently debased debauchery of Saturday night, girlfriend, you've still got it. But it's foolish of you to hope those guys will do anything other than encourage you to misbehave. They know you too well by now.

Also, should anyone mention 'cage-dancing' or 'Greek billionaire Andreas', just deny all knowledge. Trust me, it's for the best.

Take win

2011-10-29T11:13:00.000+01:00

Want.

Hence, relieved that my fellow Trinidadian, Anya Ayoung Chee, won Project Runway, so I can soon go and BUY ALL THE THINGS. I mean, that girl she's designing for? It's me.

Small island point of note: Yes, it's just a TV show, but yes, I am SO PROUD.

Declaration of interest: I was highly amused to be reminded today that I'm acquainted with her. Much as I try to deny that all Trinidadians know each other, it really does feel that way sometimes. Small, small island world.

Dare dream

2011-10-27T22:53:00.001+01:00

Have you ever dreamed an impossible dream? I have. I've been dreaming it for years.

As impossibilities go, it's a pretty everyday one. I live in a house, just a nice enough house, with a boy. My Boy. We live there, with each other, full time. We live there, together, by the sea. (Always, the sea.) We work, probably too hard, probably too much, but it's OK because we love our work. I love my work, regardless, unreservedly. We have little ones, maybe, loved ones nearby, definitely. It's a dream so many call their mundane reality, but it's long seemed nothing but a pie in our sky to me.

Until now. Pigs flew, the Pope is Hindu.

I've wanted it so badly I could taste it, and now I can taste it, and for once there are no other factors, no external variables out of my control; for once the making of this dream, the holding onto it, and breathing life into it, the alchemy of changing it from fantasy into the banality of our mundane everyday reality, lies solely, wholly with me. Finally.

This is not the time to fuck shit up.

While driving home from work yesterday, I saw the most brilliant, most intense rainbow I've ever seen. An entire, perfect arc, gleaming solidly against the heavy October sky. As I drove past, marvelling, there was a moment when by a trick of the light it looked as if it ended with me. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow was right there, just within my grasp.

The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is right here, just within my grasp. But the impossible, made almost tangible? I barely dare dream.

Present

2011-10-23T21:56:00.002+01:00

I believe that this life is what you might call having your cake and eating it too.

Off the bookshelf: Bodies

2011-10-23T21:47:00.000+01:00

A constant fretfulness and vigilance take hold for many from the moment they wake until the time they fall asleep. Their bodies are on high alert. The norm has become to worry. In another time, we would have called such anxieties an illness and, seeing how many suffer, we would have called it an epidemic. But we don't. We have become so implicated in variants of body preoccupation ourselves, and girls and women in particular so colonised by it, that the preoccupation has become second nature - almost 'natural' and invisible.

A fascinating if perhaps not particularly easy read, at least if psychoanalytic theory and case illustration isn't quite your thing. One for every woman who has ever felt uncomfortable in her skin, and certainly every such woman raising a daughter, to read and ponder, though.

Deliverance

2011-10-20T12:27:00.001+01:00

The very best gift came with the post today - a timely, much needed reminder of how full this life is and of how much I am truly blessed.

Get closer

2011-10-18T15:03:00.000+01:00

The joy lies where the salt dries.

Apropos of nothing

2011-10-18T12:56:00.000+01:00

I wait. I sit, and I pause, and I rest in that space at the top of a breath, and my lungs are strained to the point of collapse, but still. Limbo. So there you go and here I am and there is nothing to be done but hum and twiddle and draw, draw endlessly upon seams of patience that I seem not to have.The debate in my head rages on. Go. Stay. The feeling of overexposure has not passed, and yet I feel compelled. For me. For you. For who? There's no telling. Instead I prune savagely; it is the season for it for those of us who will flower best on the new year's growth, and what good can come of this old wood when you've lost sight of it but for the trees, and the detail is always where the devil lay anyway. The load is lightened. I am lifted up on old words hoarded, my voice boarded but the path now clear, quite a something when you never know which way is north and this low-lying autumnal sun keeps shining brightly enough to blind us all.

Heaven...

2011-10-03T23:34:00.005+01:00

... is a small beach on the Amalfi coast.

Gone fishing

2011-09-23T20:14:00.002+01:00

(And I don't know that I'll ever be back.)

Achingly beautiful photos by Brian Ferry.

Uncomfortable truths

2011-09-22T08:58:00.002+01:00

You know what I hate? How governed I am by my hormones. I hate that I turn into a sensitive, irrational ball of rage once a month just because my progesterone levels are falling or whatever. I hate that I really am that stereotype; weepy, snappy, bloated, spotty, bitchy as hell. As enraged as I become whenever others refer to women as being 'hormonal', and as much as I hate to admit it, I can't deny that for me it is absolutely true, and has been ever since puberty first hit; that for a few days of each month I do not see the world, process information, or relate to other people in the same way that I do the rest of the time. I get premenstrual, and despite my best attempts to hide it, others know.

So what does that mean for me as a woman? What does it mean for being a feminist, and considering myself equal to men? I get that I can be different but equal, I know I am. But I can't make sense of what it means for my place in this male dominated (work) world in which I exist, and for the place of seniority and respect that I someday hope to occupy there, that I really find myself feeling altered, and with a very tenuous hold on my left-brain, logical self with inexorable regularity.

(Image via Gizmodo. I would really love to know where it originated.)

________________________

(Update: I am an idiot so managed to lose this post today - as you do. The utterly fucking fabulous Kirsty found it in the internet ether for me, so rescuing me from the depths of despair. She is a goddess. You should totally worship her.)

I'm going there

2011-09-21T02:11:00.002+01:00

I know that I am not fat. I am not, nor have I ever been. I am a UK size 10, with a normal BMI, a pert ass and boobs, and good legs. I know that I am not fat.

However, I have almost always felt fat, and therefore hated my body. Hate is a strong word, but for a lot of my life, for a lot of my body, it was true. My father blamed the magazines that I read as a teenager, with their lithe, whippet thin, white models. I remember him forcing some black equivalents on me until the poor grammar and talk about babymamas offended him so much that they too were out of bounds. And maybe he was right - nowadays if I'm feeling a bit too hefty of thigh, a quick scan of videos of celebrities who look like me quickly corrects my perspective. But I remember a few formative things from long before the teen beauty magazines entered the equation.

I remember being switched to skimmed milk when I was very young because I was getting 'chubby'. I remember my father's disdain for fat people. I remember being told, countless times, on asking for one treat or another, "It'll make you fat."

I remember, from as early as 10, being somehow bigger, more substantial than my lithe, whippet thin, black mother, and feeling ashamed of this. I remember hating that I hadn't inherited whichever genes made her and my father so effortlessly skinny, while I was so definitely not. I remember envying my mother's proportions - her long torso with it's incredibly tiny waist making my short torso and long legs look clumsy and malformed in comparison. I hated my boxy, thick waist. I hated my athletic build. I really hated my thighs.

Meanwhile, I liked what my body could do: I loved how it moved in dance class, supple and sure; I loved that it could set sail; I loved that there was never anything weak, or pathetic, or frail about it. But aesthetically, it never could please me. It was simply too fat.

I went through ups and downs with this body of mine in my 20s. I gained the requisite stone on leaving home, living in university halls, and having no real idea of how to cook for or healthily feed myself. I lost double that on breaking up from my toxic boyfriend. I became a yoga fiend, did my time as a gym bunny. I was at my skinniest, most toned, and most beautiful best when I met the Boy, as a happy result of all the free time that student life provides. When we first got together I had no fear about showing him my body. I have lost that toned self, and then some, in the sedentary years that have followed, though I am thankfully still fearless about showing it off to him. But I suppose in some ways I have 'let myself go'.

Despite all of that, lately I've been feeling a new feeling toward this still too boxy of torso, too hefty of thigh body of mine. It's an inexplicable feeling given that the skin on my ass definitely puckers when viewed from the wrong angle, and my thighs touch, and the rolls on my belly don't quite disappear when I sit up at my straightest and most pulled in, and I still sometimes feel like I'm trapped in a fatsuit. Mixed in with all the old self-loathing, there seems to be a funny kind of love.

I've noticed something in looking about me since turning 30. I've noticed how incredibly beautiful young women are. All of them. Mind-bogglingly so. And I've noticed what it is that makes them seem that way - quite simply, and rather obviously, youth. And I don't for a moment wish I were a teenager again; that period was far too tortured, too uncertain. Nor do I wish that I won't age any further; there is a different kind of beauty in the grace and experience of an older woman, and while I hope the years are kind to me, I also hope that I learn to wear my years well. But I have realised that I still have some of the beauty I admire in others. I'm not deluded - it's clearly not teenage freshness - but my body is still young, still lithe, even if not whippet thin. And it is still possessed of that youthful magic.

So, I'm going to rock those raspberry hotpants while they still don't look entirely ridiculous on a woman my age, whatever that age should be. And now that I am possessed of a decade of hard won experience on how to dress this less-then-ideal body of mine to best advantage, I know what really makes the hotpants work, for me. I just need to make 'em highwaisted.

Cultured

2011-09-20T09:00:00.002+01:00

We went, we saw, we wandered.

'You never know what you might see in Brighton'

2011-09-19T00:00:00.002+01:00

Scratch that

2011-09-18T10:08:00.002+01:00

Well, what do you know, great minds do think alike. Meg assures me that this very book is next in line for discussion at the APW book club. So, do y'all mind if we take our muffs* and our cocktails over there, and heckle noisily from the back? That's where I'm most comfortable, anyway, and I reckon that conversation is bound to get lively.

*Y'all do realise that I'm increasingly using the term 'muff' as shorthand for all the different myriad issues around being a modern feminist that the book raises, right? Sometimes I forget other people can't read my mind and I shouldn't be so cryptic. So this is me being explicit. You're welcome.

You're invited

2011-09-16T22:10:00.004+01:00

UPDATE: do read this before you get too excited.

I've always thought that I'd be much too lazy to organise something along the lines of an online book club discussion, but I'm frankly shocked and appalled by how many of those of you I admire, and with whom I would love to discuss its merits, have yet to even read Caitlin Moran's hilariously brilliant How To Be A Woman. So shocked and appalled, in fact, that instead of doing my usual thing of tutting and distractedly moving right along, I'm going to do as you asked and host a virtual book club meet up on it.

Now, I'm going to be a busy stressball (pursuing them there opportunities) for some weeks, so let's reconvene in a couple months, OK? Say, in the last week of November. That should give us all plenty of time.

So. Your task is to first find and read the book in question, then prepare to come talk about your muffs and how you first discovered masturbation, and what you really think about porn, and what you do when you encounter some sexism. Along with all the other myriad, meaty areas ripe for discussion that it raises (or maybe doesn't raise so well - food for thought!) in massive abundance. Feel free to leave questions or topics for debate in the comments to this post as they come to mind, but do save the bulk of your chitchat for when everybody else has caught up. (I have bookmarked this post in the sidebar for easy reference, should some miracle occur and many posts be generated between now and then. Unlikely.)

Right. My task is to add fuel to the fire, and loosen inhibitions, in order to best aid free discussion. Easy-peasy, then.

Ladies, it's going to be awesome. I anticipate it eagerly. I hope you do too.

Incidentally

2011-09-09T19:41:00.003+01:00

I bought a book today, the first paragraph of which reads:

'It's like your cunt,' he'd whispered in her ear in front of the magenta Rothko. All that velvety redness. I know it so well; every fold and crevice. I don't have to be an expert on art to understand these paintings.'

Then spent an hour watching clips from The Vagina Monologues on YouTube, before corralling a group of lady friends to finally go see it with me. It would appear that the muff talk is getting to me in the very best way.

Have a lovely weekend, folks. I sure will.

Image: Mark Rothko Red on Maroon 1959

In case you didn't already know

2011-09-08T09:45:00.003+01:00

How To Be A Woman. Yes, how? Have you worked it out yet?

This reminds me, I haven't written anything about this book as yet, which is just absolutely shameful because it is no end of awesome. Tell me, have you read it yet? Can we talk about it? Like right now in the comments over virtual cocktails, since I'm not going to be crashing the actual book club meeting, and you're going to need them to wax lyrical over the topics it covers. And if perchance you haven't read it, what in the love of cake are you waiting for? A personal invitation? Consider this yours, so go! Read it already! You can thank me later, then we can talk smack while discussing it after I've gathered my thoughts on masturbation, porn, abortion and bald vulvas, for starters.

Actually, It's been a while since there's been any book chat around here, contrary to what's been going on off-screen. For instance, there was the holiday pile, and that fortnight of my life that I lost while completely immersed in the terrible goodness of the first two Game of Thrones books. (I've briefly come up for air before disappearing into the third because I have Important Shit To Do, Don't You Know. I may also be feeling a little ashamed about my dirty obsession, but I'm sure that noble emotion won't last.) But while I have been reading a lot, I've been almost entirely neglecting what various other online book clubs I tag along with have been suggesting I read. In my defence, the first has turned into a Facebook group. (Um... yeah.) And much as I love the second, it's most recent suggestion was, well, shit. (Sorry guys, but really.) At least this third potential online book club (because who does not need more of those in their lives) has a fun name, and is getting off to banging start. And it looks pretty. I don't know about you, but I like to look at a little pretty while I'm talking smart.

So, make some effort for our virtual cocktails, m'kay?

Bears repeating

2011-09-06T14:45:00.005+01:00

You can't just follow your dreams. You have to pursue those bitches like an absolute motherfucker.

I may have said this before, but in the light of recent opportunities that have opened up before me, I think it bears repeating.

Opportunities.

You know that life I dream of? The one I keep banging on about, where I live with my husband and do something that I enjoy (and am good at, and vaguely resembles actually caring for patients) for a living? The one that, frankly, had started seeming like an impossible pipe dream? Well, I don't like to jinx things, but...

Opportunities.

For so long, there were none. I was stuck, with no way of moving forward. Every avenue out of this deeply unsatisfying place seemed closed to me; every possible chance of moving forward was out of my reach, due to factors wholly out of my control. Suffice to say, I have not been thriving. I think a little part of me might have been slowly dying; a part largely made up of optimism and hope.

But. Opportunities.

I know what to do with an opportunity. I know how to turn an impossible pipe dream into an everyday reality. I've done it before, and I can do it again. All I need is the tiniest sliver of an opportunity. All it takes is single-minded drive, and desire so thick you can taste it, and a determination to succeed so powerful that all obstacles are annihilated before you through sheer force of will. Oh yes, I know what to do now that I've been given an opportunity.

At least, I did once. Can I do it again? I'm not entirely certain. I'm no longer the naive teenager, or invulnerable young adult I once was. I have tasted failure, and defeat, and compromise. But there is no room for self-doubt in this process. My chance has come and I must do what I must do and make it work.

So, long live optimism and hope, and may their sparkling rebirth be what I need to see me through.

Amalfi Coast

2011-09-05T09:05:00.005+01:00

The Boy and I have resolved our dilemma; for the week that we have off together at the end of this month we're going to the Amalfi Coast. And because you were so very helpful the last time, once again I'm asking you well-travelled lot for some much-needed inspiration.

What would you do?

Where would you stay?

What would you see?

Where would you eat?

And which blogs might you read to ready yourself for all that Mediterranean gorgeousness?

Image by Simply Bloom Photography. And a million thanks in advance.

Unlikely

2011-09-04T11:44:00.002+01:00

I once performed to this song in a hip-hop dance version of Othello. Breakdancing and popping were involved. I still marvel that in all the weeks of rehearsal, and nights of the show, I didn't once break my neck.

I once sang, to a paying audience - bless them, a bastardised version of this song, while cross-dressed as a cultural stereotype who took the piss out of my medical school dean. I still marvel that, well, my career survived the experience. My dignity didn't.

So, spit it out. I'm curious. What unlikely things have you done lately?*

*By 'lately' I mean 'in the last decade'. Unless you have way more fun than I do.

THIS

2011-09-02T20:19:00.003+01:00

Of all the reasons why I eventually decided that I really wouldn't silence myself by taking this blog private, I think this video encapsulates the most key. To know that actually, what starts off seeming like socially inept individuals hidden behind glowing laptop screens and shouting narcisistically into the virtual wilderness can grow into massive communities, with the power to effect real, really positive change? To hope that actually, my thoughts, my words might play some small part in that process, no matter how small, still somehow significant, because the tidal wave of attitude change could never happen if each individual, individually insignificant drop didn't bother to start gathering momentum in the first place? This is why I could not go.

You should go, however. Go here. To read the post on A Practical Wedding about the documentary film this is a trailer for, and about how you can continue to support the cause for marriage equality in the USA. Because really? As utterly fabulous as Yay New York was, it's only just beginning.

Careful what you wish for

2011-08-30T23:20:00.002+01:00

After a lot of thought and a little action, I've decided to stay. Paranoia be damned. (And anonymity be made more assured.) You guys were incredibly flattering in saying you'd deal with the annoyance of continuing to follow me if I went private, and for that I love you. I want to send you all flowers. And cake. Maybe I will.

But it turns out I am entirely too fond of shouting into the virtual wilderness from my laptop, giving it up for 30-something, female, medical, bootylicious, Trinidadian turned Trinidadian-and-English, foul-mouthed, married, broody, mad about cats, carnival obsessed, newly home-owning, poor quality picture taking, experimental gardening, psychotherapist wannabe, occasional cooks and library geeks. I mean, who else is going to represent that niche market?

So, I'm bedded in for the long haul, and not going anywhere fast, snookums. And as for you, you should be more careful what you wish for.

Overexposed

2011-08-25T16:32:00.002+01:00

I've never been one for doing things halfway, and I'd like to believe that I approached blogging with the same spirit. Which isn't to say that I haven't ever written some gems that seem hideously halfassed in hindsight, but rather that on the whole, I've increasingly tried to post things that felt entirely honest, and true to myself. Or at least, as true to myself as I can consciously be, while bearing in mind the whole morass of unconscious mess that underlies everything I think I know about myself. That overall aim, of just being true to where I am right now, is why this place has no theme. Or point, really. It's just... a space to think out loud, to process things, to note them for memory's sake. Sometimes I hope it's a space to stimulate some conversations I think we should be more comfortable having out loud, but mostly it's much more narcissistically everyday than that. Mostly, it's a journal.

The difficulty with that, of course, is I'm writing this journal in public. Once I hit publish on a post, and it disappears off into the ether, those words are potentially forever able to return and bite me on the ass. I often roll my eyes and sneer at those blogs which are unendingly superficially upbeat and beautiful, but actually, I think I get it. That's a low risk sort of enterprise, and I have never been a gambling woman.

Now that I'm at the point where I'm just waiting for my dream job (or, indeed, any job in my chosen specialty) to appear so that I can apply for it, I'm once again worried about boundaries. About privacy. About risks. About how much I'd be willing for someone from my professional life to be able to stumble across about me on the internet. How much I'd be willing for a patient to see. And I know that really, objectively, the risks are small. It's a pretty select group of you who seem not to mind my wittering, and this place isn't about to win any high web traffic awards anytime soon. But I'm less and less sure that I'm willing to tolerate any kind of risk at all. And I'm more and more aware that my pretence at anonymity is a bit of a farce. All of this is making it harder to write anything authentic. I'm starting to feel overexposed.

And, I'm torn. Maybe I should carry on as is. After all, it's good to do things that make you a little uncomfortable, but then again, I'm more than a little uncomfortable already. Maybe I should stop altogether. It's not like I even post that frequently anymore anyway, and really, I'm not exactly writing earth-shattering, life-changing insights here. But I don't think I want to take that step. So, maybe I should make this place private. The explicit control over who can and can't see what I write would be immensely comforting... and immensely limiting. It takes a degree of boldness that I sure don't have to ask someone to be included in a private blog, so I'd essentially be cutting off any new readers, the idea of which makes me pretty unhappy given the amazing people I've met, and continue to get to know everyday through this medium.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. But while I think about it, there are a couple of things I really want to know from you. Firstly, if I do make this place private, with all the faff of getting email addresses from those of you who would want to read, and all the faff of you needing to sign in to blogger/reader/whatever with that email address when you come to read it, would you stick around? Would it be worth the bother? Be honest with me, I can take it. And secondly, who the heck are you anyway? Not those of you who comment all the time, and whose blogs I read in turn obviously, but the rest of you, the silent lurkers. My numbers are small, but I can tell that more people read than comment, and I'm curious about you. So please, introduce yourselves. It seems that I need to know who it is that I'm talking to here.

The best medicine

2011-08-17T22:09:00.003+01:00

Like I said, it's been a year that we've been doing this living apart for work bullshit. A WHOLE YEAR. In a two and half year long marriage, even in a six year long relationship, that's a pretty long time. And I'm not going to sugar coat it for you, it's been hard. Increasingly so. It's hard on each of us individually; he sees it in my sudden tears that sometimes well without warning on mornings when we're saying farewell, and I see it in his face... oh dear me, I see the effects of it much more than I'd like to in his face. So, we're each dearly paying the price for this career choice that we've made, but what about our marriage? What kind of toll is living separately taking on that?

Against all odds, and despite the dire warnings of well-meaning friends and ill-advised strangers, so far it seems to have escaped unscathed. I can hardly believe it, but our marriage seems to be happily sitting there, wholly intact. And when I sit and examine it, hold it up to the light, scrutinise it closely, I can see no cracks, no signs of strain. If anything, it seems to be stronger than ever, healthily thriving under adversity.

I have no real idea why that might be the case, although my suspicion that this was likely to happen is why I married the man to begin with. And with such limited experience of marriage, and no idea of what tomorrow might bring, and how we might ultimately cope should this situation continue for another year, maybe even two, getting more and more difficult to bear every day, I feel a bit of a naive fool offering any theories on the matter. But I've got one.

We laugh.

We laugh all the time that we're together. Pant-wetting, knee-weakening, belly laughs. We're silly, incredibly silly. We make five year olds look sophisticated. We're rude, and politically incorrect, and beyond childish. I laugh easily at the best of times, but I have a horrid tendency to take life much too seriously if I'm left unchecked. My Boy keeps me well in check as he takes almost nothing seriously. He always finds a way to make light of even the darkest, most devastating of situations, always a way to bring light. That lightheartedness, that laughter? I think that's it, really. Laughter seems to be all it takes, for us.

Well, laughter and hot sex. Then again, they go rather nicely together.

Photo by Tozzphoto

Keeping on

2011-08-16T21:52:00.002+01:00

This evening I got home to an absolutely magical surprise. The Boy had come back for the night as he'd finished work early, so we both went out for dinner and drinks with a friend.

Yes, just that. So... simple, and yet in our daily separation, so unbelievably fantastic.

After a year of living apart, having each other only on weekends when we're not working, or on holidays, and with no end in sight, it can sometimes feel very, very hard to remember exactly what the point of it all is. This evening served as a deliciously bittersweet reminder of what the everyday could be for us again, one day. A reminder of the eventual goal, and of all of reasons to keep on keeping on.

Anthem

2011-08-15T22:36:00.004+01:00

It's funny how the world works sometimes. I've been thinking a lot about body image lately, and how unhealthy mine is at the moment (obsessing about one's bejewelled, befeathered bikini'd Carnival costume is but a hair's breadth away from unhelpfully obsessing about how flawed one will look in said bejewelled, befeathered bikini), but not wanted to put it into writing because, well, frankly... can of worms. But that Liz is a much more brave and eloquent writer than I am, so she went there.

I'm not going there. Not yet at any rate. But until I do, I'm making this my new anthem. Because, despite my many flaws, fuck yeah, I am.

Farewell Potter

2011-08-12T00:24:00.004+01:00

Atrociously late to the party, but can we talk about Harry Potter for a minute? About how distractingly hot Neville Longbottom has grown? Um, wait, that's not what I meant to say, I guess I got distracted...

Ahem. I meant, can we talk about how awesome women (Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley) were so disappointingly un-badass in this last movie, probably because they spent most of it mooning over guys who were never really deserving of them in the first place. (The unfairness of this has been a bee in my bonnet for years. And yes, I have better, more important things to be thinking about.* Your point?) Don't get me wrong, whatshisface did a decent depiction of the gloriously gormless Ron Weasley (Daniel Radcliffe sucked as Harry Potter from beginning to end, in my most humble of opinions), but come on. The boys in this series have been foolish, reckless, incredibly whiny and undeservingly lucky throughout, while the girls have always been the ones who were really clever and witty, hardworking and brave. And what ultimately happens to these amazing young women? They finish off as frumpily dressed mums, married to these same, lame, childhood crushes, instead of the chic, sexy, powerful ball-busters we all know they should have been. (Just imagine Hermione Granger and Ginny Weasley as a couple. Now, that's what I would call a happy ending. Sigh. I shall miss those two.)

Now, there's a lesson in that, boys and girls. I hope you were paying attention. I was. That is, up until I started mooning over Mr. Longbottom...

_______________

*I was trying and hopelessly failing to write a post about these more important thoughts, till I read this, which covers pretty much everything I wanted to say, much more coherently that I could have managed. So that's one less piece of drivel inflicted on the public about the riots as a result. Thank goodness for proper journalism.

Dance Party

2011-08-04T08:00:00.004+01:00

A little while ago Meg did that thing she sometimes does of writing a post about (then weddings, now) marriage, where it seems as though she's been all up in my head reading my mind. Go dancing, she said. Get your best girl friends together, get lashed (if you prefer - I prefer), and go let loose on a dance floor like there's no tomorrow. Why, yes. Yes I bloody well will, I thought.

Then she planned a big party. Motivation and opportunity. Nice one.

Life being what it is, I won't actually be in New York to break out my crazy moves on the Yay New York dance floor. But I'll be there in spirit. (I will. The Boy and I bought tickets. Look for our names on the door, and raise a glass to us as you shake your groove thang.) And while my spirit self gets down in New York, my real self will be getting down in London while wearing the bag. (Although, sadly, probably not half as stylishly.)

So my darlings, will you join me? I think we're long overdue a glorious dance party round these here parts.

I probably should have spent some time banging on about how this is all about marriage equality, and how much of a wonderful thing that is, but sweet immortals, that's just bloody obvious, isn't it? Thank goodness America is finally starting to get with the programme. Anyway, y'all know me. The cause is wonderful, and I'm totally for it, but I am all about the party and the pretty accessories. No shame in that, my friends. No shame at all.

Off the top of my head

2011-08-03T20:30:00.002+01:00

All change. Exhausting. Whoever said it was as good as a rest was speaking out their ill-informed backside.

However, despite an inauspiciously sweaty start to my new job today, I can already tell that this next 6 months is probably going to be Very Good Indeed.

My new Senior Colleague has exactly the same amount of clinical experience as me, is my age, and earns my salary (actually, less due to the funny quirks of medicine), but I'll still be expected to refer, and defer to her. This is... strange, to say the least.

Potentially wonderful strange. We get on like a house on fire.

Carnival. I am a woman obsessed. There be big plans a-making.

Game of Thrones. I am a woman possessed. There be dense books a-reading. (And a-reading, and a-reading, and a-reading...)

Amalfi Coast gorgeousness by Simply Bloom Photography.

Which settles one thing... where our next holiday will be.

Delirious

2011-07-21T10:30:00.005+01:00

You may have been recently bemused by some of my enthusiastic, if not vaguely delirious, and seemingly incoherent outbursts. Allow me to enlighten you, by sharing something I wrote before.

From the moment that Christmas is over, the preparations begin. Every weekend is another big fete, a party like no other, with thousands gathering to jump and wave and misbehave to the songs of the biggest live bands. Every week brings the launch of another new soca hit, music that sounds absolutely demented at first to the uninitiated. Music not made for listening quietly, but for sweeping you up in a tidal wave of energy and excitement that leaves you dancing and gyrating from dusk till dawn with no thought of exhaustion, till you collapse in a sweaty crippled heap when the sound systems die as the sun peeks above the horizon. Only to do it again the following weekend

The pace builds week after week. Steelbands gather in prelims then semi-finals, die-hard supporters egging them on in the nightly practices at the pan-yards, all vying to make it to the Big Yard for Panorama, hoping to be named undisputed Champion. Calypsonians take their tunes to the calypso tents, trying them out on critical audiences, only the best getting onto the Savannah Stage for the Sunday night show Dimanche Gras. Only one can be crowned Calypso King.

And the costumes. Masmakers gather in their workshops; feathers, sequins, brilliantly coloured cloth, glitter, glue, wire, form a chaotic beautiful mess, from which emerges a sparkling multitude of designs to clothe the masses who parade through the streets during the pinnacle of the festival, Carnival Monday and Tuesday. When 'pretty mas' reigns. But only after the mud, oil and paint covered, dirty-humping, fire-breathing, no-holds-barred creature of the night known as J'Ouvert has opened the way. 48 hours of partying begin. The normally conservative island throws away its inhibitions, licentiousness reigns, the bacchanalia takes over.

When else can you dance through the streets, be drunk before midday, wine on a stranger, hug up your neighbour, sleep in the gutter, and have absolutely no fear of being judged? For two days the only rule is that every man jack finds as much enjoyment as they possibly can. A massive release of tensions, of orgasmic proportions.

Come Ash Wednesday morning, everything is quiet again. The roads have been swept clean, soca is no longer played on the radio, thousands file into church and the ashes crossed onto their foreheads wash away the sins of yesterday. The island rests, catches its collective breath, assumes its usual pious appearance. Till next year, when it casts off those modest robes once again, to reveal the skimpily clad writhing maenad always waiting underneath.

It is not yet Carnival; it will not be Carnival until February 20th and February 21st next year, a time that I hope will also come to be known as my epic 31st birthday. No, it is not Carnival, but it is band launch season. The mas bands, those creators of the bejewelled and befeathered scraps of sparkly gloriousness that I so favour, are gearing up to reveal the costumes that will be on offer for next year's revelry. In particular, my favourite mas band is launching this weekend. Having thoroughly missed the bachannal for two whole years in a row, I am beyond ready to play myself on the streets of Port of Spain again.

So, bear with me as I try to cope with and contain the delicious delirium that accompanies Carnival fever. It's only mildly contagious and leaves no lasting damage, I promise.

Images of Trinidad Carnival by Sojon.

Say my name

2011-07-16T15:42:00.004+01:00

As of today, the holiday is over.

From tonight I return to the daily grind. Night shifts. Weekends. Over 2 hours commuting every day. Admin. Bureaucracy. Bullshit. But...

I will be doing all of the above as a certified badass.

Remember this exam? The one I failed the first time round, felled at the last hurdle in my slow and somewhat tortuous journey toward elusive career happiness, and, I'll admit it, thoroughly humiliated in the process? (Doctors may not all be good at doctoring, but one thing our training makes us very good at is exam-taking. Professional exam passers, that's us. Or who we should be.) The one responsible for the recent unshakeable knot in my shoulders, dearth of fun in my everyday, and gnawing pit of anxiety in my gut? Well, I haven't forgotten it. Not for hardly a moment. But...

I passed that sucker. Fucking aced it. And in so doing, I sense a return to better form than I've been on for quite some time.

Of course, the way from here on in is just as tortuous and plagued with anxiety and bullshit as ever before. Some things never change. But at least now I'll be walking down that road as Dr. A. Girl, Member of the Royal College of Badassery.

That's right. Now say my name, bitch.

(Image by greenshock.)

Toe in the water

2011-07-12T20:52:00.002+01:00

It turns out that a sun-lounger, pool-side, is a pretty introspective place to be. At least, it is when said pool-side is in the middle of Nowheresville, Deeply Rural France, a place so quiet you can hear your thoughts aloud, alongside the cicadas, birdsong, and cows coming home to feed. A place where there is precisely nothing much to do, so that apart from exploring the odd chateau, or browsing the odd market, you manage to finish seven books in as many nights. A pile including funny feminist books, and scandalous French ones, that make your in-laws raise an eyebrow and purse their lips at your interesting selection. A place where you slowly turn nut brown, all while growing fat and strong on cheese and bread and wine and long country walks and shaded cycle rides and laps upon laps before breakfast lunch and dinner. A place where you fall asleep next to the man you married, and wake up next to him every day for days on end and marvel that some people do this all the damn time and take something so incredibly precious for granted. A place where you unwind, completely, and eventually manage to look outside yourself as well, if only to figure out where next to go from here.

State of neglect

2011-06-25T12:51:00.002+01:00

Well, hello there. My, but it's been a while since I was around regularly. It's not that I haven't thought of you - I have, quite a lot actually. And it's lovely to know that you've thought of me as well. But well, I've been a little busy.

I know, that's no excuse really. Being busy doesn't always keep me away. And even though I will be most un-busy while on holiday from a couple days time, I have a feeling that this lack of real presence may well continue for some time to come. I say blame it on the therapy. I haven't had many significant words to spare since it started.

But, with a bit more time on my hands I may have some more trivial ones. I expect they may especially be about my latest obsession: getting home to celebrate my next birthday on the road for Trinidad Carnival. Yes, I know that's just under 8 months away. But, really, can you blame me for getting excited a little early?

Scenes from Trinidad Carnival by Ranapics, dexout, sojon, and Andre Neufville.

Apparently

2011-06-02T22:57:00.002+01:00

Apparently, this weekend is going to be a scorcher.
Apparently, my in-laws are having a barbeque, and we're invited.
Apparently, most communication with my in-laws now comes through me. It was only a matter of time.
Apparently, my father-in-law ends his emails with LOL. I can't work out if it means lots of love or laugh out loud from the context.
Apparently, I can't make it. Because I'm working. Again.
Apparently, that doesn't stop everyone else (I'm looking at you, Boy) from having fun. As well it shouldn't.

Definitely have fun you, wherever you are, whatever the weather. Do it for me.

Six, Three

2011-05-27T10:20:00.004+01:00

Six years ago today...

It was the last day of their neurology attachment. Set free into a gloriously sunny day, a bank holiday weekend stretching languorously ahead of them, the group quickly planned a celebration, before excitedly scattering like a disturbed flock of birds to make their preparations. In an hour they regrouped, and armed with picnics, booze and bare limbs they set off on their adventures. First, punting, roaming the rivers of the town, kept afloat through glee as much as by skill. Then, a picnic on a lawn in a particularly beautiful college garden, in a town replete with beautiful college gardens. Lazing about in the sunshine or playing croquet, collecting grass stains and bruised shins in equal measure. As shadows grew longer, a smaller group kept going as others made their farewells; now the pub, then a meal. Finally, there were only two left. A girl and a boy walked to her home, sat on her couch, talked for hours. Eventually, when she'd given up hope and thought it would never happen, he kissed her. And kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her.

Three years ago, almost today...

It was the last day of the week. Set free from their respective hospitals early, a significant day looming momentously ahead of them, a girl and a boy returned home to excitedly make their preparations. As time passed, the rest of the group gathered, armed with booze, cake, and smartly dressed limbs. Then at the appointed hour, they set off together for their great adventure. First, the registry office, where hands held tightly, a girl and a boy floated down an aisle toward their future together, kept aloft through the joy of their gathered family as much as by their own love. Then, a picnic of cake and champagne at their little flat, two families toasting their merging as one, all collecting smiles and wishes for future happiness in equal measure. As shadows grew longer, the whole group kept going as everyone was reluctant to make their farewells; now a walk, then a celebratory meal. Finally, there were only two left. A girl and a boy returned to their home, sat on their couch, talked for hours. Sooner than they'd planned for it to happen, there they were: husband and wife. So she kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.

Today...

A girl and a boy will go to work, long tedious days ahead of them. At the end of the day they'll excitedly head home, armed with work, booze, and tired limbs. They'll regroup; plans for the evening will be quickly made, brief preparations before embarking on some kind of adventure together, what exactly as yet unknown. Finally, a girl and a boy will return home, sit on their couch, talk for hours. And then kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Still.

Conversations

2011-05-23T19:43:00.005+01:00

Overheard in our kitchen...

Girl: You certainly are a very good husband.

Boy: I'm a paragon.

Girl: A paragon of husbandry!

Boy: What, like looking after animals?

...

Both: Well, actually...

Collapse laughing

Girl (languidly sipping on an after-work cocktail): So, what do you call the art of being a good husband?

Boy (hunched sweating over the stove): Serfdom? Indentured labour?

Personally, I prefer love slavery. We may have been married for almost three years, but clearly the romance isn't dead yet.

Sunny days allowing alfresco meals means that the recent taste of early summer has been sweet.

Identity crisis

2011-04-30T01:57:00.004+01:00

Tell me, if you were a girl from a Caribbean country whose ancestors from only three or four generations ago included such a motley crew as indigenous Caribs, African slaves, Chinese indentured labourers, Portuguese entrepreneurs, and English plantation and slave owners, and if you had forged an identity for yourself out of this volatile cocktail of DNA as wholly belonging to the country of your birth, proudly Republican. If you then left that country to spend the formative years of your young adulthood in one of those many mother countries, the one whose origins in your lineage always made you the most uneasy, suspecting it to have been the result of rape or some foul play. If you then found yourself in the position after many years of having lived in this place, of actually quite liking it, and them, of grappling with the possibility of becoming one of its citizens, eventually deciding that yes, yes, you will, so swearing an oath of allegiance to that country's head of state, she a monarch, you a woman of your word. Tell me, after all of this, what will you claim as your identity?

Sometimes, I envy those who are so certain. Who seem to always know right from wrong, black from white, those who seem to see no moral ambiguity in the world around them. Their world looks such a simple place. I know no such certainty. There is no black, no white. When you've lived your life as a peculiarly heterogenous shade of brown, your entire world comes to be made out of indistinct smudges of grey.

All that said, I do love a good wedding. For a time, even onlookers' worlds are coloured the rosiest shade of joyful hope.

Halycon days

2011-04-27T00:01:00.004+01:00

Good, better, best.

Never let it rest.

'Til your good is better

and your better is best.

(The stuff of which a million neuroses is made.)

This past month has been utterly wonderful. Occasionally, I've pinched myself, or paused to let a moment soak in, and wonder - is this really my life? Because, this life is good.

My life is good.

That's not a boast. That's an affirmation. An acknowledgement of something that I know to be true, but that I simply don't let myself appreciate enough. I spend so much of my life trying to be better, perfect, the best, that the just good enough right here right now is all too often overlooked.

This month, I wallowed in it. And my right here right now wasn't just good, it was the best. Who'd have thought it?

Not me, apparently. Silly girl.

The halycon days are over for now, these good the best ones. They are replaced by the sorts of weeks, the tedious, seemingly interminable ones, that carve out the bedrock of this life, and generate the fertile soil in which these happy days can flourish. The rough weeks of endless on calls, project and presentation, paperwork and portfolio completing, and nose to grindstone studying, all between snatched exhausted glimpses of the Boy, that make these languorous, golden springsummertime weekends gleam ever more brightly when they come.

And they will come again, these idyllic days. They will they will they will.

But I'm willing to bet, now that I've made this obvious but not-so-simple realisation about this life of mine, that even in the middle of the worst of the wearying tedium, I'll be able to pause, let a moment soak in, and think - this life is good.

Happy Easter, Chickens

2011-04-24T19:55:00.003+01:00

Weekender: Home edition

2011-04-18T08:00:00.002+01:00

We had Very Exciting Plans for this weekend. We bailed on them. Instead, we spent the days mooching around town, stumbling upon gigs at our local independent record store, eating brunch at old favourite places and dinner at new ones, sunning ourselves, and grubbing in the soil. A whole herb garden's worth of grubbing, with a few prettily flowering things thrown in for good measure. And there was a lot of just being. Sometimes being together, sometimes being apart, together.

As weekends go, this one was just about perfect.

Weekender: Brighton edition

2011-04-11T23:15:00.002+01:00

Sunshine.

Seaside.

The Boy.

Really excellent company.

Fantastic food.

Wonderful moments.

Colour me thoroughly relaxed.

Future perfect

2011-04-10T17:57:00.006+01:00

A couple of trivially momentous moments from the weekend:

An elderly gentleman, stroking and kissing the arm of his ancient, wheelchair-bound wife, while feeding her an ice-cream sundae in the sunshine. Which might have made me cry a little behind my sunglasses, and squeeze my husband's hand tight.

A trio of tow-headed boys on the beach, performing their Bieber-esque song and dance routine for our private audience of two, and their gleeful acceptance of cheers and a 20p fee when it was over. Which may have made us laugh till we cried behind our sunhats, then gaze wistfully after their retreating figures.

If those were small glimpses into what could be our future, the future looks pretty perfect.

Swagger

2011-04-08T22:56:00.003+01:00

Most days, I reckon that I'm too uptight. As part of that, much of the time my walk is purely functional. One foot in front of the other in a purposeful stride, the sole aim of which is to transport me from point A to point B as briskly and efficiently as possible, in an absolute display of dogged linearity. Loiterers and other slowly moving specimens are impatiently overtaken, left drifting in my wake.

But some days, some happy days, the temperatures are just high enough, and the sun shines just brightly enough, and my diary is just empty enough, to allow things to change. Ligaments loosen and limbs relax and gradually, my pace slows right down. To walk becomes an aim in itself, to wander outdoors for the pure joy of it, points A and B now meaningless constructs compared to the sinuously winding journey inbetween.

It's about then that I develop my swagger.

It lies in the figure of eight (in the horizontal plane) that my hips make as I move. The same one that wearing high heels enforces, and which I always manage awkwardly until I have my first drink (see relaxed limbs, loosened ligaments), magnificently thereafter. It lies in my cultural propensity to 'walk and wine', gyrating always to the beat of an inner drum, every stride a new step in life's long dance. In lies in a renewed delight in my femininity, a full embrace of my 'otherness', a joyous celebration of the hypnotic power of my ass when poured into those jeans, or caressed by that skirt.

I reckon that at this time of year, I give damn good swagger.

Photo by the ever joyous Color Me Katie.

Sprung

2011-04-07T16:25:00.002+01:00

What is there to say, after that?

Weekender: Paris edition

2011-04-05T22:07:00.004+01:00

We arrived in Paris, freshly dishevelled off the Eurostar late Saturday morning, dumped our things in the basic but clean hotel with incredibly friendly and helpful staff a short walk away from the station, and enquired at the front desk - where could two starving girls get some genuinely good French cuisine? Just a few yards away, apparently.

After devouring the lunchtime special, which turned out to be a significantly larger hunk of tender lamb than I was expecting (my French is pretty rusty at the moment, but Parisians were surprisingly and thankfully good-humouredly tolerant of our attempts to either butcher their beautiful language, or just slowly speak English at them with the wonderfully arrogant expectation that everyone understands English, obviously that native English speakers tend to hold), washed down with wine and followed up by a very lovely trio of strawberry sweet somethings (I wasn't lying when I said we were starving, and the food was excellent), we set off.

We had no plan at all, other than a vague wish to imbibe as much of Paris as we could. And so, we wandered the streets aimlessly, heading in towards the Seine, along it, away from it again, through first this arrondisement, then that one, our feet following wherever our eyes, and stomachs, fancied.

In the bright, warm, summer-like sunshine, we walked slowly, but talked a mile a minute, catching up with the most intimate details of each other's lives from the past few months, all while slightly breathlessly taking in the beautiful Parisian people, and being inspired, sartorially and otherwise. For a pair of women who were looking for a little je ne sais quoi with which to mark the start of our 30s, it was pretty much perfection.

When our feet finally started aching, we made our way back to our hotel, and after a nap and shower headed out into the vibrantly buzzing area of Canal Saint Martin to look for dinner, at the fabulously European hour of 10pm. Everywhere was open and still packed to capacity, but nowhere looked as promising as our lunchtime venue, so back we went. We didn't regret it for a second.

The next day began with a necessarily late breakfast at the hotel, and as the weather had returned to a more typically seasonal grey mizzle, we made for the musée d'Orsay, swinging by some of the more iconic monuments (and pâtisseries) en route.

Finally, we shopped (just a little - how could we not), before bidding the city farewell, and heading back to our homes across the Channel, which seemed just that little bit more prosaic in the reflected glamour of the city of light.

C'était Magnifique

2011-04-04T21:52:00.004+01:00

Vraiment.

Gorgeous photos by Little Brown Pen, wonderfully evocative of my lovely weekend in Paris*, where my best lady and I had a spectacular time flâner les avenues and people watching. Especially the women. I think there'll be a whole 'nother post coming on Parisian women. They certainly deserve it.

*And I want them ALL.

In it to win it

2011-03-20T20:31:00.003Z

Between turning 30 (epic), failing that exam (pathetic), facing unemployment in a few months (panic), and losing poppyseeds (tragic), life has been whizzing by these parts at a rate of knots. And I mostly haven't written a damn thing about any of it.

The radio silence is partly due to a renewed case of work-related paranoia, but only marginally. Really, that's just a convenient excuse. Mostly, I think it's because I'm going through something that I simply cannot yet articulate. I'm just too in it. I feel in the midst of a transition of some kind, a trial of fire or rite of passage that's altering me on some primal level, forging me into some stronger, hopefully wiser, definitely more resilient version of myself. And at this time, in this place, all I can do is surrender to the experience, excruciating growing pains and moments of ectastically illuminating joy, wordlessly.

Paree

2011-03-16T22:04:00.002Z

If you and your very best ladyfriend were running away to Paris for a weekend together, tell me:

what would you do?

where would you stay?

what would you see?

where would you eat?

and which blogs might you read to put a sweet Parisian spring in your step in anticipation?

This girl and her very best ladyfriend would very much like to know.

(Photographic deliciousness by Irene Suchocki.)

Go shorty

2011-02-20T17:45:00.003Z

It's my birthday. My 30th to be exact. Then again, who's counting? Sure as heck not me.

(Image via we heart it.)

My life, in a nutshell

2011-02-19T15:36:00.002Z

Too busy for words.

(Image by Véronique Pêcheux, via The Rightness of Wayward Sentiment)

P.S. Missing you muchly.

Big Day

2011-01-27T11:54:00.003Z

You thought a wedding day was big? Try the day on which you sit what might be (provided you pass) the last of your professional exams, the grand culmination of 24 years worth of academic hard graft. An exam that you absolutely must pass in order to exit this particular work purgatory, and free yourself to potentially develop a career that actually makes you happy to get up in the morning. Now that is a Big Day.

I'm excited. A little nervous, a lot underprepared, and not even remotely on top form, but still. Ready to go and do my best tomorrow to kick that muthafucking exam's ass.

Do send hugs and good luck wishes. They'll be mightily appreciated and returned a thousandfold. And then? I'll see you on the other side.

(Via east side bride.)

Gimme, gimme more

2011-01-21T11:25:00.003Z

Help a poor, redecorating girl out, will you?

A while back I purged my blog reader of all but my very essential reads, in order to save my sanity, but now I can't for the life of me remember half the design and decorating blogs I used to love. So do feel free to share your favourite blogs and pinboards, as I'm rather in need of inspiration, and plan to be on a full on nesting mission from February onwards. Pretty please, with a fine piece of mid-century modern furniture upholstered in a cheerful Scandinavian fabric on top!

Noisy smooches of gratitude in advance.

(Via Pinterest.)

Conversations with a Boy

2011-01-18T11:21:00.004Z

Recently, out of nowhere...

Boy: You know what really stands out for me about our wedding night? Those fucking enormous granny pants you were wearing.

Girl: stunned, mutters something about seamfree and VPLs

Boy: Oh, I completely understand why you wore them. But you must admit they were totally unexpected given the context. Talk about a Bridget Jones moment.

And that's the way to keep a marriage fresh, my friends. Always with the little surprises.

Note to self

2011-01-17T11:20:00.002Z

You can't just follow your dreams.

You have to pursue those bitches like an absolute motherfucker.

New leaf

2011-01-04T23:20:00.003Z

I happened to stumble across my own blog just now, and noticed that I've been so fucking earnest recently. The posts taken separately are one thing, but reading the front page in one go makes me want to gouge out my right eye. When did I become that person? Sweet mother of baby immortals, I profusely apologise. Let's have no more of that shall we? At least not for a while. I can't be throwing up in my mouth a little every time I look at my own blog, now can I?

Not least because these guys would severely disapprove. That shit is not irie.

Two is better than one

2011-01-03T20:57:00.002Z

The last year was a bit of a double-edged sword. There's been plenty of good, but every great happening seems to have been tainted by its accompanying hardships in a way that made it difficult to celebrate any of them with unreserved glee.

The Boy got his dream job... in a different part of the country, so we now live apart. I finally figured out my ideal career... which happens to be one of the most intensive, expensive, and uncommon training programmes in my field, making my job-hunting prospects for this year quite challenging, to say the least. I got to spend an entire month with my family... because I was forced to contemplate my father's mortality. We've finally moved into, and are having a lot of fun redecorating our very own home by our very own selves... which means that I've spent the last 5 months living in a building site. It feels as though we've really grown together, and settled into being a family proper this year... only to find ourselves with heartwrenching difficulty in expanding that family.

However, despite the all-too-many hot tears shed, and the increasingly exhausting effort involved in looking on the bright side, counting blessings, and keeping positive, one thing has remained an unending, unspoiled, and blessedly easy source of contentment - our marriage.

So here's to our 2nd anniversary. Here's to the beginning of a third year of marriage, one which can only (hopefully!) be better than the last, and one for which I am already wholly grateful. And here's to a little bit of uncomplicated good luck, a spot or two of pure joy, and the ability to let the sunshine come flooding in.

Ring out, ring in

2010-12-31T18:28:00.002Z

There are a few things I resolve not to carry with me into the new year.

Guilt, worry, envy, shame;

I will be parting ways with these old friends at the tolling of the bells, leaving them well behind in 2010, which was their all-too-familiar preserve.

Instead, to meet 2011, I shall take with me laughter, love, hope and joy.

I hear they make most excellent travelling companions.

As for you, may your new year only sparkle, ever more brightly.

Merry, Bright

2010-12-24T09:45:00.003Z

Have yourselves a merry little Christmas.

May all be calm, and bright.

30 lessons

2010-12-22T12:54:00.005Z

Last week, my parents celebrated their 30th wedding anniversary. They did so with a photo shoot by our favourite wedding photographers, for which they dressed up in their finest rags, before prancing around in a bamboo cathedral. They ended their day of (remarkably contemporary - has my mother been reading blogs, I wonder?) fun with a romantic dinner, and by all accounts had the Very Best Time. Today, the celebrations continue, as they fly out to spend Christmas and the New Year together on an even more remote and beautiful Caribbean island, something which has become a tradition for them, while they allow me the space to negotiate new family traditions of my own.

My parents are the most loved up couple I know. Despite a rocky start, decades filled with the banal and the mundane, and their fair share of trials and tribulations, they seem to have never stopped being in love, in that cheesy, hand-holding, spending all their time together, sweet-nothing murmuring, cheeky bottom-pinching kind of way. I've always held their relationship up as my gold standard of What A Marriage Should Look Like, and always felt incredibly lucky to have been privileged enough to witness such an amazing love affair at close range. That said, it was also intimidating; for years I feared that I'd been shown a too idealised version of married life, and would therefore be completely spoiled for anything more pedestrian. Thankfully, things have worked out for me much better than I'd ever hoped.

But, from watching my parents through the years it became clear that their great love affair was one that they made possible on a daily basis, from the choices that they made, and the effort they put into it, and each other. And because I can't think of a better marriage to emulate, I asked them to share some of the things that they learnt about marriage, so that I may better work on maintaining the health and longevity of my own. What they had to say was surprisingly simple, even obvious, but it rings true for me, so I've decided to share it here in their own words, edited only to preserve anonymity (and my dignity).

The best advice we can give for a successful marriage is what worked for us.
Always be positive. No matter what, the glass is always full, if only of air!
Never ever go to bed angry...never!
Never criticize the perceived faults of your spouse. You have faults that he is tolerating too. ...everyone has strengths and weaknesses. Love the strengths! IGNORE THE WEAKNESSES!!!
Don't take yourself too seriously. Laugh and have fun together. Be each other's best friend.
Last but certainly not least, your mother and father still go out on dates.

So... remain optimistic, don't hold grudges, or be needlessly critical, have a laugh, and remember to be romantic on occasion. An easy enough recipe for 30 years of unalloyed joy. At least, I sure do hope so.

Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad. You guys still rock the house down. Long may you continue to do so.

They had some thoughts on parenting, too. Equally concise ones.

Let there be light

2010-12-21T17:07:00.002Z

The winter solstice and a lunar eclipse. Things will only get brighter from here...

I no longer fear you, oh deepest of January midwinters. For now I know the darkest days are done.

Perfectly imperfectly committed

2010-12-17T13:47:00.003Z

I've been thinking about relationships and our expectations of what they should offer a lot, ever since reading this post, and some of Elizabeth Gilbert's thoughts on the matter in Committed, and I've been becoming increasingly bemused and incensed in equal measure. Or rather, I suppose it's the assumptions about what relationships should appear to offer that I find particularly off-putting, as I can't quite bring myself to believe that the majority of women are daft enough to really hold some of the beliefs that society seems to espouse. (You know, all the nonsense about Mr. Right, and Settling (or not), and being in some way Completed by your partner, and Soul-Mates, and there being only One Perfect Person for you, and all that insidious jazz.) Ever optimistic and naive, that's me.

But then I realised that I'm as guilty as anyone else of bolstering these impossible ideals, and of making sure that only the prettiest, shiniest, most perfect bits of our relationship are presented to the world. That realisation came when I shared our unedited engagement story for the first time, and in so doing realised that I'd never written about it before, in all it's true-to-life, bittersweetly beautiful glory.

It's a bit of a dilemma, though. I don't consciously try to present our relationship in some idealised and saccharine fashion (although, really, I can't help the fact that all things considered, we are a happy couple, and our relationship has, on the whole, worked stonkingly well so far), and I do occasionally share some of the trickier bits. But surprise, surprise! given my usual degree of oversharing, I do have some boundaries. I firmly believe that there are some things that belong solely within the walls of the marriage (put quite well in Committed in the explanation of the windows and walls theory), and have no place being more widely shared. Expect maybe a bit later down the road when they've been worked through, and you've got the odd useful insight to share. And inevitably, it's the messier things that feel most intimate, and least appropriate for general dissemination. I also (very narcissistically, I know) try to keep this place as much about me and my view of the world as possible. It's not really meant as a live-blog of our marriage after all, although, inevitably given the centrality of our marriage to my current experience of the world, it features quite heavily. And the Boy has some rights to privacy, after all. As do I.

So where does that leave me? Well, not much further along from where I began, I suppose, although maybe more hopeful that the societal white noise about idealised relationships really is just meaningless fluff, and that everyone else simply has the same boundaries in place that I do. And, as always, and ever contrarily, a bit sad that we need to erect such boundaries around our true selves to begin with. Because I remain unconvinced that not sharing our whole stories is particularly helpful.

___________________

A few more thoughts on A Practical Wedding book club's Committed, for those of you who asked. (You can find my other essay on it here.) I quite enjoyed it, especially the first half, mostly I think because I quite like Elizabeth Gilbert's voice. (Probably because I'm equally neurotic, and prone to melodrama and overanalysis.) I did start to tire of it a bit toward the end, and thought the book could easily have been rather shorter, with less of the whole, slightly condescending 'What a marvellous approach these non-Westerners have to marriage and family!' and chewing the cud of her reluctance. But I thought some good points were raised overall.

For starters, the entire situation that led her to write the book in the first place resonated deeply with me. No one was arrested in an airport in our case, nor were we both divorced with enormous issues around the institution of marriage, but I did face a very real threat of deportation, which both triggered our formal engagement (see the unedited engagement story above), and then caused us to have an emergency civil ceremony 5 months ahead of our planned wedding date. So I was a pretty sympathetic reader from the start.

I loved the chapter on the history of marriage, and found it absolutely fascinating and thought-provoking. As I already mentioned, I've been mulling over her thoughts on the modern woman's expectations of marriage, and the windows and walls theory of intimacy and the development of infidelity. I also found some points in the book incredibly reassuring (such as the discussion about conflict averse couples with mutually accommodating behaviour - we're OK! Our marriage isn't about to implode in a storm of unresolved tensions because we don't have shouting matches on a regular basis!), and others worth bearing in mind and consciously assessing how our relationship copes with in future (particularly the likely strains of parenthood, and especially the potential for motherhood to introduce detrimental inequalities to a marriage).

So, while I did think it went on a bit (kind of like this post...), and while I couldn't empathise with her basic premise of finding the very idea of marriage unappealing, I did find it an engaging and worthwhile read. I know some of you disagreed. Feel free to let me know why.

By way of vague and disjointed explanation

2010-11-30T00:08:00.002Z

We've been back in the UK for only two weeks, where the extremely wintry conditions are making scenes like these a pleasant, but distant and vaguely impossible memory. I'm grateful for having had my vitamin D levels topped up, though. Makes all the difference.

An enormous amount of effort has been put into Operation Make This House A Home by the Boy during the time that we've been back, meaning that apart from one or two small but tedious bits, only our double height living room remains to be painted. Provided we can get around to hiring some indoor scaffolding for the weekend before Christmas ('Ha! Never happen!' I hear you saying? Trust me, my husband is a man on a DIY mission), we just might be free of paint fumes, and the effects of their slow and gradual poisoning, and onto the next phase of shelf-building, furniture-sourcing, unpacking and stuff-sorting by the new year. The very idea of this makes me positively tingle with excitement.

I did a lot of reading over my holiday, and I can admit right now that Off the bookshelf reviews of all (or indeed, any) of those books are, unfortunately, never going to happen. (Sorry Slow Readers' Book Club! I do love you guys, you know. One day I'll post another review, I promise.) I will say this regarding the A Practical Wedding Book Club choice, though; I'm glad my words are tasty, because I've had to eat them and swallow them whole. I am Elizabeth Gilbert's newest fan - yes, even of Eat, Pray, Love, so help me for admitting to it (although, it should be born in mind that I was in an extremely emotionally fragile state when I first read it, so we'll see what I make of it, and of me, once I've processed it further...) - and I absolutely refuse to be ashamed of my liking for her writing. (Um... Provisos excluded, of course.)

I'm about to become an even worse blogger than usual. The Exam to End all Exams (quite literally) looms expensively near, rapidly followed by a round of somewhat desperately critical job applications. I have more invested in the happy outcomes of both of these than ever before, so I feel obligated to diligently prepare for them. And sadly, there are not hours enough in the day for keeping up with both my online and real-life worlds when anxiety-inducing events on this scale appear. So, my virtual lovelies, for the most part I'll be catching up with all your splendid adventures sometime next February. Don't go having too many of them, now.

Which isn't to say that I won't be around occasionally, in the meantime. It is Christmas and the turning of the year, after all, and what with all this time of year brings for me, I am sure I'll be back with more vague and disjointed musings before this particularly delightful interlude in my life has passed. (Although, I will in general try to make more sense than I do today.)

Till then, keep warm, through and through.

I dream in technicolour

2010-11-11T12:00:00.005Z

Green velvet carelessly thrown lies creased and crumpled, forming the hills that envelop this world and kiss the sky; ever present backdrop to the dramas of everyday life.

Green velvet carelessly thrown lies creased and crumpled, forming the hills that frame, and the valleys that run gleamingly, gladly to the blue silk sheet of the sea.

Now I return to dully grey wintry England, and there I will dream in technicolour of the blue, the green, the sky, the hills, the sea.
Always, of the sea.

You can go home again

2010-11-08T07:52:00.002Z

But will you ever be able to stay?