Friday, April 30, 2010
I don't feel like singing, even though my voice is aging well - lower, not too husky, more controlled, less vib-wobble, I only occasionally feel like writing here, I don't feel like going back to writing what I knew as poetry but everyone else I showed it to (who all turned out to be too bloody old to recognise that being unique is more important than rhyming as if you're addressing infants) called impossible to understand, and I'm not keen on trying to eat a proper lunch at work. We only have half an hour, Monday to Thursday, I'm often disturbed and I have to bolt my food in order to digest it before the afternoon slog. So I keep it light and cold, if I eat at all; sometimes it really is just water and/or Lucozade and/or chocolate.
I look forward to jogging; me and my music, my muscling legs and my water-bottle on a belt. Trying not to make fists, I determine intervals between pairs of widely spaced lampposts. At least I think I'm fitter in my forties than in my twenties or thirties. Often I feel nauseous and have a headache after eating lunch, if it's more than a slither of peanut butter in my wholemeal pitta. That's another reason for eating earlier and keeping everything light. My body is playing tricks, or is it my head saying 'What's the use? You're always interrupted, you always feel shitty when you eat very much and prefer a more relaxed munch in the evening... better stay almost hungry, at least you won't be nauseous!' I'm taking after Steve, becoming an evening eater; a prawn omelette with just herbs and chilli, and a splash of Soya drink to make it fluffy.
Sometimes I wish I could live on just my Douwe Egberts Decaff. It's so rich, strong and smoky, so seductive that heart disease seems like a reasonable dare... Jesus, everything we eat or drink is going to kill us, it seems, so we might as well choose our poisons as if they're gemstones. Admire each facet, drink in the sensation...
Preparing and consuming my one daily cup of DED, is like taking out a precious deep shaded diamond; I feel like the only person who appreciates its beauty, the expense and lovely anticipation as I place a level scoop of the brown powder into my one-cup gold-plate mesh filter on top of my mug. The smell of the grains, the aroma as the scalding water begins to seep through and I carry my wonderfull secret back to my desk. And this stuff tastes as great luke-warm or even cold as it does hot and fresh. That's the sign of real coffee. So I might die happy...
I look forward to jogging; me and my music, my muscling legs and my water-bottle on a belt. Trying not to make fists, I determine intervals between pairs of widely spaced lampposts. At least I think I'm fitter in my forties than in my twenties or thirties. Often I feel nauseous and have a headache after eating lunch, if it's more than a slither of peanut butter in my wholemeal pitta. That's another reason for eating earlier and keeping everything light. My body is playing tricks, or is it my head saying 'What's the use? You're always interrupted, you always feel shitty when you eat very much and prefer a more relaxed munch in the evening... better stay almost hungry, at least you won't be nauseous!' I'm taking after Steve, becoming an evening eater; a prawn omelette with just herbs and chilli, and a splash of Soya drink to make it fluffy.
Sometimes I wish I could live on just my Douwe Egberts Decaff. It's so rich, strong and smoky, so seductive that heart disease seems like a reasonable dare... Jesus, everything we eat or drink is going to kill us, it seems, so we might as well choose our poisons as if they're gemstones. Admire each facet, drink in the sensation...
Preparing and consuming my one daily cup of DED, is like taking out a precious deep shaded diamond; I feel like the only person who appreciates its beauty, the expense and lovely anticipation as I place a level scoop of the brown powder into my one-cup gold-plate mesh filter on top of my mug. The smell of the grains, the aroma as the scalding water begins to seep through and I carry my wonderfull secret back to my desk. And this stuff tastes as great luke-warm or even cold as it does hot and fresh. That's the sign of real coffee. So I might die happy...
Sunday, April 04, 2010
You know, I haven't written so personally for so long, either in what I used to call poetry - but now just call 'my crappy style' because everyone I've shown it to claims to be unable to understand it - or in what used to be known as a 'diary'. The feeling of putting pen to paper is very special, as long as you feel you have plenty of stuff that really has to be indelibly committed to the page. Unless you really feel stirred up, you cannot do it properly. As the person who originally inspired me wrote in a letter, 'Always shoot from the hip; then, ironically, the heart speaks and there is natural flow.' I was 15 and a deeply depressed and deeply secretive teenager in need of a private friend. My inspiration introduced me to that. It was called writing. I referred to the transformation as '... being hurled into an active spinning colourbox...'
My writing became my method of self-protection as well as self-expression, and a way of trying to make sense of everything that happened. Especially events and knock-on effects beyond my (or anyone else's) control. That's it, a method of control. If I wrote everything down and structured it either into an example of 'my crappy style' a short story, or simply made it into a factual essay, then no one could say that what I felt wasn't real. Of course my grandmother and other relatives did that all the time. I don't know how I weathered that for so bloody long. I can only remember that my flotation devices, protective weapons, reliable friends and saviours were Rock Music and my writing. Of course I had to lock my writing away and wait until the house was empty before turning on The Who, Hendrix, Janis Joplin and the Velvet Underground at full blast!
I took sanctuary in writing in an unparalleled way in 1992, when my mother killed herself. For ten years, I wrote a constant suite of pieces expressing every rotten trick that grief played on me, the repeated avalanche of conflicting emotions and the disgusting machinations my grandmother used to shatter our lives further. She arranged the funeral for Valentine's Day, the birthday of my other grandmother (the two old women shared a natural animosity, that the grandmother I hate would play up as sport) How do I know she did that? Too easy; I saw her march up to the Rabbi, tapping her watch, dry-eyed as a general. Then, after making sure she had an audience in the cramped chapel, throwing herself on the coffin and wailing. The sympathy should be for her alone, that all said. She accused another family member of murder.
She made sure I was not asked to say my piece at the inquest. How do I know? She kindly phoned me the day after it had come and gone to announce an 'Open Verdict'. This was a tidy, complete lie, still is, and I shall never change my mind. So I could not inform everyone that I must have been the last person my mother spoke to as the pills and alcohol took effect: 'Have a good life, Felicia', over the phone. I knew something was wrong, as Irene's voice changed from seemingly tearfull to completely blank and expressionless, and she hardly ever used my name, prefering 'darling' or something. But I was in Wembley and she was well over a hundred miles away, too far now.
Oh incidentally, my grandmother also chose that conversation in September 1992 to tell me about how my grandfather had killed himself in 1946. Clearly, she wanted to abuse his memory too. Other members of my family could not understand why I wrote her out of my life for several years, ripping up the letters she sent, not answering the phone. And when I steeled myself to try and forgive her, she threw that back in my face too. So when she died, I turned up at the funeral just to support my Step-grandfather, who had never had the nerve to be like her. I stood stony faced in that same dull and freezing chapel, listening to shocked whispers racing around me: 'Look at Felicia, she's not crying!' That's right. Unlike this vampire, this boa constrictor, this worst kind of matriarch that we were seeing off, I had no desire to give a performance. I shall never forgive or forget any of this as long as I live.
God, it feels so damned good to get this out into Cyberspace. I'm finally doing it - never thought I had the nerve - the truth is now out there. I love you and miss you and I'm fed up of keeping all this to myself. Our family has never been able to talk about this, and I'm sick of it being conveniently written out of our history - just like my grandfather's suicide was written out. The pain is still raw in me, but I can do this because I've written about it so often before but locked it away and then filed it in a sheath binder somewhere.
I had an emotional breakdown in April 1999, and had a grief counsellor visit me for a couple of months to get me to make the 'Breakthrough'. You should have heard the screams; I turned that particular session into a Primal Scream scenario, letting rip at a family member who was already over a year dead. Made no difference to me, she was still toying with my feelings, so when I finally blasted 'I hate you! I hate you!', the poor woman who'd dragged it all out of me was shaking with shock in one corner of the sofa, and I was shaking in shock and relief in the other corner of the sofa! I apologised to for frightening her, but she was emphatic:- 'No no, you've done the spadework. Well done!'
Actually, I recommend other members of my family try doing this. It is clearly easier than talking to each-other. Let's face it, none of us like slanging matches, do we? I'm sick and tired of being told how I'm supposed to feel about this or that; whether it's unruly kids' behaviour, treacherous pavements on any of my jogging routes, lousy food at weddings and Xmas lunches, censorship on TV, 'controversial' rock music lyrics, undrinkable but politically correct coffee, work-life balance, what rings to wear on which fingers, Bob Dylan's continuing relevance or family tragedy.
I've been dealing with it, now it's everyone elses' turn.
So now I'm writing again, and I feel refreshed and strangely empowered. Maybe the difference is that what I say is in danger of actually being read by a wide concord of complete strangers around the globe, and perhaps by a small number of people who believe that they know me... You know, the latter group are the hardest to communicate to, because even now they probably won't accept my views. On anything. I'm the loose cannon, the little girl, the one my grandmother viewed as only worthy of emotional blackmail, scorn, manipulation, humiliation and outright lies. Well, here's the knock-on effect. It's a damned good thing I never want to have kids, because heaven help them if they turn out like me. It's not all my fault, you know. I'm just not the right material, girl.
Hopefully tomorrow I'll write about something less 'controversial', easier to deal with, and maybe even funny. I do have a sense of humour: I have reduced a couple of my workmates to shocked laughter with my Quasimodo impersonation. It wasn't even at full throttle! Good night.
My writing became my method of self-protection as well as self-expression, and a way of trying to make sense of everything that happened. Especially events and knock-on effects beyond my (or anyone else's) control. That's it, a method of control. If I wrote everything down and structured it either into an example of 'my crappy style' a short story, or simply made it into a factual essay, then no one could say that what I felt wasn't real. Of course my grandmother and other relatives did that all the time. I don't know how I weathered that for so bloody long. I can only remember that my flotation devices, protective weapons, reliable friends and saviours were Rock Music and my writing. Of course I had to lock my writing away and wait until the house was empty before turning on The Who, Hendrix, Janis Joplin and the Velvet Underground at full blast!
I took sanctuary in writing in an unparalleled way in 1992, when my mother killed herself. For ten years, I wrote a constant suite of pieces expressing every rotten trick that grief played on me, the repeated avalanche of conflicting emotions and the disgusting machinations my grandmother used to shatter our lives further. She arranged the funeral for Valentine's Day, the birthday of my other grandmother (the two old women shared a natural animosity, that the grandmother I hate would play up as sport) How do I know she did that? Too easy; I saw her march up to the Rabbi, tapping her watch, dry-eyed as a general. Then, after making sure she had an audience in the cramped chapel, throwing herself on the coffin and wailing. The sympathy should be for her alone, that all said. She accused another family member of murder.
She made sure I was not asked to say my piece at the inquest. How do I know? She kindly phoned me the day after it had come and gone to announce an 'Open Verdict'. This was a tidy, complete lie, still is, and I shall never change my mind. So I could not inform everyone that I must have been the last person my mother spoke to as the pills and alcohol took effect: 'Have a good life, Felicia', over the phone. I knew something was wrong, as Irene's voice changed from seemingly tearfull to completely blank and expressionless, and she hardly ever used my name, prefering 'darling' or something. But I was in Wembley and she was well over a hundred miles away, too far now.
Oh incidentally, my grandmother also chose that conversation in September 1992 to tell me about how my grandfather had killed himself in 1946. Clearly, she wanted to abuse his memory too. Other members of my family could not understand why I wrote her out of my life for several years, ripping up the letters she sent, not answering the phone. And when I steeled myself to try and forgive her, she threw that back in my face too. So when she died, I turned up at the funeral just to support my Step-grandfather, who had never had the nerve to be like her. I stood stony faced in that same dull and freezing chapel, listening to shocked whispers racing around me: 'Look at Felicia, she's not crying!' That's right. Unlike this vampire, this boa constrictor, this worst kind of matriarch that we were seeing off, I had no desire to give a performance. I shall never forgive or forget any of this as long as I live.
God, it feels so damned good to get this out into Cyberspace. I'm finally doing it - never thought I had the nerve - the truth is now out there. I love you and miss you and I'm fed up of keeping all this to myself. Our family has never been able to talk about this, and I'm sick of it being conveniently written out of our history - just like my grandfather's suicide was written out. The pain is still raw in me, but I can do this because I've written about it so often before but locked it away and then filed it in a sheath binder somewhere.
I had an emotional breakdown in April 1999, and had a grief counsellor visit me for a couple of months to get me to make the 'Breakthrough'. You should have heard the screams; I turned that particular session into a Primal Scream scenario, letting rip at a family member who was already over a year dead. Made no difference to me, she was still toying with my feelings, so when I finally blasted 'I hate you! I hate you!', the poor woman who'd dragged it all out of me was shaking with shock in one corner of the sofa, and I was shaking in shock and relief in the other corner of the sofa! I apologised to for frightening her, but she was emphatic:- 'No no, you've done the spadework. Well done!'
Actually, I recommend other members of my family try doing this. It is clearly easier than talking to each-other. Let's face it, none of us like slanging matches, do we? I'm sick and tired of being told how I'm supposed to feel about this or that; whether it's unruly kids' behaviour, treacherous pavements on any of my jogging routes, lousy food at weddings and Xmas lunches, censorship on TV, 'controversial' rock music lyrics, undrinkable but politically correct coffee, work-life balance, what rings to wear on which fingers, Bob Dylan's continuing relevance or family tragedy.
I've been dealing with it, now it's everyone elses' turn.
So now I'm writing again, and I feel refreshed and strangely empowered. Maybe the difference is that what I say is in danger of actually being read by a wide concord of complete strangers around the globe, and perhaps by a small number of people who believe that they know me... You know, the latter group are the hardest to communicate to, because even now they probably won't accept my views. On anything. I'm the loose cannon, the little girl, the one my grandmother viewed as only worthy of emotional blackmail, scorn, manipulation, humiliation and outright lies. Well, here's the knock-on effect. It's a damned good thing I never want to have kids, because heaven help them if they turn out like me. It's not all my fault, you know. I'm just not the right material, girl.
Hopefully tomorrow I'll write about something less 'controversial', easier to deal with, and maybe even funny. I do have a sense of humour: I have reduced a couple of my workmates to shocked laughter with my Quasimodo impersonation. It wasn't even at full throttle! Good night.
Labels: family, settling a score, suicide, therapy, writing
The Child-Free are seen as selfish. This annoys me greatly, because I don't think that anyone has a child out of altruism. Time and again, I read of well-known women (and men, but it's the women that annoy me the most, and I'm a Feminist. You wouldn't have guessed would you?) and these women have gushed at how, now they've dropped a sprog, their life is complete. They've always wanted a child, but have had to wait and build their career. They felt lost, a baby-shaped hole took up space where brain-matter had been consumed by celebrity status, and an identical void curled up and watched countless fad diets pass through... They wanted to pass on all their fabulously air-brushed genes, as well as beliefs in a fashionable 'religion' and their belief in fashion. Now they've got a child to fill up with all this and more, they can dress it in a micro version of whatever they're tottering around in. The baby is the ultimate accessory, and don't we all want the exact same thing? Get it through your heads, you idiotic mares. No, we don't.
God, it feels so good to say that!
Thank heavens for Renee Zellweger and Dame Helen Mirren and for Corinne Maier (a mother who tells the awful truth about it all in a recent book).
OK, someone out there might ask. What is it like to be Galactosemic? What is Galactosemia anyway? Well. Galactosemia is a complete inability to digest Milk-stuffs. Some people are diagnosed in mid-life because they've suffered various symptoms and have undergone a set of tests. Others, like myself, are diagnosed at birth. In short, Galactosemia governs my life. I have to slavishly read ingredient lists on all processed food and drink products including confectionary and vitamin supplements. One thing that really infuriates me is that chocolate manufacturers take great pains to tell us that their plain chocolate has been processed on a production line that also processes their milk chocolate, therefore the 'Plain' chocolate actually contains milk. So they should really be done for fraud. I spent over an hour in a local supermarket, turning over pack after pack of what was labelled Plain chocolate to read the small print. Every list included milk. Yes, Plain chocolate now means; Milk chocolate with less milk in it. Makes all the difference...
We Galactos have to pay royally down the nose for Soya-based chocolate, so that our indulgence in one of life's great pleasures will not be followed by an episode of violent constipation and vomiting, followed by an equally delightfull bout of diarrhoea - and vomiting. So, everyone - and my brother - it's no joke. And it's not like being Vegan. Simple this: you can choose to be Vegan, you cannot choose to be Galactosemic. And you can't 'get better', 'get help' or 'cure it'. Equally simple, folks: If you are Galactosemic, you are for the rest of your life and you have to put up with constant ignorance all around you every day, and you have to read ingredient lists constantly. Milk is snuck into everything, even products you would't expect to contain it.
But you can get help. From a Galactosemic. There are millions of us, we're all over the place and we're really irritating to restauranteurs, hoteliers, catering managers, waiting staff, 'Professional' chefs, party planners, apathetic relatives and the Milk Marketing Board! Incidentally, if chefs really were as 'Professional' as they say they are, they would be well aware of what Galactosemia is and how to cater for a Galactosemic's needs. As it is, they're all completely useless.
But we can make life easier for each-other; I'm a frequent customer in a certain health food store in Staines and another branch of the same store in Kingston, and a couple of times I have been asked to give advice to a fellow customer whose doctor has scared the life of him/her by diagnosing Galactosemia. I've pointed out combinations of products and particular foodstuffs to allay irrational fears of starvation. So we're not completely evil...
... for the last time, if I drink a glass of skimmed milk or soak it into my cereal, I will be violently contipated. It is not suitable for a Galactosemic. Neither is Goat's milk - because it comes from an animal, and animals such as goats, sheep and (strangely) cows produce milk. OK? Just thought I'd clear that up; believe me you'd need industrial equipment if you fed me any milk.
... and for the very last time, cream cheese is actually cheese, and you know what will happen if I eat it.... and much of it will end up over you.
Oh yes, another problem with peoples' ignorance about Galactosemia is when someone accuses you of having an Eating Disorder. Someone (who knows who he is) intimated in a none-too-subtle fashion that I had an ED. Believe me, I wanted to punch his lights out. His accusation was insulting to me, and insulting to anyone who is fighting an ED. If a member of his family were to be diagnosed either as Galactosemic or with an ED, I'll be laughing. He'll get no help from me.
Here's a tip for free. Fancy a sandwich or a submarine roll, but you're sick of your fillings languishing between slices of dry bread? Use Houmous. It's tasty, protein-rich, spreads easily and is low in colesterol. Simples!
My favourite comfort dish after a jog or after a day at work: Egg and beans on toast. One or two eggs fried in a smear of olive oil with a sprinkle of mixed herbs, half a tin of baked beans microwaved (on high for 1 and a half minutes, stir, another minute, let sit for a minute) served together on two slices of toast. A liberal schlop of ketchup, and there you have it. A hug on a plate. I'm not going to let anyone tell me that's not healthy. We need some fat, proteins, carbs, sugar and a little salt. A little of everything is healthy. Denial, martyrdom and the labelling of everything utterly delicious as evil is the way to spread complete misery. To be unable to enjoy what continually limited choices we are given, because of governmental scaremongering, is a diabolical situation. No one should have to live like that. I've definitely no intention of letting that happen to me. Fight!
So if you eat something you love, it makes you feel good and you have the energy you need with no nasty repercussions, then eat it. If you eat something you like, but it makes you violently ill, then avoid it in future and find an alternative. You've got to fight for your right to enjoy your food. Dont't let your life be governed by misery; whether you're Galactosemic, Diabetic, Coeliac, Vegetarian, Vegan, Carnivore or Omnivore, you should strive to love food. Just don't give me any more of your ignorant BS, unless you'd love to digest a tin of braised tofu, with the tin on...
This is how the personal becomes political. For how much longer are we going to put up with the continual contradictions in the press, the government forcing one view and then twisting the tunnel. It's like we are stuck in this disgusting kaleidoscope, where the images of available food products are shaped and coloured in familiar ways. Suddenly, and increasingly often, the gadget is given a twist and the images distort. What we were told yesterday was perfectly healthy in comfortable portions is now only governmentally desirable as a thimblefull. Yesterday a thimble, today nothing. What's for tea tomorrow?
Not surprisingly, I wish that everyone would take better care of themselves. The obesity epidemic worries me greatly; I've already mentioned my fear of becoming as slobby as the wobbling women I see around town. It is perfectly possible to be big, plump, voluptuous etc, and still be attractive and healthy. For heaven's sake. OK, Nigella Lawson, Dawn French, Oprah Winfrey and Crystal Renn have armies of stylists and photographers to help them look stunning, but you can bet your bolognaise that they do work at keeping themselves healthy. When did you last see Nigella in grubby training pants with a spare tyre straining inside a £2 tee-shirt, hair dragged back in a scruffy pony-tail and a face full of junk-food zits as she lumbered through Knightsbridge chomping a grease burger in a bun? Didn't think so.
I might be a short, reasonably slim size 8 but I am far from complacent. Actually, I am disgusted at the whole shabang. Gyms have to be well maintained, and this costs money, but if more people are going to take out membership and actually use facilities other than the vending machines and the loos, then the prices really should be reduced. I would even join our local gym, if the weight and resistance machines cost as little to use for half an hour as the shampoos and cosmetics advertised in the brochure cost for a matching group. But as it is, I have found that the best way to keep myself active outside of my walk to and from the bus to work, and the stair-climbing to the kitchen/loo/plush upstairs offices at work is to go jogging whenever I can. If I can keep my trim waistline into my 70s (I should live and be well) I shall be delighted. I'm guessing that by then, gym membership will cost about as much as a floor of offices inside the Guerkin.
God, it feels so good to say that!
Thank heavens for Renee Zellweger and Dame Helen Mirren and for Corinne Maier (a mother who tells the awful truth about it all in a recent book).
OK, someone out there might ask. What is it like to be Galactosemic? What is Galactosemia anyway? Well. Galactosemia is a complete inability to digest Milk-stuffs. Some people are diagnosed in mid-life because they've suffered various symptoms and have undergone a set of tests. Others, like myself, are diagnosed at birth. In short, Galactosemia governs my life. I have to slavishly read ingredient lists on all processed food and drink products including confectionary and vitamin supplements. One thing that really infuriates me is that chocolate manufacturers take great pains to tell us that their plain chocolate has been processed on a production line that also processes their milk chocolate, therefore the 'Plain' chocolate actually contains milk. So they should really be done for fraud. I spent over an hour in a local supermarket, turning over pack after pack of what was labelled Plain chocolate to read the small print. Every list included milk. Yes, Plain chocolate now means; Milk chocolate with less milk in it. Makes all the difference...
We Galactos have to pay royally down the nose for Soya-based chocolate, so that our indulgence in one of life's great pleasures will not be followed by an episode of violent constipation and vomiting, followed by an equally delightfull bout of diarrhoea - and vomiting. So, everyone - and my brother - it's no joke. And it's not like being Vegan. Simple this: you can choose to be Vegan, you cannot choose to be Galactosemic. And you can't 'get better', 'get help' or 'cure it'. Equally simple, folks: If you are Galactosemic, you are for the rest of your life and you have to put up with constant ignorance all around you every day, and you have to read ingredient lists constantly. Milk is snuck into everything, even products you would't expect to contain it.
But you can get help. From a Galactosemic. There are millions of us, we're all over the place and we're really irritating to restauranteurs, hoteliers, catering managers, waiting staff, 'Professional' chefs, party planners, apathetic relatives and the Milk Marketing Board! Incidentally, if chefs really were as 'Professional' as they say they are, they would be well aware of what Galactosemia is and how to cater for a Galactosemic's needs. As it is, they're all completely useless.
But we can make life easier for each-other; I'm a frequent customer in a certain health food store in Staines and another branch of the same store in Kingston, and a couple of times I have been asked to give advice to a fellow customer whose doctor has scared the life of him/her by diagnosing Galactosemia. I've pointed out combinations of products and particular foodstuffs to allay irrational fears of starvation. So we're not completely evil...
... for the last time, if I drink a glass of skimmed milk or soak it into my cereal, I will be violently contipated. It is not suitable for a Galactosemic. Neither is Goat's milk - because it comes from an animal, and animals such as goats, sheep and (strangely) cows produce milk. OK? Just thought I'd clear that up; believe me you'd need industrial equipment if you fed me any milk.
... and for the very last time, cream cheese is actually cheese, and you know what will happen if I eat it.... and much of it will end up over you.
Oh yes, another problem with peoples' ignorance about Galactosemia is when someone accuses you of having an Eating Disorder. Someone (who knows who he is) intimated in a none-too-subtle fashion that I had an ED. Believe me, I wanted to punch his lights out. His accusation was insulting to me, and insulting to anyone who is fighting an ED. If a member of his family were to be diagnosed either as Galactosemic or with an ED, I'll be laughing. He'll get no help from me.
Here's a tip for free. Fancy a sandwich or a submarine roll, but you're sick of your fillings languishing between slices of dry bread? Use Houmous. It's tasty, protein-rich, spreads easily and is low in colesterol. Simples!
My favourite comfort dish after a jog or after a day at work: Egg and beans on toast. One or two eggs fried in a smear of olive oil with a sprinkle of mixed herbs, half a tin of baked beans microwaved (on high for 1 and a half minutes, stir, another minute, let sit for a minute) served together on two slices of toast. A liberal schlop of ketchup, and there you have it. A hug on a plate. I'm not going to let anyone tell me that's not healthy. We need some fat, proteins, carbs, sugar and a little salt. A little of everything is healthy. Denial, martyrdom and the labelling of everything utterly delicious as evil is the way to spread complete misery. To be unable to enjoy what continually limited choices we are given, because of governmental scaremongering, is a diabolical situation. No one should have to live like that. I've definitely no intention of letting that happen to me. Fight!
So if you eat something you love, it makes you feel good and you have the energy you need with no nasty repercussions, then eat it. If you eat something you like, but it makes you violently ill, then avoid it in future and find an alternative. You've got to fight for your right to enjoy your food. Dont't let your life be governed by misery; whether you're Galactosemic, Diabetic, Coeliac, Vegetarian, Vegan, Carnivore or Omnivore, you should strive to love food. Just don't give me any more of your ignorant BS, unless you'd love to digest a tin of braised tofu, with the tin on...
This is how the personal becomes political. For how much longer are we going to put up with the continual contradictions in the press, the government forcing one view and then twisting the tunnel. It's like we are stuck in this disgusting kaleidoscope, where the images of available food products are shaped and coloured in familiar ways. Suddenly, and increasingly often, the gadget is given a twist and the images distort. What we were told yesterday was perfectly healthy in comfortable portions is now only governmentally desirable as a thimblefull. Yesterday a thimble, today nothing. What's for tea tomorrow?
Not surprisingly, I wish that everyone would take better care of themselves. The obesity epidemic worries me greatly; I've already mentioned my fear of becoming as slobby as the wobbling women I see around town. It is perfectly possible to be big, plump, voluptuous etc, and still be attractive and healthy. For heaven's sake. OK, Nigella Lawson, Dawn French, Oprah Winfrey and Crystal Renn have armies of stylists and photographers to help them look stunning, but you can bet your bolognaise that they do work at keeping themselves healthy. When did you last see Nigella in grubby training pants with a spare tyre straining inside a £2 tee-shirt, hair dragged back in a scruffy pony-tail and a face full of junk-food zits as she lumbered through Knightsbridge chomping a grease burger in a bun? Didn't think so.
I might be a short, reasonably slim size 8 but I am far from complacent. Actually, I am disgusted at the whole shabang. Gyms have to be well maintained, and this costs money, but if more people are going to take out membership and actually use facilities other than the vending machines and the loos, then the prices really should be reduced. I would even join our local gym, if the weight and resistance machines cost as little to use for half an hour as the shampoos and cosmetics advertised in the brochure cost for a matching group. But as it is, I have found that the best way to keep myself active outside of my walk to and from the bus to work, and the stair-climbing to the kitchen/loo/plush upstairs offices at work is to go jogging whenever I can. If I can keep my trim waistline into my 70s (I should live and be well) I shall be delighted. I'm guessing that by then, gym membership will cost about as much as a floor of offices inside the Guerkin.
Labels: Celebrity mums, food freedom, Galactosemia, Government scaremongering, gym prices, obesity
Just for the record: I'm certain that somewhere out there, members of my family are wondering if and when I'll have a child. Well here's the low-down, the truth. Here's how I feel about it, and they won't like it.
My medical history can only be described politely as Fraught. My insides probably look like each organ has been knifed open and sewn back together - in fact at least one was when I was a baby. My distinct lack of milk-intake would be of great concern to midwives; although my eldest brother is a great example of many peoples' attitude to my life-long Galactosemia - he thought it was a joke, and claimed never to have known I was Galactosemic in all his 39 years of putting up with me as a sister. Our dad and I educated him at his wedding dinner, when I was yet again given something inedible at the feast. And there's my complete inability to digest red meat and poultry fat; I'm OK with fish, eggs, soya stuff and veg. But I'd raise hell if any midwife started to nag me about eating red meat and poultry, I'd even demonstrate its effects on my digestive system if she didn't shut up. It's your call, honey...
As for emotional/psychological suitability, forget it. I would be like my maternal grandmother (whose guts I'll always hate by the way, and no one has ever taken me seriously about her either. Let's not go there. Goodbye): pedantic, smothering, megalomaniac, a complete control-freak. No child should ever have a mother like that. Good discipline is one thing: Emotional blackmail, religious dogma-driving and emotional suffocation is something else. As I've already had at least two emotional breakdowns and have seriously considered suicide several times since 1992 (wonder why.....) motherhood would surely push me over the edge completely. I'm just not made of the right material and don't feel at all maternal.
You know that thing about how women supposedly get broody when they smell the aroma of a baby, that sickly scent? Well, it's a myth. A great sweaty, sicky, piddle-soaked myth. That smell makes me feel like bringing up the contents of my poor beleaguered stomach. And the sight of pregnant women - that's supposed to make us swoon in admiration? - reminds me of my distended belly when I was little, stuck in GOSH and having countless needles stuck in me, in addition to being repeated cut into. Yes, GOSH saved my life, but don't let anyone imagine that a baby's mind cannot be forever scarred by that sort of experience. Believe me, my memory is too damned long. Then there's the noise, the continual slavery, the financial side and the 'green' side. There's the having to child-proof the home and everything in it; our mouths, reading matter, viewing matter on TV/DVD/VHS, musical choices. This self-censorship just makes me want to - and I'm trying to think carefully of how to describe my disdain, with difficulty - use less than Kosher language. I'm no fan of covering the sofa in PVC and having turn the kitchen into a nappy-change room. We're talking 'Hell freezes over'. No, I'm not remotely attracted to any of this. And don't call asking for a sitter...
I was prescribed the Pill to alleviate my ghastly PMS, which I had always endured without complaining to my doctor because I was brought up just to accept the pain, the psychological screwing and emotional rip-up month after month and year after year. This was how it was, just deal with it. So I did, month after month, year after year, until suddenly (three years ago) I cracked. My PMS was wrecking my relationship with my husband and he really had to push me to make an appointment to see the GP. After talking me into a horrific run-in with Prozac (to get me out of the office, I'm sure), our GP retired. The new GP was a woman - a major factor in how things turned out - and she prescribed the Pill. A miracle!
No PMS, no Period and no Pregnancy. The triple-whammy! I'm on the Pill and and staying on. Hey girls, want to hang on to what freedom your mother never had and have some self-respect that she wasn't allowed either? Get yourselves the Pill. It's magic. Of course I was never given the low-down on the Pill when I was younger. It just wasn't done, not proper, not what a good little Jewish girl was supposed to be told about. Well, I'm through that now. I'm staying on the Pill! I'm Child-Free and proud of it.
So there it all is. Deal with it. I have and I'm doing great, now it's everyone elses' turn.
My medical history can only be described politely as Fraught. My insides probably look like each organ has been knifed open and sewn back together - in fact at least one was when I was a baby. My distinct lack of milk-intake would be of great concern to midwives; although my eldest brother is a great example of many peoples' attitude to my life-long Galactosemia - he thought it was a joke, and claimed never to have known I was Galactosemic in all his 39 years of putting up with me as a sister. Our dad and I educated him at his wedding dinner, when I was yet again given something inedible at the feast. And there's my complete inability to digest red meat and poultry fat; I'm OK with fish, eggs, soya stuff and veg. But I'd raise hell if any midwife started to nag me about eating red meat and poultry, I'd even demonstrate its effects on my digestive system if she didn't shut up. It's your call, honey...
As for emotional/psychological suitability, forget it. I would be like my maternal grandmother (whose guts I'll always hate by the way, and no one has ever taken me seriously about her either. Let's not go there. Goodbye): pedantic, smothering, megalomaniac, a complete control-freak. No child should ever have a mother like that. Good discipline is one thing: Emotional blackmail, religious dogma-driving and emotional suffocation is something else. As I've already had at least two emotional breakdowns and have seriously considered suicide several times since 1992 (wonder why.....) motherhood would surely push me over the edge completely. I'm just not made of the right material and don't feel at all maternal.
You know that thing about how women supposedly get broody when they smell the aroma of a baby, that sickly scent? Well, it's a myth. A great sweaty, sicky, piddle-soaked myth. That smell makes me feel like bringing up the contents of my poor beleaguered stomach. And the sight of pregnant women - that's supposed to make us swoon in admiration? - reminds me of my distended belly when I was little, stuck in GOSH and having countless needles stuck in me, in addition to being repeated cut into. Yes, GOSH saved my life, but don't let anyone imagine that a baby's mind cannot be forever scarred by that sort of experience. Believe me, my memory is too damned long. Then there's the noise, the continual slavery, the financial side and the 'green' side. There's the having to child-proof the home and everything in it; our mouths, reading matter, viewing matter on TV/DVD/VHS, musical choices. This self-censorship just makes me want to - and I'm trying to think carefully of how to describe my disdain, with difficulty - use less than Kosher language. I'm no fan of covering the sofa in PVC and having turn the kitchen into a nappy-change room. We're talking 'Hell freezes over'. No, I'm not remotely attracted to any of this. And don't call asking for a sitter...
I was prescribed the Pill to alleviate my ghastly PMS, which I had always endured without complaining to my doctor because I was brought up just to accept the pain, the psychological screwing and emotional rip-up month after month and year after year. This was how it was, just deal with it. So I did, month after month, year after year, until suddenly (three years ago) I cracked. My PMS was wrecking my relationship with my husband and he really had to push me to make an appointment to see the GP. After talking me into a horrific run-in with Prozac (to get me out of the office, I'm sure), our GP retired. The new GP was a woman - a major factor in how things turned out - and she prescribed the Pill. A miracle!
No PMS, no Period and no Pregnancy. The triple-whammy! I'm on the Pill and and staying on. Hey girls, want to hang on to what freedom your mother never had and have some self-respect that she wasn't allowed either? Get yourselves the Pill. It's magic. Of course I was never given the low-down on the Pill when I was younger. It just wasn't done, not proper, not what a good little Jewish girl was supposed to be told about. Well, I'm through that now. I'm staying on the Pill! I'm Child-Free and proud of it.
So there it all is. Deal with it. I have and I'm doing great, now it's everyone elses' turn.
Labels: Child-Free, difficult history, motherhood, the Pill
I'm finally building up fitness at age 44. Although always sport-phobic - by the way I'm typing this against the noise of today's grand-prix, my husband watches them religiously - I know that I need to keep in shape. I may be only 5ft 2in, but I don't see why I should allow my body to look like all the female lumps of lard I see lumbering around town. My figure is pretty good, so I'm off to a good start.
Last December, I started jogging. I go out every other day, walking and jogging, armed with my MP3 and a water-bottle. I am feeling considerably stronger and my stamina is increasing. Just as well, because I've signed up to participate in the Adidas 5K run in September. I'm hoping that this will be the first of many runs; it's good to have something to work towards. To be honest I've often thought that if it wasn't for my MP3 I probably wouldn't go out jogging!
I have started to make a list of perfect tracks to jog to. They are mainly rock tracks, but I do like a variety and I couldn't bear to have nothing but relentless drum'n'bass; leave that stuff to boy-racers in the doomed vehicles that their daddies have paid for, fitted with absurdly noisy sound-systems. What's with that? Whenever I'm subjected to someone's car sound-system, it's always the same stuff!
It's damned hard to keep one's ears open to appreciate different music these days, because we're all expected to crave the marketing-campaign-pushed 'hits' booted at us by Simon You-know-who. Well, I'm having none of it. So far, my MP3 jogging list includes:
The Allman Brothers - 'Jessica' and 'One Way Out'
Terry Garthwaite - 'Rock and Roller'
Jack Bruce - 'Never Tell Your Mother She's Out of Tune'
Quincy Jones - 'Soul Bossa Nova'
DJ Spiller & Sophie Ellis-Bexter - 'Groovejet (If This Ain't Love)'
CCS - 'Tap Turns on the Water' and 'Whole Lotta Love'
Louis Prima - 'Angelina/Zooma Zooma'
Scouting for Girls - 'She's So Lovely'
Lou Reed - 'Sick Of You'
Iggy Pop - 'Real Wild Child'
The Who - 'Long Live Rock' and 'Won't Get Fooled Again'
Bernard Cribbens - 'Right Said Fred'
Duffy - 'Mercy'
KT Tunstall - 'Suddenly I See'
Johnny Dankworth - 'Tomorrow's World'
Velvet Underground - 'Foggy Notion' and 'Temptation Inside Your Heart'
Mike Flowers Pops - 'Velvet Underground Medley'
Sky - 'Westway'
Chas & Dave - 'Gertcha' and 'Rabbit'
The Band - 'Don't Do It' and 'Chest Fever' (both from the 'Rock of Ages' album)
Adam & The Ants - 'Goody Two Shoes'
Julie Brown - 'The Homecoming Queen's Got a Gun'
Wham - 'Wake Me Up Before You Go Go'
Janis Ian - 'Fly Too High' and 'Ride Me Like a Wave (wet mix)'
Frank Zappa - 'You Are What You Is'
I'm sure there will be more to add at frequent intervals - I'm doing what's known as Interval Training, after all! - but that's for starters. Unfortunately I can't get my husband to join me on the pavements and greens, he's an armchair sportsman. Anyway, were I to check his MP3 (he's yet to buy one actually) it's sure to contain dozens of Genesis, Marillion and Shins tracks - I don't mind admitting I'm a snob, because that selection is not my idea of enjoyable stimulation!
I've downloaded a few mixes - twenty-minute groupings of disco or rock tracks - and have to agree that the choice of records is pretty good, a constant pace etc. Occasionally I have to endure the Bee Gees, Bryan Adams or Phil Collins, but as they say, 'No Pain, No Gain'!
More Who and Band needed, then.
Last December, I started jogging. I go out every other day, walking and jogging, armed with my MP3 and a water-bottle. I am feeling considerably stronger and my stamina is increasing. Just as well, because I've signed up to participate in the Adidas 5K run in September. I'm hoping that this will be the first of many runs; it's good to have something to work towards. To be honest I've often thought that if it wasn't for my MP3 I probably wouldn't go out jogging!
I have started to make a list of perfect tracks to jog to. They are mainly rock tracks, but I do like a variety and I couldn't bear to have nothing but relentless drum'n'bass; leave that stuff to boy-racers in the doomed vehicles that their daddies have paid for, fitted with absurdly noisy sound-systems. What's with that? Whenever I'm subjected to someone's car sound-system, it's always the same stuff!
It's damned hard to keep one's ears open to appreciate different music these days, because we're all expected to crave the marketing-campaign-pushed 'hits' booted at us by Simon You-know-who. Well, I'm having none of it. So far, my MP3 jogging list includes:
The Allman Brothers - 'Jessica' and 'One Way Out'
Terry Garthwaite - 'Rock and Roller'
Jack Bruce - 'Never Tell Your Mother She's Out of Tune'
Quincy Jones - 'Soul Bossa Nova'
DJ Spiller & Sophie Ellis-Bexter - 'Groovejet (If This Ain't Love)'
CCS - 'Tap Turns on the Water' and 'Whole Lotta Love'
Louis Prima - 'Angelina/Zooma Zooma'
Scouting for Girls - 'She's So Lovely'
Lou Reed - 'Sick Of You'
Iggy Pop - 'Real Wild Child'
The Who - 'Long Live Rock' and 'Won't Get Fooled Again'
Bernard Cribbens - 'Right Said Fred'
Duffy - 'Mercy'
KT Tunstall - 'Suddenly I See'
Johnny Dankworth - 'Tomorrow's World'
Velvet Underground - 'Foggy Notion' and 'Temptation Inside Your Heart'
Mike Flowers Pops - 'Velvet Underground Medley'
Sky - 'Westway'
Chas & Dave - 'Gertcha' and 'Rabbit'
The Band - 'Don't Do It' and 'Chest Fever' (both from the 'Rock of Ages' album)
Adam & The Ants - 'Goody Two Shoes'
Julie Brown - 'The Homecoming Queen's Got a Gun'
Wham - 'Wake Me Up Before You Go Go'
Janis Ian - 'Fly Too High' and 'Ride Me Like a Wave (wet mix)'
Frank Zappa - 'You Are What You Is'
I'm sure there will be more to add at frequent intervals - I'm doing what's known as Interval Training, after all! - but that's for starters. Unfortunately I can't get my husband to join me on the pavements and greens, he's an armchair sportsman. Anyway, were I to check his MP3 (he's yet to buy one actually) it's sure to contain dozens of Genesis, Marillion and Shins tracks - I don't mind admitting I'm a snob, because that selection is not my idea of enjoyable stimulation!
I've downloaded a few mixes - twenty-minute groupings of disco or rock tracks - and have to agree that the choice of records is pretty good, a constant pace etc. Occasionally I have to endure the Bee Gees, Bryan Adams or Phil Collins, but as they say, 'No Pain, No Gain'!
More Who and Band needed, then.
Labels: Jogging, MP3, music, playlist
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
My first blog - and I'll tell you a few things about myself. I am a poet, a galactocemic vegetarian, a music-lover.....
Complaint of the night: a message to The Who - Roger and Pete - Please retire, act with some dignity, I can't stand these embarrassing 'comebacks' anymore! I've been a Who fan since I was ten (I'm (gasp) 38 now) and it's all too much. Surely John Entwistle's death should have been a message to you both to quit dragging your bodies around - but no, we HAVE to hear Tommy yet again... The re-release of Tommy has to be a candidate for 'Pointless CD re-release of the year', along with the 'Let It Be...Naked' thing. Please, guys. Pack it in.
Just for the record, here are a few of my favourite albums of all time. No particular order - they're all wonderful:
Hard Days Night - The Beatles
From Gardens Where We Feel Secure - Virginia Astley
Automatic For The People - REM
Grace - Jeff Buckley
Blue Afternoon - Tim Buckley
Bryter Layter - Nick Drake
Heart Food - Judee Sill
Another Music in a Different Kitchen - Buzzcocks
Gonna Take a Miracle - Laura Nyro and Labelle
Odds & Sods - The Who
Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd
Unhalfbricking - Fairport Convention
Kozmic Blues - Janis Joplin
Velvet Underground and Nico
Janis Ian (1967 debut)
I think that's enough for you to chew on for the moment! Wait till I get on to favourite individual pieces of music - then you'll be REALLY knackered. Biceps for now.
The Groovy Kitten
Complaint of the night: a message to The Who - Roger and Pete - Please retire, act with some dignity, I can't stand these embarrassing 'comebacks' anymore! I've been a Who fan since I was ten (I'm (gasp) 38 now) and it's all too much. Surely John Entwistle's death should have been a message to you both to quit dragging your bodies around - but no, we HAVE to hear Tommy yet again... The re-release of Tommy has to be a candidate for 'Pointless CD re-release of the year', along with the 'Let It Be...Naked' thing. Please, guys. Pack it in.
Just for the record, here are a few of my favourite albums of all time. No particular order - they're all wonderful:
Hard Days Night - The Beatles
From Gardens Where We Feel Secure - Virginia Astley
Automatic For The People - REM
Grace - Jeff Buckley
Blue Afternoon - Tim Buckley
Bryter Layter - Nick Drake
Heart Food - Judee Sill
Another Music in a Different Kitchen - Buzzcocks
Gonna Take a Miracle - Laura Nyro and Labelle
Odds & Sods - The Who
Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd
Unhalfbricking - Fairport Convention
Kozmic Blues - Janis Joplin
Velvet Underground and Nico
Janis Ian (1967 debut)
I think that's enough for you to chew on for the moment! Wait till I get on to favourite individual pieces of music - then you'll be REALLY knackered. Biceps for now.
The Groovy Kitten
Just starting today - will write tomorrow, probably.......... stay tuned
