Things I will never be

A scientist
My mind is blown by things like space and the intricacies of photosynthesis. There’s no way I could get my head round the Higgs-Boson, no matter how much Brian Cox tries to put it in layman’s terms for me.

A long term addict
With anything. I think I’m a bit too lazy to really put work into developing a drug/drink addiction. I’d have found some cake to eat before then and wandered off.

Polished
I’m just not a polished type of gal, unfortunately. I love the idea that I’m all neat and put-together looking.  You know what I mean. When you look at someone and think, “They’ve taken a minute to think about how they look.” It’s extremely unlikely that I appear that way when I leave the house. My anti-brushing tactic in relation to my hair gives me away in a second.

An animal/child doctor
I don’t like things which are illogical. Animals and children are both illogical and don’t understand sound reasoning. The child/cat/hamster would be all struggling and squealing and I’d be like, “Don’t be so stupid! I’m trying to make you better, you idiot!”

Pet owner/mother
See above. Besides, if there was something else jumping about and requiring my attention, when would I bake cakes?

A lover of programs about machines
There seem to be a lot on at the moment. Extreme Ship Engineering is the latest. Well, I don’t know what it’s called but it’s something like that. It’s a massive ship and they’ll stand next to the big blade things and the pipe things for about half an hour enthusiastically discussing how it works and how to clean it and how to fix it. I’ve tried, people. I’ve tried to watch it and be more informed and aware, to expand my horizons and interests. It didn’t work. When watching the clothes on the clothes horse dry had taken up more of my interest, I realised it was time to change the channel.

W is for…

WHERE ARE THE PEOPLE?

…my constant request whilst in Pompeii earlier this week. I had seen a programme about Pompeii a few weeks before going and the historian lady, strolling around looking at things, stopped behind some of the now-famous plaster casts of Pompeian people who were found when excavating the town. She said something like “This is the first thing that greets you when you enter Pompeii.”

Well, thought I, this will be excellent. I shall see the actual people. I will see their faces and can imagine what their lives must have been like and imagine them in these grand homes.

I find it fascinating, imagining the people going about their daily lives. It suddenly makes history a really alive subject that I can connect with because I can start to imagine myself in the past and how different my life would have been from the one I am now leading.

So we entered Pompeii, my eyes scanned for the Pompeians lying on the ground….

Eventually, walking into the Stabian Baths, we saw a few in glass boxes…

…and it was so strange. On the TV programme, they had talked about pyroclastic flows and ash falling and four different flows of something, which had meant that people had died almost immediately. There was no long drawn-out choking to death or disease or anything. They had been caught unawares and had barely any time to try and escape. So when I looked at the man in the top case, I imagined him seeing the ash falling and lying down and covering his face and being immortalised that way, forever. How strange, that the smallest action has defined his life forever. Of all the other things he did in his life here at Pompeii, he is forever defined by covering his face from the approaching disaster.

We kept walking but it was a long time before we saw any more people, which had become my obsession at Pompeii, a little bit.

Danda walking across the stones set high up in the road so people could still cross the road when it was raining.

Me ‘working’ in the Pompeian version of a deli.

Wall paintings

Floor mosaics

More people! The lady on the programme said that this position with the arms is typical of someone going into rigor mortis after a shock.

This one is strange in a totally different way. His exposed skull and two thousand year old teeth poking out from the plaster made me feel odd, like I’d accidentally seen someone undressing.

You can even see the shape of the belt he was wearing when Vesuvius decimated the town.

We found some more people in an area which seemed to be blocked off for archaeologists to work in, although there were none there at the time. In between all the wine jars and other artefacts, there were some more people.

The lady on the programme talked about how this person had probably crouched down and put their hands to their face to stop the ash going on it.

This person, it seems, dived on the floor and hid their face.

O and here’s one we found. Just in amongst the wine jugs on the shelf. Have you spotted him yet?

After looking at loads more buildings and reading in my little guidebook about what it used to be and who used to live there, we were back near the entrance, we had been there for five hours and were both knackered.

“But I didn’t see the people from the programme…” I said sadly.

Danda insisted we go and find them, even though I was tired and said it was ok. He reminded me that we don’t know if we’ll ever come back here so we mustn’t go home disappointed. So off we went, back into Pompeii, not much time to spare before closing, the tourists almost all gone, to find “the people.”

We trekked right back to the other end, near to the vineyards which, by the way, they have replanted and turned back into working vineyards (the wine produced there is called Villa dei Misteri) and eventually we found them! The people! The people lying on the floor! Hurrah!

And it was so interesting. I was enthralled, standing up against the glass case imagining who’s children they were, which house had been theirs, whether they had worked in the vineyards, as that is where these 13 were found during excavations or whether they had lived close by and just run there together to shelter.

Eventually, time and daylight were running out so we made our way back to the entrance, having added an hour on for “the people” and left, among the last few.

What a brilliant brilliant day. Damn planes and trains and the history of the automobile, give me some real people’s faces and clothes and lives to look at and I’m planning my future as an archaeologist/historian.

That’s inbetween my full time job as a farmer, my part time job as the world’s best baker, my hobby as an internationally renowned pianist and my ongoing project as a human rights lawyer.

I can fit it all in, don’t you worry.

Some of my friends have blogs too

Yes, my real life friends. Friends I knew outside of my blogging life. They have now started blogging and entered my blogging world. Which is a bit nerve wracking as I’m trying to remember if I’ve ever written about them….! Anyway, they are lovely people with lovely blogs. Check them out…

Ex-colleague and fellow cake-lover, Abbi, at blogthehousedown.com:

“I’ve been counting the calories and even hired a personal trainer. Yesterday was my first session with her.
‘Ah this will be easy,’ I thought, “I’m not in that bad shape.”
Well, I was wrong. Today I woke up and muscles hurt that I didn’t even know existed!…
After hobbling around the bedroom for most of the morning I decided to do something productive that required minimal moving, and so I decided to try out a recipe I found for courgette muffins…
So off I hobbled to the kitchen to embark on my healthy bake…I grated courgette, I measured the skimmed milk, mixed everything together and the little things came out looking pretty good…”

Beware, though, the tasty looking courgette muffins. Pop over to her blog to find out what happens when she tastes these babies!

Next is a friend I’ve known for years through a legal charity we’ve both been involved with at different points. This blog is brand new and full of all the things I spend time thinking about too.

“More 20somethings need to talk about the fact that this can be a terrible decade, discuss why, and throw out some life rafts of useful hope so that we may all survive until our 30s come to the rescue.

The article above – while acknowledging some of the problems of being in your twenties – is a classic example of The Great 20s Myth. This is the myth that your 20s are the best years of your life. Never, we are told, will you be more beautiful, thinner, look better, have more of a wonderful time, have more sex, have more great sex, and meet more wonderful people.

Waldman’s piece is, of course, just one of many things floating around about being in your twenties at the moment. You needn’t read all of the article, just look at the photograph and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It is the doorway to the deception that your 20s are one long sun-drenched, hazy day full of sexy and formative ‘fun’. A group of beautiful, tanned, bambi-limbed friends jumping in the air fuelled, presumably, just by the sheer joy of being alive. They are having the time of their life – of course they are! They’re in their twenties!

No.”

Another blog I enjoy reading is that of two friends that I worked with once upon a time. After we no longer worked together, we remained friends and they recently jetted off for a life under the Colombian sun. Not before a trek across Spain though, stories from which are to be found on the blog. This extract is from a wonderful post about a visit to Anthony’s uncle:

“We walked on further, trudging through the mud. Up in the mountains of San Juan de Rioseca it rains a lot.

‘Look over there,’ he said. ‘That’s the Rio Magdalena.’ The sun caught it at a bend, sending a brilliant flare of light from Colombia’s mighty river to my iris.

We continued walking through the cloud forest, flanked by jungle, toward my uncle Julio’s farm. On the way we passed a tiny, tidy construction site and met Viktor. He was wearing a broad-brimmed hat, wellington boots and a shirt and jeans dirty from the jungle path. A machete hung from his waist. He greeted us with a broad smile. After explaining the plan of the house he walked with us futher into the jungle.

Eventually we arrived at a small house, built by my uncle Gildo and members of the local community 15 years ago. It was there that we met Julio, my unbelievably fit and healthy seventy-nine-year-old uncle, his wife Rosa and perhaps the happiest person I have ever met: my cousin Feniz, who is married to Viktor.”

Next up is an old uni friend, the one we used to call Mum because she took care of us. Her blog is typically her – fashion-conscious and ready to offer food! Check out this snippet from one of her recent posts (I shall need to sort my legs out soon…):

“Now onto some fashion. I am glad that Spring is on it’s way (so they say). With it’s arrival will come some pretty colours and fabrics and less of these harsh, masculine lines we always tend to lean towards in winter.

Ladies! Be proud, be feminine and embrace the fact that the sun is coming out. Only problem is, we will have to up our game with regards to defuzzing our legs…winter hair can be excused, spring hair can NOT! Haha

Enjoy wearing the pastels and bright colours, experiment with layering different fabrics and textures, find a feminine look that suits your personality, I do believe that this look is not just for the “girly girl”.”

Next up, a friend with whom I share a love of honey, funny how little things can get you chatting. He has flown to greener pastures now (East London) but writes fabulously and I can fully recommend his blog. Check it out:

“The first wave of the spring’s sun had come and gone, transforming the landscape into a bleak and seemingly barren prospect as it left. The pull of the river was strong and I was faced with a choice of another day stuck inside grey walls freezing or be under grey skies freezing. A stiff cup of freshly brewed coffee gave me the push I needed. Thirty minutes later I was standing, rather being blown about, outside the Royal Festival Hall. Rain was tickling my face, annoyingly. My mood was being coaxed into better spirits by the wind. The mood was doing it’s best to ignore it. I made my way along the Thames path towards the gate that leads to the steps to the beach by Waterloo Bridge.”

Lastly, a friend who has recently returned to his home country, Ghana. He’s Ghanaian. And he’s Lebanese. And he’s been living in the UK since forever. But… Wait a minute… He’s…. No…

His blog is partly about this identity crisis. Here’s a taster:

“My family decided to take a trip to spend quality time together. We picked a little eco resort close to the Ivory Coast boarder of Ghana next to a town called Axim; I joined them a day after they left by taking a 20 minute internal flight to Takoradi where I was picked up by my brothers.

Upon arrival, I made the short 5 meter walk from the plane to pick up my bag and exit the airport. I flashed my ID to the immigration officer and he waved me through. ”Wait. Stop!” Someone yelled from the back of the office. Here we go.

“Where are you from?”. It took a while for me to realise, amongst all the eyes staring at me, who was speaking to me. It was the head of immigration. “Ghana”, I responded irritatingly. My usual spiel was useless. Everything I said to him was thrown back at me. I am not black and he has never heard of a Ghanaian person with the surname “Mouganie”.”

A day off

The house is silent. There are no more excuses to be made. It’s time un-Christmas-ify.

I’m looking at some shoes strewn about, odd socks lying haphazardly on the floor, little piles of things to take out to the recycling and leftover Christmas cards. I know the kitchen needs tidying up from my latest adventures last night with Michel Roux Sr. I need to book train tickets to see a friend next weekend and I have letters to friends abroad that I must reply to. There are clothes in the wash basket which need washing and drying and I guess I should take down our two Christmas trees. That will take ten seconds as one is a picture of a tree and the other is a mini tree about as long as my forearm.

But let me tell you about the other potential activities I could fill my day off with. I’m very tempted by having a cup of tea and reading Narnia. I’m equally tempted by the lure of shopping. Nothing major. I just need some new muslin cloths and tupperware. And possibly a steam cooker thing as I don’t have one and Michel Roux keeps telling me to use one. It’s hindering my culinary adventures. I would also like to go for a long walk and finish listening to the audiobook of The Casual Vacancy by J. K. Rowling which, by the way, I am loving.

It’s a difficult decision to make. What to do with my day….

While I decide, I will just make a cup of tea and read Narnia a little…. Just a little….

My first bikram yoga class

I went to bikram yoga for a little while last year. Hands up who’s been to bikram yoga? So you guys know exactly what I’m about to tell you. For those of you who don’t know what bikram yoga is, it’s like yoga on acid. The first few classes, it’s mental. It’s a yoga class in a heated room, something to do with relaxing the muscles so you can stretch further in the poses. I thought I’d share my first experience of bikram yoga to make you aware of exactly what is involved in this intriguing new exercise class.

All I knew on my first class was that it was yoga in a heated room. Sounds interesting, I thought. I’ll go along for a trial class. Little did I know.

I was in a t-shirt and leggings, suitable attire for a yoga lesson. I entered the room, found a space for my mat and sat down. I noticed everyone else was dressed in barely anything. All the men were just wearing swim shorts, no t-shirts. The women were wearing little crop tops and tiny shorts. It was like being at a swimwear photo shoot.

I was wearing more clothes than anyone else in the room and suddenly was like, ‘What is wrong with these people? This isn’t a fashion parade. Why are they showing off their bodies? Have these people got no discretion?!’

And then the class started. The teacher entered and turned up the heat and for the next hour and a half, I was a complete mess. If you’d have asked me my name, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you it. My thoughts during the class went something like this….

OMYGOODNESS I’M GOING TO PASS OUT! What is she asking me to do with my leg? I think I’ll fall into a heap and disintegrate if I attempt that. Just keep control of yourself, keep control. I might have to sit down. Water! Water! Ok, let’s get involved again, whoops, stood up too quickly! Head rush. Sit down again. TOO HOT! I wish I hadn’t worn so many clothes now. O no, I think that tickling on my elbow is a bead of sweat which has run all the way down there from my armpit. Ugh, there is a sweat patch on my mat where I’ve been sitting. Ok, get up. Doing some kind of twisting leg and arm thing. Try to concentrate on one spot and keep my balance, the teacher is saying. How can I concentrate?! How can I concentrate when I’m melting? I THINK I’M GOING TO DIE! Can you die of too much heat? If no-one has before, I’ll be the first. I feel like I’ve been in here forever. How long has it been? Omygoodness, only 15 minutes. 1 hour 15 minutes to go still. I can feel delirium setting in. I think my brain is actually sweating. I’m starting to fear FOR MY LIFE. I’m being asked to balance on one leg and hold my hands in prayer position. I can barely concentrate on standing up, balancing is asking a bit much, don’t you think? Maybe I’ll just stand here, not fainting, and that will be my main achievement for my first class. Nope, not standing, sitting. I’ve never been this warm in my entire life….

After the class, I left the room, went into the corridor and leant on a window sill, trying to remember who I was. When I eventually stumbled into the changing rooms, I got into the shower, ran it on the coldest setting and stood there with trembling legs, holding onto the wall, trying to regain my composure.

My next two or three classes were similar to this but a little less messy each time. I eventually got to a point where I could go to a class without having to stop and sit down at all and I could still remember my name when I left the room.

For those of you who are thinking of trying a bikram yoga class anytime soon, let this post serve as a warning to you. Be prepared…!

Trolls

This word is being bandied around a lot lately, it’s the new name for people who commit crimes on social media sites, like Twitter. Sometimes it’s a racist slur, sometimes it’s misleading people. Or whatever. The people who commit these online crimes, are being called Trolls.

It puzzles me. How is posting a racist insult on Twitter similar to a ugly creature that lives under a bridge and won’t let you cross unless you answer some questions?

Anyway, that is a small aside and not what this post is about. Because hearing all this Troll talk got me thinking about those troll toys you used to get. Does anyone remember these? Check them out on Amazon if this isn’t ringing any bells – http://www.amazon.co.uk/trolls-Toys-Games/s?ie=UTF8&keywords=Trolls&rh=n%3A468292%2Ck%3ATrolls&page=1

They were these ugly little things, naked, with a burst of long brightly coloured hair. Whoever thought these would sell? If I’d have seen the idea in the company boardroom I would’ve told them to shelve it, it’ll never work. But it did. My friends and I all had them. I’d sit with mine for ages, plaiting the hair, unplaiting it, doing bunches, taking them out, doing a ‘fish-plait’ (cause that was quite cool then). Hours, I spent with mine, hours!

They got more complicated, they had dresses, they came in different sizes, they came in keyring format, fridge magnet format, huge lumbering ones that took up loads of your bed. Pink, purple, yellow, green, blue! And they were the ugliest things you’ve ever seen. Why was I so obsessed?

And so I come to it, one of my biggest childhood regrets. Such a wasted opportunity. Such potential for joy, thrown away in a moment of frivolity and strange obsession.

It was coming up to my birthday, I don’t know which one, maybe 6 or 7. And I had been asked what I wanted for my birthday. Trolls, only trolls, I couldn’t think of anything I wanted more! We were out shopping, I think my auntie and mum were there. There was a shop which sold trolls. We went in. And that’s when I saw them – two HUGE trolls in wedding outfits! A groom with a black suit and coat tails and purple hair, and a bride in a white dress and long pink hair.

I wanted them. I wanted them more than I’d ever wanted anything. I looked at my mum and auntie and they agreed that they’d get me them for my birthday present. So I had them, these huge trolls. I put them on my bedroom window sill and played with their hair a little bit, but mostly just watched them, standing there, admiring their hugeness.

Now you tell me if you agree with me. But what a WASTE! What a big fat waste of a year’s worth of birthday present?!

I didn’t ride a bike until really late. I could’ve done with asking for a bike and getting started on that sooner. Or a book? I’ve never read some real classics, like The Water Babies and I was a late arriver to the Winnie The Pooh fanclub. There was surely plenty more things that would have been a far better idea.

But no. I wanted two massive ugly trolls in wedding attire with illuminous hair, to stand on my window sill.

I’m beginning to doubt the sanity of my 7 year old mind.

Things I can’t wait to do after my exams

(Just a short one today as my brain is crowded out with statutes and case names…)

– Wake up just one hour before work, instead of two.

– Read novels. Or in fact anything which is not a textbook.

– Have spare time and just watch TV or sit in the garden.

– Be able to hold conversations that are absent of any mention of revision.

– Go for long walks.

– Say yes to social engagements.

– Eat properly and have separate meals instead of one long snack-fest.

– Sit somewhere apart from the front room.

– Not have scraps of notes or random textbooks on every surface.

– Take time to make myself look presentable.

– Wear clothes instead of pyjamas.

PS. Why do we say we ‘can’t wait’? That’s silly, isn’t it? Of course we can. We have to. That’s just how time works. You can’t make time move any faster than it does. Therefore, regardless of whether we want to wait or not, we have to. It’s not a question of ‘can’t’. You just have to.