tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55824201365305033312024-02-19T01:51:56.207-08:00Thirty@30Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-35387377719447624952013-05-17T06:21:00.001-07:002013-05-17T07:20:02.385-07:00The Streets of LondonWhen I published my blog about <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2013/02/the-full-monty-getting-naked-in-name-of.html" target="_blank">posing in the nude</a> - still, to date, the only post to single-handedly surpass 1000 page views - I realised that I had probably peaked too soon. At the time, I still had ten challenges to go. How on earth was I going to top getting my kit off? As the days ticked by, I was increasingly troubled by the suspicion that there actually was <em>no way</em> to top it. The closer I came to the end of the process, the more doubtful I became as to the perfect way to round it all up. Nothing felt impressive enough, big enough, bold enough. Despite having been absolutely adamant, my whole life, that I didn't want a tattoo, I started to seriously consider it. I was getting desperate.<br />
<br />
Amidst this self-imposed stress, it dawned on me that I was crushing the spirit of the whole experience. It had become about ticking a box and trying to be impressive, instead of about doing challenges for their own sake. I just wanted to give up. I'd lost the magic. I was resenting the deadline, instead of looking forward to completing my amazing challenge.<br />
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Then my dad was taken in to hospital, and suddenly, well, I didn't give a fig. The return of perspective is a wonderful thing. My 31st birthday came and went and it was OK. I didn't beat myself up about missing the deadline. I let go. Which is, frankly, a pretty big achievement in itself. I'm generally not too good at letting myself off the hook. I suppose it helped that I knew that I'd sneakily completed <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2013/05/a-little-bit-of-this-little-bit-of-that.html" target="_blank">significantly more </a>than thirty challenges anyway.<br />
<br />
So that was the end of that.<br />
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Just kidding. I may be 31 now, but I'm still as stubborn as ever. One more challenge is due, and one more challenge there shall be, come hell or high water.<br />
<br />
On May 15th, after work, I cycled to a London underground station and locked up my bike. It's not a particularly charming station, and I gave the bike an affectionate parting pat on the saddle. I've been very lucky thus far, but I never leave it without the vague suspicion that it may not be there when I come back. Anyway, I digress. Having secured the bicycle, I descended into the bowels of the station, in search of some people I'd never met before.<br />
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I found them loitering by the sign for Exit 2; two young men and a selection of Bags for Life. I introduced myself, and received a high-five when I confessed that it was my first time. Ten minutes later we were joined by another young man and a second first-time female. I was feeling extremely nervous. What we were about to do was a long way outside my comfort zone. I had no idea how the evening was going to feel, how it was going to work, what I was going to experience, or where we were going to end up. What followed was a profoundly moving, saddening, and yet strangely exhilarating and uplifting experience.<br />
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I had joined a <a href="http://www.meetup.com/thesockmob/" target="_blank">Sock Mob</a>. The Sock Mob is a <a href="http://www.meetup.com/find/" target="_blank">MeetUp</a> group whose mission is simple but very special. Sock Mobbers take clean, new socks, and all sorts of other stuff too, to people living on the streets. On the surface, it's about socks, sandwiches and soap; small things that can make a difficult life just a little more comfortable. But, actually, it's about so much more than that.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>So how can you tell me you're lonely, <br />And say for you that the sun don't shine? <br />Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London <br />I'll show you something to make you change your mind </em></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Ralph McTell. Streets of London</div>
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We started at Exit 1, where a girl in her twenties was sitting cross-legged on the concrete, begging for change. The guys were already simultaneously talking to her and making her a cup of tea by the time I knelt down. The floor of the station was filthy and cold. Her hair looked fairly clean, but her fingers were crusted with dirt. There was a broken handbag wedged under her legs, mostly covered by a blanket. Someone asked her how she was doing, and tears sprang instantly to her eyes. She'd never been in trouble before, she said, but she'd been issued a court date for begging, which she had missed. She was worried that she was going to be arrested, and therefore had moved from her normal pitch, leaving behind her boyfriend, who was begging further up the road in a more profitable spot. She looked forlorn and vulnerable, and she was angry, too, with the people who had reported her for begging. Mostly, she seemed truly upset that she was in trouble. The high-fiver suggested that she could go along to the police station and explain that she'd forgotten the court date. I doubt she'll end up doing this, but she said that just talking to us had lifted a weight from her shoulders.<br />
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When signing up for the Sock Mob, I'd asked for a suggestion as to what to bring. The group organiser had suggested toiletries, as he had plenty of everything else. So I'd been to Boots (that's a drugstore, for any non-British readers) and spent, rather appropriately, a little over £30 on supplies. Here is the stash:<br />
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We offered the girl a toothbrush and she said <i>"the pink one would be nice." </i>It was the first but not the last time I felt my heart ache that evening. I then proffered the cans of deodorant. She deliberated for some time before choosing, and I was so happy that I'd decided to buy a variety of scents, instead of just getting the most basic product I could find. She chose, and then changed her mind, just like I've done a million times, in shops and restaurants. She asked for some chocolate and we didn't have any. My heart ached again. <i>Next time</i>, I thought, immediately. She gladly accepted a couple of pairs of socks (she prefers the thin ones) and asked if we had any trousers. The group leader promised her a pair that he has at home. Just as we left, I stopped and asked her name.<br />
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What happened to me on the Sock Mob happened immediately, with that first young girl. Before that moment I'd known cognitively that homeless people were human beings, just like me. But I'd managed to de-personalise them, in order to make it easier to walk on by. It's not that I'm unkind, I hope. It's just that I didn't know what to do. I never want to give homeless people money because I am afraid to contribute to any kind of habit that could be doing them greater damage, or preventing them from getting a place in a shelter. So the only thing to do was to get my head down and convince myself that I was doing enough by not doing any harm. Suddenly, homeless people became irrevocably real and individual in my mind. It was a very clear and powerful moment.<br />
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We walked for around two hours, stopping at every homeless person we met along the way. Only one person, an older man, sent us on our way without wanting to talk. Another asked us politely to stand to the side, so that the manager of the shop he was sitting outside wouldn't spy us talking to him and then ask him to move. <em>"He thinks I'm stealing his customers" </em>he said. I still can't work out the correlation between someone stopping to talk to a homeless person and deciding or not deciding to go into Tesco. Clearly, I am missing something.<br />
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A young man from Lithuania sat cross-legged by a set of traffic lights. He was the second person to ask for a razor. I hadn't bought any razors. <i>Next time</i>, I thought. Tears came to his eyes as we sat and spoke to him. I think he was just happy to be acknowledged. I wonder if he has a harder time because of his accent. Before I could ask his name he looked into my eyes and told me what it was. I'm not putting any names here, because you never know who wants to stay lost, but there is a profound significance to the exchange of names in a circumstance like this. The Lithuanian gave me his name almost as though it was a gift, but with a desperation in his eyes that said <em>"this is my name, this is who I am. I am real. You are seeing me."</em> I won't forget it.<br />
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A little further down the same road we met another young man. He had a large dog, some kind of Staffy cross by the looks of it. The dog was overjoyed by the visit, and I was rewarded for my friendliness with a high speed lick on the face and a serious drumming from his wagging tail. We handed out a selection of supplies; deodorant, crisps, sandwiches, and a cheese and onion pasty that disappeared into the dog with alarming speed. I had just finished stirring a cup of sweet tea when I looked up and really saw the guy's face. He was genuinely good looking. If he'd been clean, and well-dressed, and in the pub behind him, instead of sitting on the pavement, he would have turned more heads than just mine. It surprised me. Why did it surprise me? Why shouldn't handsome young men end up in horrible trouble just as easily as not-so-handsome young men? I'd never thought about it before.<br />
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We spent a short time with a man busily sketching grotesque - but very accomplished - heads, with pipes and tubes growing out of the skulls. He had a selection of drawings for sale; lots of his dog, and several of buildings. £15 for the dog drawings, £20 for the buildings. Apparently he'd sold two that day. He also said that he was <i>"on the way up in the art world", </i>and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if it turned out to be true.<br />
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The most intense conversation of the evening happened with a young man sitting cross-legged under a railway bridge. It wasn't yet properly dark outside, but the space under the bridge was dank and depressing, and so was the cloud hanging over the young man's head. His left hand was swollen and grazed, where he'd <i>"beat the s**t out of that sign." </i>The offending sign, a large neon affair, was undamaged. When an ambulance went past, he shouted for it to <i>"shut the f**k up." </i>He was so angry, and seemed completely out of the reach of comfort. The story he told us was horrifying. His seven month old daughter was in intensive care, somewhere outside London. She had a serious brain haemorrhage, bought on, he alleged, by physical violence from her mother's new boyfriend. By the sounds of it, the little girl is unlikely to survive, and if she does, she will probably be permanently and heavily brain damaged. The boyfriend had been arrested, but the mother was afraid of him and refused to press charges. The guy under the bridge said that he'd been sober for six months, but that this situation was making him desperate for a drink. Naturally, he was also offering serious violence to the man who had harmed his child. <i>"I don't care" </i>he said, <i>"if she don't pull though I'll kill him, I'll seriously kill him. He'd better hope I don't find him." </i><br />
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When we reasoned that he didn't want to end up in prison he said: <i>"I'd rather be inside than out here." </i>He grimaced with pain as he lit a cigarette with his injured hand. I couldn't argue. I knew that if I was forced to stay outside, in the cold and wet, full of rage and despair, I'd probably rather be in prison too. I'm not saying it's a nice place to be, but nor are the streets. At least in prison you're dry and warm, and someone puts food in front of you. There was nothing we could really do. We asked what we could bring him if we came back, and he asked for a punch bag and a pair of boxing gloves. He took some crisps and a cup of tea, but he wasn't really interested in food or clean socks. The whole thing felt utterly hopeless. When we finally left him, the high-fiver said to me: <i>"You've picked quite a night to come out. You don't normally get stories like that. That was extreme." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
There are lots of other things I could say about my first Sock Mob:<br />
<ul>
<li>It struck me as wonderful that people who are probably pretty hungry will still be picky about the contents of a sandwich. Three people turned down the ham and cheese. </li>
<li>I was impressed by the woman with no home to go to, who nonetheless managed to maintain a pretty extraordinary and multi-coloured manicure. </li>
<li>I love that I seem to like my tea the way the majority of homeless people like it. Super strong, dash of milk, approximately half a cup of sugar. </li>
<li>Maybe the most interesting thing that happened was that the two hours flew, and that - despite everything - I had a really, really good time. I enjoyed myself. I think it's truly awesome that there are people doing this on a regular basis, all over London, and I was so happy to be a part of it.</li>
</ul>
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So that's the end of the Thirty@30 challenge, and what a brilliant end it was. I have to thank my friend Dalia for suggesting the Sock Mob, it was an inspired idea. I'm really pleased that the final challenge ended up being so modest in scale, and yet so profound in so many ways.<br />
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I walked back to the tube station on my own, in the gathering dark, thinking about what I'd experienced. I passed lots of restaurants, and I looked in at the windows and mused on what a privileged life I lead. There was my faithful bike, still quietly locked up. I cycled home, where I dunked myself in a hot bath and ate a delicious home-cooked meal, before climbing into my clean, dry bed. I've rarely felt more thankful for those things, and for the incredible support and love of my parents, who not only taught me to make good decisions, but facilitated those decisions, and sheltered me when I messed up and made bad ones.<br />
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The next day, two things happened. One is that I told one of my colleagues about my experience, and she said that she would love to come Sock Mobbing with me next time. My mum also said she'd like to have a go. The ripples of kindness are already spreading. The second is that, on the way back from my dance class, which is in a totally different area to the one I'd walked with the Mobbers, I spied the man under the bridge, begging for change outside a supermarket. I didn't even hesitate. I crouched down and said hello, and offered to get him something to eat. He was as uninterested in food as he had been the night before, and only wanted change. I didn't give him any money, as I still wasn't confident of how he would use it, but I told him that I would always stop and offer him something to eat if I saw him. <em>"God bless you" </em>he said. And though I'm not entirely sure about God (and suspect he isn't either), I appreciated the sentiment. For me, the really important thing was that I'd proved to myself that I could and would treat homeless people in a different way from now on.<br />
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I recommend trying all and any of the challenges that I've experienced during this process, but if you're only going to do one, I think it should be this one. I guarantee, however awkward and upsetting you might find it at first, you will know for sure that you've done something worthwhile.<br />
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Only one more thing remains to be said:<br />
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Thirty challenges down, a lifetime still to go...<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-6526591160869439132013-05-14T17:12:00.002-07:002013-05-17T05:06:35.505-07:00A Little Bit of This, a Little Bit of ThatI've got one more challenge and a retrospective to write up before my Thirty@30 project comes to an end. I'm not sure how I'm going to feel as I write my last words and post my last blog. (Or rather, my last blog of this process. Because I'm pretty sure it won't be my last blog at all. I've enjoyed myself too much to give up just yet.) I figure I'll feel very proud, very happy, and, in some ways, very relieved. It's been a joy, but it's also been a struggle. It's bought me distraction and comfort in hard times, but it's also been the cause of hard times.<br />
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Anyway. Expect more musings of this kind in my final Thirty@30 post. This post is something different. This post reveals a secret. The secret is this:<br />
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I didn't achieve 30 brand new things in a year.<br />
<br />
I achieved 42.<br />
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These twelve extra things were mostly pretty small, and I was too demanding in my criteria to allow them a full write-up. But each of them contributed to the experience, to the year, and to the general ethos of saying yes. So this is their moment. Some of them have been waiting for their five minutes of fame for almost twelve months.<br />
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<b>1: See Agatha Christie's <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mousetrap" target="_blank">The Mousetrap</a></i></b><br />
There are almost no words for how much I want to break the sacred bond of The Mousetrap and tell you whodunnit. But I won't.<br />
<br />
It was the butler.<br />
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OK. It wasn't the butler.<br />
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Or was it?<br />
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<b>2: Take a bath with rose petals</b><br />
Look, when you've set yourself the challenge of doing brand new things, and then suddenly find yourself with copious amounts of rose petals (long story), it's only natural to have a go at recreating American Beauty. I can confirm that Kevin Spacey did not turn up and that I, alas, did not emerge from the bath looking like Mena Suvari. I can also confirm that it was a pain in the backside dredging soggy petals from the plug hole. It did feel wonderfully decadent though. I'd say I was going to pull a Cleopatra next time and have a bath in goat milk, but knowing how difficult it is to <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2013/03/got-milk.html" target="_blank">milk those things</a>, I'll have to pass.<br />
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<b>3: Get a phone on a contract</b><br />
Yes, you heard me right. I was Pay As You Go until I was 30 years old. I had an old Nokia with no camera and a strange ridge where I'd melted it on my bedside lamp. It made calls, sent text messages, and cost me less than £15 per month. I couldn't What'sApp, Tweet on the go, find out if a restaurant was any good, or read a book on it. Now I have a new Nokia and, like more or less everyone else, I keep it nice and close, just in case I get lost, forget what day it is, or have the irrepressible need to take a photograph of my food and send it to a friend. I find it extremely useful, and at the same time am oh-so-slightly disappointed with myself. It was a strange point of pride to be the only person I knew who was still PAYG.<br />
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<b>4: Go to Romania</b><br />
I went to Bucharest on a business trip, so I can't say I had the chance to see the whole city. But what I saw (from my chauffeur driven Audi, thank you VERY much) was utterly fascinating. And the people I met were truly lovely. Here's me with my Audi and my beautiful new Romanian friend:<br />
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<b>5: Have a hot stone massage</b><br />
I've never been much of a one for massages. They tend to make me feel uncomfortable rather than relaxed. But this. THIS. Holy Hot Stones Batman. This was amazing. Definitely an experience I would like to repeat. At regular intervals.<br />
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<b>6: Be on TV</b><br />
So, this wasn't an <i>entirely </i>novel experience, because I was in the audience of a children's TV show called Speakeasy when I was about 12. It was presented by<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emma_Forbes" target="_blank"> Emma Forbes, </a>and I imagined that she was looking right at me whilst we were filming, most likely thinking that I was a particularly impressive young lady. In truth, she was probably wondering why I was staring at her. Since my frizzy hair and dungarees never made it onto the small screen, I'm allowed to have this one too: On my trip to Bucharest I was a guest on a Money Channel TV show about law firms and legal directories. I not only had to speak intelligently about said subject whilst listening to a simultaneous translation, I also had to look pretty whilst doing it. Which was a serious challenge.<br />
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<b>7: Make my own cinnamon buns</b><br />
I, too, was inspired by the <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b013pqnm" target="_blank">Great British Bake Off.</a> Alas, I don't think the results would have got me anywhere near the first round. The important thing is that I tried.<br />
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<b>8: Make my own <a href="http://www.nigella.com/recipes/view/andys-fairfield-granola-138" target="_blank">granola</a></b><br />
Unlike the cinnamon buns, the granola was an unmitigated triumph. Despite the fact that I slightly over toasted it, and had to throw away several charred nuts, it still knocks spots off all shop-bought cereals. I even had fancy granola in a posh café the other day, and it truly tasted like cardboard in comparison. I never thought I'd be that person, but it turns out I totally am. I kind of hate myself, but seriously, it tastes so good.<br />
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<b>9: Have one of my poems accepted for publication by a poetry webzine</b><br />
I have a lot of poems knocking about, but am generally reticent about submitting them for publication. Some might say it's because I'm afraid of the rejection, and my instinct to argue about this probably makes it true. I was pretty chuffed when <a href="http://kumquatpoetry.tumblr.com/post/29115403420/the-kiss-by-jojo-thomas" target="_blank">this one</a> was accepted and published.<br />
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<b><br /></b><b>10: Do an online grocery shop</b><br />
I genuinely can't think of much to say about this. I'm just not accomplished enough to make doing an online grocery shop in any way interesting. The most dramatic thing about the whole experience was when the delivery driver bought in some bottles of mineral water that I <i>hadn't</i> ordered. I politely turned them away, and a crisis was averted.<br />
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<b>11: Indulge my temper, with unfortunate consequences for a piece of technology</b><br />
I promise you, I am not a totally crazy person. Scout's honour. All I'm going to say is that I DO NOT recommend the Soleus GPS watch. It's not very user friendly. I'm still finding pieces of it in my garden two months after the event.<br />
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<b>12: Get myself an emotional MOT.</b><br />
In contrast with the things listed above, this is something to which I could very easily devote a whole post. In fact, I think I could devote a whole blog to the process. But maybe after reading number eleven, above, I don't really need to explain to you why I've decided to start seeing a counsellor. And anyway, I won't be writing a blog about it, because it is a hugely private experience. I thought twice and three times before revealing it here. But the fact is that I'm not ashamed of it. I actually think it's one of the healthiest, sanest decisions I've ever made in my life. That's all I'm going to say about that.<br />
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This whole experience has given me the courage to try all sorts of new things, and I hope I've picked up the habit of being brave. In the interests of honesty, there were also a bunch of challenges suggested to me that I decided <i>not</i> to do. I'll keep that list, and maybe I'll tick them off in the months and years to come. I hope so.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-37008573674091153852013-05-06T18:31:00.005-07:002013-05-06T18:32:24.631-07:00Yo Ho Ho, the Wind and the Waves<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJm3aBiDgkluSEnFRPC0EtqW6cO8YSZ22qSuzOzXqlSjn87l78wqM0Bx7sOe5VesG7o6vTgusB_kBGdHmVoSU_3s6PD4rejFITSFHG0PVINDfObAKk-B9VCvLXylJ3VrrNX_VkZr5gg-4/s1600/DSC_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJm3aBiDgkluSEnFRPC0EtqW6cO8YSZ22qSuzOzXqlSjn87l78wqM0Bx7sOe5VesG7o6vTgusB_kBGdHmVoSU_3s6PD4rejFITSFHG0PVINDfObAKk-B9VCvLXylJ3VrrNX_VkZr5gg-4/s400/DSC_0049.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A nanosecond before the words <i>"of course I've been sailing" </i>came out of my mouth, I realised they weren't true. Despite spending most of my childhood holidays on a farm perched on an estuary, and having a seriously seafaring uncle, sailing had somehow passed me by.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Julia's eyes lit up. <i>"Then sailing could me one of your challenges! I'm sure Tom would be very happy to take you." </i> A second later, Julia's eyes filled with regret and resignation. Volunteering her husband's services as skipper was all very well, but she knew at once that he would jump on the opportunity to take her along as first mate. Julia is not big on being first mate. Her idea of a delightful day's sailing involves a maximum of two hours on the water, followed by copious amounts of ice cream. She has embraced Tom's passions of cycling and running with serious style, and has even got me in to both, but sailing is not her thing. When it comes to her husband's other true love, a 20ft yacht called <i>Mirage</i>, she is happy to observe the adage that two's company.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJ_W6DCPE0frqeLrg3VmnbN2hqhZlmZ8yugspB6gjjecZxs2-SJ9mBZfjs8x6Q6FhGar7L5gjxKmDJ0DMDy7e0F6P3gsdezZmz20vz2rUQvQd5A5xFmqIGeoSan8UP4kNS-8crF5KoYk/s1600/DSC_0077.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJ_W6DCPE0frqeLrg3VmnbN2hqhZlmZ8yugspB6gjjecZxs2-SJ9mBZfjs8x6Q6FhGar7L5gjxKmDJ0DMDy7e0F6P3gsdezZmz20vz2rUQvQd5A5xFmqIGeoSan8UP4kNS-8crF5KoYk/s640/DSC_0077.jpg" width="424" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">You sail the boat, I'm having a kip.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Julia, however, is not one of my best friends for nothing. True to her word, she signed me up to Tom Upchurch's School of Sailing, simultaneously pledging herself as crew, companion, and official photographer. I count myself very lucky to have a friend like that.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I steal a hug from a non-hugger. Mwahahaha.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First up was an after-dinner theory lesson from the cap'n.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was given one week to study this diagram, and then it was time for the practical. Why are exams always so early in the morning? It's not often that I see 4.45am. It always surprises me that no matter how early I am up, there are always plenty of other people already out in their cars, waiting at bus stops, cycling around. I resent this. It undervalues my achievement. If I'm going to be up at an ungodly hour, I at least want the smug satisfaction of knowing that I am the only one hardcore enough to not be in bed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway. Two hours and one appalling cup of Starbucks tea later, we pulled in to the boatyard at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bucklers_Hard" target="_blank">Buckler's Hard</a>, in Hampshire. How awesome a name is Buckler's Hard? Seriously awesome.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's <i>Mirage</i>, being lovingly uncovered by Tom:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJYeOCzr0uaGyN8x_0o0URFiCg1OGP5vr8JmNh93FC1SSAjmWhn34iXJAJDYsbOaJgQe_I90YNX3vl7kx0xpYtMBOXDzJpTVBcrU4KOnxlCjGsDwAsMpQ2g8cGVNo0kNvUmsT1CAGQvc/s1600/DSC_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJYeOCzr0uaGyN8x_0o0URFiCg1OGP5vr8JmNh93FC1SSAjmWhn34iXJAJDYsbOaJgQe_I90YNX3vl7kx0xpYtMBOXDzJpTVBcrU4KOnxlCjGsDwAsMpQ2g8cGVNo0kNvUmsT1CAGQvc/s400/DSC_0005.jpg" width="265" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's <i>Mirage,</i> being lovingly launched into the Beaulieu River:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's Julia, sitting in the car with a book. This more or less says it all.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Can I please just read my book in the car?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">There were various things Tom needed to do to the boat, so he suggested that it would be time efficient for me to steer us out of the Beaulieu River and into the open sea, whilst he got on with said things. This seemed like a terrible idea to me, but I had no say in the matter. The basic rules were explained: keep to the right of the channel, move the tiller right to go left, and left to go right, and try not to bump into any buoys. Then Tom started faffing around in the cabin and I took the helm. The motor chugged along and I felt terribly important. I nodded nonchalantly to other yachtsmen and women and wondered just how impressed they were at my clearly wicked skills. When Tom showed me how to steer with my knees I decided I was definitely running away to sea at the first opportunity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It being a relatively warm and sunny bank holiday weekend, there were lots of other boats out on the water. This meant that we didn't have much room to practice sailing in the nice cozy bit just at the end of the channel. So it was out into the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solent" target="_blank">Solent</a> with no further ado. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Tom is not only a darn good skipper, he's also a brilliantly patient and logical teacher. He didn't overwhelm me with jargon, or too much information, but made sure that I had a clue what was going on. I learnt the following sailing words/terms:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">As I write this, I still know what all of those are, but I'm not making any promises about remembering. Try me again in a month. About two hours in, and a mere half hour away from the Isle of Wight, I also learnt the meaning of the word Head. I was inordinately thankful for the surprise reveal of the porta-potty, as I had been solemnly informed that if I needed a widdle whilst out at sea it was a question of hanging my bare bottom over the edge of the boat. No one wanted to see that. Except maybe Julia, who was in need of a good giggle, due to the fact that she was extremely cold. In a husbandly effort to warm her up, Tom proceeded to wrap her in a few of his clothes. Seven layers later she looked marginally happier, but a bit like she couldn't move, and a lot like she would have significant difficulty should she need to use the Head.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I taunt Julia with a picnic there's no way she can eat without removing at least five of her seven layers.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Now, I won't say I wasn't cold. It is, unsurprisingly, quite windy out at sea. You can see above that I've added a snazzy headband to my ensemble in order to protect my slightly chilly ears. This turned out to be what you might call a CRITICAL ERROR. The following day I was cursing that headband - and my utterly stupid failure to apply any sunscreen to my face - for the most astonishingly ridiculous-looking case of sunburn I have ever had. It was (is) so bad that I cancelled all my bank holiday Monday plans and stayed grumpily indoors applying every home-remedy I could find on the internet/in my kitchen cupboards. For future reference, baking powder compresses are fairly effective. And no, I'm not showing you a picture of the stupid sunburn. Behave.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Back to the sailing. We sailed to Cowes, on the Isle of Wight. Woo yay sailing! With merely the power of the wind, some wood, and some big bits of fabric, we went from one place to another across the sea. Forgive my simplicity, but I think that's pretty cool. Power boats roared past us, making jaunty little waves. Pah! Pah, says I. Who needs a motor when you have wind?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Cowes was lovely. We ate our picnic on a bench overlooking the marina and then wandered down the high street in search of - you guessed it - ice cream. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">We stood and listened to a wonderfully wonky brass band and perused a couple of the local shops, full of sailing stuff. I paused at a display of Breton caps, remembering my seafaring uncle, who died last year. His Breton cap sat on his coffin all through the funeral service. I suspect he sailed the Solent many times, and it was nice to think about him, doing what he loved.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tom had decided that there'd been enough jollying around. The trip home was all about me doing some serious sailing. Well, as serious as I was going to get on my first go, anyway. We embarked on a tacking exercise, which basically meant zig-zagging back and forth, ideally without losing the power of the wind each time I changed direction. It took me a while to get this, but eventually I started to find the feel of the sails against the wind, and tip the boat in quite an exciting way. I began to wage war on a particularly stubborn yellow buoy, which I'm quite sure someone kept moving further away. Julia was just commenting on my </span><i style="font-size: medium;">sang froid</i><span style="font-size: small;">, and how most first timers freak out and squeal, when I lost control and tipped the boat a lot further than intended. Tom had informed me that it was </span><i style="font-size: medium;">"basically impossible to capsize Mirage", </i><span style="font-size: small;">but at that moment I had powerful doubts. I didn't squeal, but I did swear. Tom however, cool as a cucumber, refused to take back the tiller, forcing me to work through my mini-panic and regain control. I went into an almost hypnotic trance, watching the little strings on the Mailsail that indicated if we were or were not in the optimum position. Only when I was cruising again did Tom take over and give me a break. Well, I say break. What I actually mean is that he took over the helm and me and Julia took over the winching on the tacks. I took back the helm in the last half hour, and steered us home to the Beaulieu channel. Tom was great at making me feel like I was actually doing important stuff, even though we all knew that he was actually the one doing all the hard work.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">It was loads of fun. I get why Tom loves sailing so much. I also get why Julia doesn't. It was a novelty for me, and I was mostly really enjoying myself, but there were moments on the sail back from Cowes when it felt like we were making painfully slow progress. Probably due to my inexpert steering. We were tired and increasingly cold and there was nothing we could do but keep going. Head down, hood up, endure. And of course, returning to the boatyard isn't the end. We had to queue for over an hour to get <i>Mirage</i> back on dry land. Then we had to wash her down, park her and pack her up, before heading for London. Start to finish, it was a seventeen hour day. I was completely exhausted when I collapsed into bed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Left a bit, right a bit</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I'd definitely like to sail again, though. It was thrilling, and lovely to be out on the sparkling sea on a beautiful day. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>For whatever we lose (like a you or a me) </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>it's always ourselves we find in the sea </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; text-align: start;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i>e.e.cummings</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Thank you, Tom, Julia and <i>Mirage. </i>You rock.</span></div>
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Twenty-nine down, one to go...</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-21459760531148848512013-05-03T17:51:00.002-07:002013-05-06T11:47:16.916-07:00A Rhyme, a Rhyme, and Just in Time.I don't remember when I wrote my first poem, but it was a long time ago. Relatively confident of future success, I started a collection of juvenilia. I fully expect <i><b>Poems of Yesterdays (sic) Heart</b></i> to feature on all respectable English Literature degree courses by 2025.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice handwriting, shame about the missing apostrophe.</td></tr>
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As you may be able to predict, this collection contains some utterly atrocious poetry. Have a look at this particularly tasty example:<br />
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The less said about that the better.<br />
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I changed my career ambitions several times during my childhood. Initially, I intended to be a world famous ballerina. Then I decided that being a Hollywood A-lister was more my speed. I later had a moment of sanity when a career as a barrister seemed appealing, before finally settling on 'bestselling novellist' as my ideal job title. Watch this space. I am so on it. My Gothic fairy tale about killer crows is totally going to be the next big thing. I just need to add a couple of chapters of mummy porn. And a wizard.<br />
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Throughout all these twists and turns, poetry has been a constant. When I'm down, when I'm happy, when I'm amused, when I'm alone; poetry always finds a place. I learn poems by heart. They help me sleep. They get me though <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/on-yer-bike-or-how-i-learned-to-stop.html" target="_blank">long nostalgic bike rides</a>. I buy big chunky poetry anthologies and obscure little poetry pamphlets. And of course, despite an early lack of promise, I still write the stuff. I mostly write a lot of terrible tosh, but I do write the odd thing that is really not too bad, such as <a href="http://www.oomphalos.co.uk/2011/08/for-you-enlai/" target="_blank">this piece </a>that I wrote for my gorgeous godson.<br />
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I once had the immense privilege of studying with <a href="http://www.poetrybusiness.co.uk/gerard-benson" target="_blank">Gerard Benson</a>, an original member of the Barrow Poets and co-founder of the magnificent <a href="http://www.tfl.gov.uk/corporate/projectsandschemes/2437.aspx" target="_blank">Poems on the Underground</a> scheme. The week I spent on his course in Buckinghamshire was probably one of the happiest of my life. He taught me so much about form and subtlety. One lunchtime, Gerard fell in to step with me on the way to the sandwich shop. <i>"You know you have a gift?" </i>He asked. I have no idea what completely inadequate reply I gave, but I can tell you for certain that his words will stay with me until the day I die. He made me believe that I might have a voice worth hearing.<br />
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Speaking of inspiration. It was seeing<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dan_le_sac_vs_Scroobius_Pip" target="_blank"> Scroobius Pip</a> at an <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/hearts-on-string-evening-with-amanda.html" target="_blank">Amanda Palmer gig</a> that turned me on to the idea of spoken word. Previously, I had imagined live poetry to be awash with cigarette smoke, beards and berets. Scroobius Pip made live poetry feel vibrant and truly accessible. I saw the glint of a possibility. My early career ambitions signpost a love of performing, and that's something that I have really been missing over the last few years. I have accepted that I'm probably too late to start training as a world famous ballerina, but my soul hasn't quite caught up with the idea that I will spend the rest of my days out of the limelight. It still yearns to show off.<br />
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So I popped 'poetry slam' on my Thirty@30 list and figured it would take care of itself.<br />
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Three weeks before my final deadline, with four challenges still to go, I discovered that it hadn't taken care of itself. Pesky poetry. So, in something of a panic, I printed out four random poems that I thought were quite good and took them along to my Monday night writers' group for a trial run. Turns out they weren't quite good at all. I could feel them bombing as I read them aloud. <br />
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My friend and fellow writer Alex sensibly and tactfully suggested that instead of signing up to Poetry Unplugged at the <a href="http://www.poetrysociety.org.uk/content/cafe/" target="_blank">Poetry Café</a> the following day, as planned, I just go along and scope the territory. He also said that if I could wait another week, he'd be able to come along for moral support. Actually, I think his words were <i>"If you do it next week, I can come and throw stuff." </i>At this juncture, two other members of the group: the extraordinarily wise and wonderful <a href="http://busibuddies.wordpress.com/2012/06/15/edward-daniels-interview-with-caroline-swain-career-coach-at-breaking-out-of-the-chrysalis/" target="_blank">Caroline Swain</a>, and <a href="http://www.themangoorchard.com/" target="_blank">Published Author Robin Bayley</a>, piped up with their willingness and availability to come and throw things at me, too. Suddenly, things were taking care of themselves. I had a week, a plan, and an audience.<br />
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Off I went to scope out Poetry Unplugged. In many ways, it wasn't too far from the beards and berets I had imagined. There were some very earnest poets, and some very terrible poems. But there was also joy, exuberance, support, laughter. Clever, startling, original creativity. And at least three people who had recently escaped from a local institute for the irretrievably insane. I thought it was great, and I knew I could do it too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVi8cT66y3I10JglEKWZ7-240HV-4s8NqLFQyTrUMTOPgSjYFrz7pCyn-iQQJ-VjTv91ZFOGWiNNQjWrvIpVRL4wkxbVPMnuYmVAUmBNj2kIfmfwnLUUtXB4JVSqyrFV7IXgdWA9krLM/s1600/WP_000422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSVi8cT66y3I10JglEKWZ7-240HV-4s8NqLFQyTrUMTOPgSjYFrz7pCyn-iQQJ-VjTv91ZFOGWiNNQjWrvIpVRL4wkxbVPMnuYmVAUmBNj2kIfmfwnLUUtXB4JVSqyrFV7IXgdWA9krLM/s640/WP_000422.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The problem was the material. The poems I had chosen were written to be read from the page. I could feel instinctively that they didn't work as performance pieces. I needed something with rhythm and rhyme, even if the rhyme was pretty basic. At home I racked my brain, and thumbed through the notebook I'd used during Gerard Benson's course. There was some decent material in there, and definitely a few candidates for my next award-winning collection, but nothing that seemed right for unplugged. I flopped down, defeated, in front of the TV. I flipped the channels, feeling my brain start to drip out of my ears, as it often does when I allow the telly to work its catatonic magic. <i>I'm stuck</i>, I thought.<br />
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And, as if by magic, the poem came.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Alex, waiting for the night to begin. Note the manic fear in my eyes.</td></tr>
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On Tuesday, April 30th 2013, there were probably 60+ people packed into the Poetry Café's tiny basement. My dad and his girlfriend couldn't get a seat and had to watch from the stairs. Alex, Robin and Caroline were all there. I waited and waited for my spot, my heart skipping a beat every time the compere, poet <a href="http://www.niallosullivan.co.uk/" target="_blank">Niall O'Sullivan</a>, announced <i>"the next poetry unplugged virgin." </i><br />
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The standard and the energy were significantly higher than they had been the week before. Having felt relatively confident that I'd be amongst the better offerings of the evening, I was suddenly full of doubt. When at last it was my turn for ceremonial deflowering, I was trembling almost uncontrollably. But there was a swell of support from the room. Even if everyone secretly hopes that they're going to be the best, no one wants anyone else to fail. This is a gathering of people who love poetry. Even the irretrievably insane get a wild round of applause, beginning and end. Kind of like this...<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/uHY2YlbRrDs?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Looking back on the video, there are loads of things I would do differently. I'd give myself some sort of vocal surgery, for starters. How anyone can put up with the sound of me talking I may never know. I'd also work on my rhythm and actions, and learn the whole thing by heart, which I would have done if I hadn't written it the day before. Oh, and I might also try to remember to breathe next time. But all things considered, it wasn't bad for a virgin. And what a tremendous buzz. What a feeling, not only to be back on stage, but to offer people a little bit of myself, and to hear them laugh where I wanted them to laugh. Fall silent when I needed them to be silent. I loved it. Here's a text message my dad sent me afterwards:<br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Darling that was great. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Your eyes were alive for the first time in months. </span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">More of that and you will be right up there.</span></i></div>
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I think he hit the nail on the head there. To feel alive I need to write poetry and I need to perform. If I keep putting the two together, I might one day get half good at it. At the very lest, I'll probably have a lot of fun trying. Now then, someone pass me my beret.</div>
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Twenty-eight down, two to go...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-34179408865929576792013-04-28T13:35:00.001-07:002013-05-03T14:15:51.393-07:00My Vegan DiaryI'm the first to admit that I have my fair share of food quirks. For example, I really hate sweetcorn. Why must people insist on adding these devil's testicles to everything? One finds them lurking in otherwise innocuous sandwiches, salads, stews, pies, all sorts. Finding little yellow nuggets of doom in my food really winds me up. This is, perhaps, the one subject on which my dear Julia and I do not agree. In fact, I believe my hatred of sweetcorn has caused her to question my suitability as a friend more than once.<br />
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I'd gladly elaborate further, but this isn't a blog about sweetcorn. I might write a blog about sweetcorn one day. It would be relatively niche, but would undoubtedly secure me a dedicated and fanatical following.<br />
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Anyway. As you have probably guessed from the title, this is actually a blog abut going vegan. I'd been wondering about having a crack at being a veggie for a while, but it felt too easy. I've been eating a lot less red meat lately anyway. I have, however, replaced this with potentially worrying quantities of eggs and cheese. Lotsa cheese. Mmmmmm cheese. So when another awesome friend, Alex, suggested going vegan, I figured I had a real challenge on my hands. Especially when it came to giving up Nutella. As you can see, I was cultivating my chocolate habit from an early age.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate? What chocolate?</td></tr>
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The first important step, obviously, was to scour Google for vegan recipes. The first link I found was for the <i>Oprah</i> website. Oprah has a 'vegan starter kit'. This sounded promising. Oprah is a guru, right? Oprah can totally tell me how to be a vegan, yes? Actually, Oprah's vegan shopping list is a masterclass in how to pretend you're not actually vegan at all. In includes such delights as <i>Veganaise; Meatless Meatballs; Replacement Cheese; and Ener-G Egg Replacer. </i>I don't even want to contemplate what could be in an egg replacer.<br />
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I'm sorry to confess that I became terribly snooty about all this fakery. If I was going to be a vegan for a week, I was going to be a good, old-fashioned, mung-bean-eating, lentil-fancying, tofu-tastic PROPER VEGAN. Then my new boss asked me what I was going to do about my leather shoes. And my leather handbag. I got down of my high horse relatively swiftly at that stage. I don't have any vegan shoes. Well, not ones that are suitable for the office, anyway.<br />
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In the end, I tracked down a few relatively appealing vegan recipes and proceeded with an online shop. As it happens, I had never done an online grocery shop before, but I decided it might make for the world's most boring blog-post, so I'll spare you too many details. I will, instead, delight you with a screen shot of a small portion of my shopping list. Don't say I don't spoil you.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeTlnq1U0o7CuRQgot6OHjUvabWEi-VFfG_PdZUS0cOwp4i3CbM81Q5BDHO09Ji8s8seJUyZKNmGeoWQQLFnjpJxZJ7o-eVu909HdDNewdifoBZFZXbVfEFaG5PH0rQGSMR0neoi4mdY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-04-18+at+23.39.21.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjeTlnq1U0o7CuRQgot6OHjUvabWEi-VFfG_PdZUS0cOwp4i3CbM81Q5BDHO09Ji8s8seJUyZKNmGeoWQQLFnjpJxZJ7o-eVu909HdDNewdifoBZFZXbVfEFaG5PH0rQGSMR0neoi4mdY/s640/Screen+Shot+2013-04-18+at+23.39.21.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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A few days later a mountain of shopping arrived. The lemons were significantly below my usual standard, but otherwise I was pretty impressed. As you can probably tell, however, I had rather over catered. Classic rookie error.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYO93C9TmOydc-3MTQpmSrOKqKtIN1APEzPbrr2TAuRbEEAJzURCeh_p3pQEFHV8rrnE9kT-6emH4jEsWlS4xoFcMi3jP6X-OETyI1EZHFhiJno0igurCF4BLEdP2B5TZcdVRoHaWRSKs/s1600/DSC_0016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYO93C9TmOydc-3MTQpmSrOKqKtIN1APEzPbrr2TAuRbEEAJzURCeh_p3pQEFHV8rrnE9kT-6emH4jEsWlS4xoFcMi3jP6X-OETyI1EZHFhiJno0igurCF4BLEdP2B5TZcdVRoHaWRSKs/s640/DSC_0016.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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But, over catered or not, I was all set for a virtuous week <i>sans</i> animal products. Let us proceed then, without further ado, to Jojo's Vegan Diary. I'm not saying it's going to outsell <i>Bridget Jones. </i>I'm not even saying it's going to prove more popular than <i>Sadistic Sweetcorn: My Fight Against Satan's BonBons.</i> But I hope you enjoy it, nevertheless.<br />
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<u><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Friday, April 19th</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I was planning to start my vegan diet on Monday, but Julia made something vegan from <a href="http://scottjurek.com/" target="_blank">Scott Jureck's </a><i><a href="http://scottjurek.com/" target="_blank">Eat and Run</a>, </i>and invited me round<i>. </i>Figured I may as well get on with it. Just before I left the house, I ate a large spoonful of Nutella. I love Nutella.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Supper was tempeh and brown rice with an almond curry sauce and stir-fried onions, carrots and pepper. Tempeh is an extra firm form of tofu. It looks like the frontal lobe Anthony Hopkins sautées in <i>Hannibal. </i>It was delicious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Julia had also bought some vegan ginger snaps. They were seriously addictive. So far, I am rocking at being vegan. Turns out it's really easy when someone else does all the hard work for you.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJco1C58ZswShyCkfJn6yZbrtcMSq3AxxUJbZB-u0SclEoN7d9n6WT8fQe1nv3v1BFspgLiUmEnsOFVR0pO09IxgjB22eKgfSbFgF9kmmXr4FuhPoFy8Y6NmMz9GwcSyXnEEi_yA41Jk/s1600/DSC_0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyJco1C58ZswShyCkfJn6yZbrtcMSq3AxxUJbZB-u0SclEoN7d9n6WT8fQe1nv3v1BFspgLiUmEnsOFVR0pO09IxgjB22eKgfSbFgF9kmmXr4FuhPoFy8Y6NmMz9GwcSyXnEEi_yA41Jk/s400/DSC_0013.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now you see it.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYr2UDkzXSgtIV-eDVIwopzdo78hDksWwA2mXOEz0bt7qXMFPyivaXwcAApQby4cIs4ePEsgg1tNZelS1xXYhJP-IzUbyxCtsfzDMOt3Et-TSmeIauwRZVYiETwX1Er4FoWje7kwP41hk/s1600/DSC_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYr2UDkzXSgtIV-eDVIwopzdo78hDksWwA2mXOEz0bt7qXMFPyivaXwcAApQby4cIs4ePEsgg1tNZelS1xXYhJP-IzUbyxCtsfzDMOt3Et-TSmeIauwRZVYiETwX1Er4FoWje7kwP41hk/s400/DSC_0014.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Now you don't.</td></tr>
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<u><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Saturday, April 20th</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Breakfast. Hmm. I haven't entirely thought about this. I have vegan-friendly bread, but what do I have with it? You can't have Marmite without butter underneath it. That's just a rule. Peanut butter and jam is a thing, right? Yep, turns out it's totally a thing. A VEGAN thing. It's kind of strange, but I think I like it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I have friends coming round for supper, so I make a delicious-looking vegetarian Thai green curry. I've just stirred in some water chestnuts when an ominous thought enters my head. Doesn't Thai green curry paste contain fish? Yep. Fail. I hope my non-vegetarian guests don't mind being vegetarian for no apparent reason. I have toast with hummus, avocado and sundried tomatoes for supper. This is delicious, but I suspect not as delicious as the curry. D'oh!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Oh, and one of my guests brings cakes. Homemade, beautiful, miniature Victoria sponges. I've remembered why I wasn't planning to go vegan until Monday, now. Double d'oh! I really want one of those cakes.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6-FjuxpsiELxWxS7E9j_2g_51OazvDajKZWQTNZeN9RJErY0NQNSaLHKf26gvYjJlcCAWBnlukB5hQJ0QCbFtXt938Du73RMM_mLhm6hPgTIVMEXbf2LQ9U6HUnYMdJEwhYWys2XF74/s1600/DSC_0020.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm6-FjuxpsiELxWxS7E9j_2g_51OazvDajKZWQTNZeN9RJErY0NQNSaLHKf26gvYjJlcCAWBnlukB5hQJ0QCbFtXt938Du73RMM_mLhm6hPgTIVMEXbf2LQ9U6HUnYMdJEwhYWys2XF74/s400/DSC_0020.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jane eats a delicious mini Victoria sponge.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkEPhZodvybzMokEvi575xJ5fX1pJMRc1GXSdwj_Apk3iPCUU5F4OY62_xy9aBCDovilH45zRQFoQzyK-3s6qK4w7AJREhg4gFKC1HWFMBq3eroPez5YDa8D7yRzO0_aIaHX5ry-wzts/s1600/DSC_0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBkEPhZodvybzMokEvi575xJ5fX1pJMRc1GXSdwj_Apk3iPCUU5F4OY62_xy9aBCDovilH45zRQFoQzyK-3s6qK4w7AJREhg4gFKC1HWFMBq3eroPez5YDa8D7yRzO0_aIaHX5ry-wzts/s400/DSC_0021.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jojo does not eat a delicious mini Victoria sponge.<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<u><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Sunday, April 21st</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">PB&J on toast for breakfast. I suspect I may end up eating a lot of peanut butter and jam. Which is probably not all that healthy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">The Nutella is giving me the eye. It keeps looking at me and whispering sweet nothings. Eat me, Jojo. Eat me with a spoooooon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Julia, Tom and I go on a 33 mile cycle ride. Fortunately, the energy sweets I usually have turn out to be vegan. Hooray!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">On the way back, we stop for ice cream. This is my first encounter with asking someone in a shop if one of their products is vegan-friendly. I feel massively conspicuous and embarrassed. But that's mostly because I'm wearing padded lycra shorts. They have vegan chocolate and raspberry sorbets, and I have half a scoop of each. RIDICULOUSLY delicious. I will totally have that again. And again.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZj8lgQYQ-ZALxkRn6-LMYl886TgmIviSntVV4ch9Tdc-py2dRe2IQkH769Is67mgVd0t8jahyphenhyphenlDtu3BAIEM7NX3HOeP1RnqIVrPIMq_AZUJeEhJv-_-j4KqwA2_aa6cdKck7XGHvlRM/s1600/WP_000392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZZj8lgQYQ-ZALxkRn6-LMYl886TgmIviSntVV4ch9Tdc-py2dRe2IQkH769Is67mgVd0t8jahyphenhyphenlDtu3BAIEM7NX3HOeP1RnqIVrPIMq_AZUJeEhJv-_-j4KqwA2_aa6cdKck7XGHvlRM/s640/WP_000392.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When I get home, the Nutella looks accusatory. It can tell I've found an alternative chocolate fix.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For supper, I roast a butternut squash with fresh chili and garlic, which I eat with wholewheat pasta. I've made this meal many times, and I absolutely love it. It only requires a tiny adjustment to make it vegan. Turns out, that adjustment is the undoing of the dish. Roast butternut squash pasta is just boring without the bacon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">At the same time as roasting the squash I put together one of the vegan recipes I found online. Sweet potato, tomato, peanut and chard curry. During the initial stages, this looks extremely appealing. With every ingredient I add, however, it becomes less so. I'm sure it will taste fine. But it really looks gross.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<u><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Monday, April 22nd</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">First day of being a vegan at the office. PB&J on toast for breakfast.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">During the morning, I eat two apples and have a Lady Grey tea, black. I feel fine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For lunch, I go to <a href="http://www.hbros.co.uk/" target="_blank">Hummus Bros</a> with two of my new colleagues. I have hummus with guacamole, having first checked that the pitta is vegan. I'm thinking avocados and hummus may become a theme this week.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">As the day draws onwards, I find myself dreading the sweet potato curry. It really didn't look appealing. I eat some grapes. I like grapes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Tonight is the fortnightly meeting of my writers group. I usually eat a lot of biscuits during this meeting. Instead, I eat crisps. Being vegan clearly doesn't automatically mean being healthy. However, I eat enough crisps, and get home late enough, to make eating sweet potato curry unreasonable. Reprieve. I eat two kiwis instead.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
<u><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Tuesday, April 23rd</span></u><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I eat some grapes for breakfast. Turns out this is not enough breakfast, and by about 10.15 I am feeling a bit weak and wobbly. But none of the cereal bars available in the office are vegan. They are all packed with butter. Delicious, delicious, buttery butter.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Then, awesomely, my new boss shows up with a tupperware of homemade granola. She made it with her daughter and they jointly decided to send me a sample. I eat it dry, straight from the tupperware. Oh my lord. This might be one of the tastiest things I have ever eaten. It rescues my morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My granola. Mine.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">For lunch I have a lentil energy pot from </span><a href="http://www.podfood.co.uk/" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;" target="_blank">Pod</a><span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">. Let's be honest, it does not look very nice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It's not bad though. A bit heavy, perhaps, and definitely lacking in salt, but not at all bad. I also grab some vegan ginger biscuits from the health food shop. These are a lot like eating cardboard, but they provide a much needed sugar boost in the afternoon. Am I going to brave the sweet potato curry tonight?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Turns out the sweet potato curry is absolutely fine, as long as you eat in with equal parts mango chutney and lime pickle. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><u>Wednesday, April </u></span><u style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">24th</u><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">When the alarm goes off this morning I am almost instantly awake. Which never happens. PB&J on toast for breakfast.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Mid-morning, I am feeling quite tired. That energy boost didn't last long. I make myself a tomato, avocado and basil salad for lunch, which I eat with oat cakes and hummus. Pretty sure I'm starting to look like a chickpea.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">My ginger biscuits are also oat based. I feel a bit like a horse, munching away on my oats all day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Even though I now know from experience that the sweet potato curry is absolutely fine, I still can't bring myself to eat any more of it. It's clearly going to sit in the fridge until I give in and throw it away. I don't feel good about this, but I just don't want it. More toast, with hummus, avocado and sundried tomatoes it is.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdWtxYvXQ_t-pkNt_NYsRSfRj1ipBm_N8eTrBbsaSs-soaeDoMsA4d2Ih_4sBQfDhErVnHSzMbfvdmR1LRdwyDqhD6Evvt-elPLU_mSap1LZK6188aXvdtNKMzS2fpKNqY_y9b1aXvMo/s1600/DSC_0019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdWtxYvXQ_t-pkNt_NYsRSfRj1ipBm_N8eTrBbsaSs-soaeDoMsA4d2Ih_4sBQfDhErVnHSzMbfvdmR1LRdwyDqhD6Evvt-elPLU_mSap1LZK6188aXvdtNKMzS2fpKNqY_y9b1aXvMo/s640/DSC_0019.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yum. But, seriously, more hummus?<br /><br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><u>Thursday, April 25th</u></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Can you guess what I had for breakfast?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">For lunch I also had the same as yesterday. And then some dried mango, an apple and a few ginger biscuits. I'm thinking I would have to be a lot more creative if I were to take up veganism full time.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM5y_9Y-nln30971f5rlCwM3Lfwmyror5M9NZdw31T7vRYR3cz52jSvJ4vJ7FImeqJQy8VgN_Rcb-c3OOQtewxjAhfBgDZ3KZmnUE85SjQMH0mgREdIO9JY0cVjFGPjO_Bs7O7lpZVOE/s1600/WP_000401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIM5y_9Y-nln30971f5rlCwM3Lfwmyror5M9NZdw31T7vRYR3cz52jSvJ4vJ7FImeqJQy8VgN_Rcb-c3OOQtewxjAhfBgDZ3KZmnUE85SjQMH0mgREdIO9JY0cVjFGPjO_Bs7O7lpZVOE/s320/WP_000401.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Dad offers to take me out for supper. The funky, salady place in Crouch End is fully booked, so we wander around a bit, somewhat at a loss. We eventually settle on a Mediterranean café, where I have, erm, falafel with HUMMUS. Someone save me from hummus. I mean, I love the stuff, but there are limits. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">I'm glad there's only one day to go. I'm getting a bit tired of having to look up the ingredients on everything.</span><br />
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<u style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;">Friday, April 26th</u><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Last day!! Skipped breakfast, had coffee instead. It felt really naughty for some reason, but was very tasty. I went out for lunch with my boss and another colleague. We went to a restaurant called <a href="http://www.hazrestaurant.co.uk/haz_st_pauls.htm" target="_blank">Haz</a>, where two weeks ago I ate an obscenely tasty chicken dish. This is the first time I have badly craved meat. I ate couscous with roasted vegetables, which was nice, but, you know...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Julia, Tom and I ate at a favourite Vietnamese restaurant, <a href="http://www.khoai.co.uk/" target="_blank">Khoai</a>. I had tofu, rice noodles and salad. I had to have an alternative sauce because the proper sauce had fish in it. Notwithstanding this small alteration, this was the most delicious thing I ate all week. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq8qY1UjkvLCoA3KR_xkq9A0IYS84oATrD8uM75EjRms7S3NF9P2oq3YHySQRK1m-ZWoqD3TkDf8ODGaC8t_vw9ZLbH2Iy5AsfIHHw4nq4izHPCiDTLaDrHSgc8DclPMitJCuPkgyf34Y/s1600/WP_000403.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq8qY1UjkvLCoA3KR_xkq9A0IYS84oATrD8uM75EjRms7S3NF9P2oq3YHySQRK1m-ZWoqD3TkDf8ODGaC8t_vw9ZLbH2Iy5AsfIHHw4nq4izHPCiDTLaDrHSgc8DclPMitJCuPkgyf34Y/s400/WP_000403.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">DONE! Friday supper to Friday supper. In serious celebration, I have sticky toffee pudding and custard for desert. Oh sweet, sweet buttery sponge. Oh lovely, gooey, creamy custard. HAPPY JOJO.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14BQK8pxIlWCRiZwa_cIrx6AU9PzaSoF1I2unujRmmTDdpBWgs9cpYFUYHGP93D4ZrDa-pJyVIJOPqmWoK9dDTb9EW9zU1o7WkHoTArM-7RWlNFqpDKTjh2Qwq4FfgqUi_cW8hO2dsQ4/s1600/photo+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14BQK8pxIlWCRiZwa_cIrx6AU9PzaSoF1I2unujRmmTDdpBWgs9cpYFUYHGP93D4ZrDa-pJyVIJOPqmWoK9dDTb9EW9zU1o7WkHoTArM-7RWlNFqpDKTjh2Qwq4FfgqUi_cW8hO2dsQ4/s400/photo+(2).jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Celebratory sticky toffee. Bliss.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And that was that. Vegan for a week. All in all, it wasn't as difficult as I'd imagined. But it was a little bit boring. Save a few highlight flavours, I ended up eating a lot of the same things. This says more about me than it does about veganism itself, of course, but it goes to show that in order to have a varied, exciting vegan diet you have to be creative with your cooking. I'd need a lot more practice before I could come home late and whip up a vegan delight from the bits and bobs in my fridge. However, following my dramatic over catering, I do still have quite a few vegan bits and bobs in my fridge.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I had a couple of moments of craving certain things, but in general my body didn't miss animal products. I didn't feel weak or sick, I didn't get bad skin, I didn't turn into a mad, hammer-wielding psychopath. Well, actually, I did, but that's another story entirely, and <i>probably</i> not related to my diet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Being a fine, upstanding English lady, well-versed in the rules of discretion and etiquette, I shall say no more about veganisim's effects on my digestion than that my digestive system knew perfectly well that there'd been a change of regime. This was acknowledged between us and we came to an understanding. Least said, soonest mended.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In terms of any lasting impact, I'm going to try and keep up with the sheer volumes of fruit I ate during the week, and I'll definitely be eating less dairy in general. And, interestingly, I still haven't had any meat. I just don't feel the need. It might take a while before I want it again. You'll be happy to hear, however, that the Nutella and I had a somewhat joyful reunion.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyppDYYOaVsTXM3q55k1OedJQWyAks1ecBt5n6bLorcQfPFIZ7O2s2NXlO7vwRDa8orLbMv3SgXxgNZey2vPBCX7Hj2jrCQ2ma1nO1V0VZwC-PJNAffyZ0Q8dAHRQnmv6Fh_RLEpeEwQ/s1600/DSC_0005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoyppDYYOaVsTXM3q55k1OedJQWyAks1ecBt5n6bLorcQfPFIZ7O2s2NXlO7vwRDa8orLbMv3SgXxgNZey2vPBCX7Hj2jrCQ2ma1nO1V0VZwC-PJNAffyZ0Q8dAHRQnmv6Fh_RLEpeEwQ/s640/DSC_0005.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chocolate? What chocolate?<br /></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Twenty-seven down, three to go...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-71289010300680680652013-04-01T04:49:00.001-07:002013-04-25T06:49:10.632-07:00Little Miss Muffet and the not so Incy Wincy Spider.<!--StartFragment--><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4V0bB5Q6XxAFfV4SWqLSeJjWpzeARiLEj1v6Q0UysgvTnbemqvyYpEGSZ0qtzgv4Ea-Xqne0iNWcupbayOROrVhjsXTdfIwP1Y2Xqx5N8FtRlLnK6TBMomECe_Uj8l8G4RQp2mSvqY4/s1600/DSC_0389.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4V0bB5Q6XxAFfV4SWqLSeJjWpzeARiLEj1v6Q0UysgvTnbemqvyYpEGSZ0qtzgv4Ea-Xqne0iNWcupbayOROrVhjsXTdfIwP1Y2Xqx5N8FtRlLnK6TBMomECe_Uj8l8G4RQp2mSvqY4/s640/DSC_0389.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY43qQsQwyIO9oZnXFY-HdyJrUL5dqpFZ2PAX7bMq6GkG62LXAipSQhgmUMV9YClKga1Emqo60FikW42xgTCdPLZwby96H6TPsYRaF_41zIxVr2mWsemJIvTm9CteWuvd7gwtoYT7jTjo/s1600/imgres.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY43qQsQwyIO9oZnXFY-HdyJrUL5dqpFZ2PAX7bMq6GkG62LXAipSQhgmUMV9YClKga1Emqo60FikW42xgTCdPLZwby96H6TPsYRaF_41zIxVr2mWsemJIvTm9CteWuvd7gwtoYT7jTjo/s1600/imgres.jpeg" /></a>Nobody believes me, but when I was five years old I saw a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tarantula" target="_blank">tarantula</a> in my bedroom. Now, I know tarantulas are not native to the wilds of North London, but I can’t be held responsible for that. It had clearly hitched a lift in a box of bananas, or escaped from some lunatic who thought it was an appropriate pet. I may have been young. It may have been dark. But I shall refute to my dying day that it was a slightly oversized house spider, and that my imagination supplied the rest. That was a tarantula, and what’s more, it had every intention of eating me alive.</div>
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Since that day, I have been what you might accurately describe as an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arachnophobia" target="_blank">arachnophobe</a>. For many years I had to wear socks in bed, as failure to do so would result in guaranteed spider nightmares. Don’t ask me why, that’s just the way it was. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4lFEpYW9nhkKqp99V3OYXOckuJr9F7HgR3JdkykUppYftjm6l0e4ZI-O8gVKI6xynTRr8C8w4wkfb4Oi5q2BjM7i5yQiklxb4UDIcFSYFcDYYr2mFBLdlDcNJcQtVbiptLbpquI9GNo/s1600/imgres-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4lFEpYW9nhkKqp99V3OYXOckuJr9F7HgR3JdkykUppYftjm6l0e4ZI-O8gVKI6xynTRr8C8w4wkfb4Oi5q2BjM7i5yQiklxb4UDIcFSYFcDYYr2mFBLdlDcNJcQtVbiptLbpquI9GNo/s1600/imgres-1.jpeg" /></a>My profound fear of all things eight-legged was assuaged somewhat in my early teens, following a crisis over the watching of the film <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arachnophobia_(film)" target="_blank">Arachnophobia</a>. It’s quite an involved story, but it featured a real spider, a genuine panic – during which my mother and I both removed ALL our clothes at high velocity – and the eventual capture of said spider under a glass. I was the hero of the hour and from that day on found myself capable of small-scale spider rescue operations.</div>
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HOWEVER, tarantulas still hold pole position in the Cupboard of Terror I carry in my head. Those eight fat, furry legs. Those enormous mandibles. The sheer blood lust I can see in their crazed eyes. My pulse rate rises just talking about them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I suspect you can guess what’s coming next. Knowing how much courage it would take for me to touch a tarantula, I wanted desperately to include it in my year of challenges. It was up there with posing naked, in terms of things I knew would have a profound and powerful effect on how I viewed myself, my resolve, and my ability to conquer fears.</div>
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However, touching a tarantula was a lot easier said than done. London’s Zoo’s <a href="http://www.zsl.org/zsl-london-zoo/whats-on/friendly-spider-programme,320,EV.html" target="_blank">‘Friendly Spider Programme’</a> seemed promising, but it transpired that it was focused on common house and garden spiders, plus it cost quite a lot of money. (Incidentally, the first time I tried to write ‘transpired’ I accidentally wrote ‘transpider.’) I signed up to a tarantula forum and asked if anyone could help me out. Because, obviously, I didn’t just need the spider. I needed a serious spider expert who would help me, show me what to do, and make sure that both the tarantula and I were safe. The reaction from tarantula owners worldwide was surprisingly violent. Tarantulas were showpieces, and shouldn’t be handled. It was suggested that I should “think of something creative to do, instead of molesting innocent animals.” I’m not going to lie, comments like this made me angry. Surely it’s a good thing if people who are terrified of spiders can educate themselves and learn not to be so afraid? Plus, who said anything about ‘molesting?’ I just wanted to see if I could touch one, very gently, and very momentarily. I didn’t want to have dinner and a movie with the damned thing. But no one was willing to help me, and I came very close to giving up the whole idea. It made me nauseous just contemplating it anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then, the other day, I want to the <a href="http://www.agrojardin.com/" target="_blank">garden centre</a> down the road from mum’s, to buy her a mother’s day plant. And what did they have in the pet section? Two Rose Tarantulas. Right there, a pane of glass away. My heart rate soared as I stared at them. They were totally still, but as I watched a small cricket walk nonchalantly past one of them, unaware of the mortal danger it was in, I genuinely believed that I might be sick. I held my breath, waiting for a pounce that never came, the hairs on the back of my neck standing alarmingly to attention. The spider was clearly not hungry at that precise moment, but I had really worked myself up. There was no way in hell I was touching one of those things. They radiated malevolence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Then I made a crucial error. After presenting her with a very large Marguerite, I TOLD MY MUM ABOUT THE TARANTULAS. What was I thinking?? This is the woman who, during that viewing of Arachnophobia, sent me out of the room over every set of adverts to test my nerve. This is the woman who flatly refused to believe that there had been a killer tarantula in my bedroom. THIS IS A WOMAN OF NO MERCY. The next day we got back in the car and drove to the garden centre.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMxVoi_9pE53AJQ9NxexNrZQpxVv7hWKJGY8uWOqM87HPL-rUfpyKtV5CwnAOUySxMQdEoENEJjDRDOQI4tEFP0y_ZTQp8pqYSIRcWmgFSEgYaEytuMV0uh7C6yh5L3WnPuKoeYDjnEo/s1600/DSC_0254.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyMxVoi_9pE53AJQ9NxexNrZQpxVv7hWKJGY8uWOqM87HPL-rUfpyKtV5CwnAOUySxMQdEoENEJjDRDOQI4tEFP0y_ZTQp8pqYSIRcWmgFSEgYaEytuMV0uh7C6yh5L3WnPuKoeYDjnEo/s400/DSC_0254.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why am I here? How can this be happening?</td></tr>
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Sweet, glorious relief. The man attending the pet section of the garden centre explained that he had no experience with spiders. He was more of a puppy man. People who come to purchase tarantulas generally know what they’re doing, and don’t require the assistance of staff to pick them up. The manager, Jana, might be able to help, but she wasn’t working over the weekend. Reprieve. Two days later, mum called up the shop and asked to talk to Jana.<br />
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Jana said that though she herself did not handle the spiders, she would be happy to open up the terrarium for me and see if I could put my hand inside. Great. We fixed a time and date a couple of days later, when she predicted the shop would be quiet. I was in for it now.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I spent the next two days trying to normalise the idea by watching YouTube videos under the search heading: ‘how to handle a tarantula.’ Thankfully, these proved significantly more helpful that the forum. Although all tarantula owners and lovers clearly acknowledge that one should avoid over-handling Ts, many of them had also taken it upon themselves to explain how this <i>could</i> be done safely and with absolute respect for the animal. Because of course, if you own one, it will sometimes be necessary to move it from one place to another. And, clearly, a lot of T owners take great pleasure in interacting with their spiders. Weirdos. (Just kidding. Not kidding.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I found helpful tips in a lot of videos, but <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ulLRcxAzIbE" target="_blank">this</a> was perhaps the most useful of all, because the guy made it seem so simple and straightforward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zu7xpq7uoh0" target="_blank">This</a> was less helpful, because of the sheer size of the beast, and the terrible speed at which it moves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uDhACBrKK68" target="_blank">this one</a> made me pretty embarrassed, because this little girl is EIGHT YEARS OLD and playing with a tarantula like it was a fluffy little kitten.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUAKgWZEj-1Ma5G94x6xweQ0CL1qY6wDwotJ6x6RU-7SOwL_rOiOOUU27k9Pf8HY1_lwrcx4UczlBabmwIfntbcRyQqcCI6bhHgSkeNVEJTB1rAC7fZuYvo-0ZL-V7hkRga9Jpq4Pacw/s1600/DSC_0413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHUAKgWZEj-1Ma5G94x6xweQ0CL1qY6wDwotJ6x6RU-7SOwL_rOiOOUU27k9Pf8HY1_lwrcx4UczlBabmwIfntbcRyQqcCI6bhHgSkeNVEJTB1rAC7fZuYvo-0ZL-V7hkRga9Jpq4Pacw/s640/DSC_0413.jpg" width="444" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mum's notice board. Note three challenges, three days in a row!</td></tr>
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So, I endured an hour and a half of spider handling videos, and by the end was almost as drenched in sweat as I am halfway through a <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.com.es/2013/03/feelin-hot-hot-hot-bikram-yoga-challenge.html" target="_blank">Bikram yoga</a> class. But hey-ho, I had normalised as much as I possibly could. I confess that I had serious doubts about my ability to touch a tarantula, but I had a lot more knowledge about how to do it so that it was safe for the animal. Despite my fear, I had no desire to cause any harm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMR5KFodClOAl3zznJaRexEkZDH9u8UJgs0ZPRbo6kV4OyKx_igWR0bNRuurhFEt4NCbcDz7obqQf9s5xoJvN0u0o60AS_o0QG9JAXUD0fLo7kXQLsZQPkjtfbB3gYC1Uo4WUh095pKs/s1600/DSC_0261.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGMR5KFodClOAl3zznJaRexEkZDH9u8UJgs0ZPRbo6kV4OyKx_igWR0bNRuurhFEt4NCbcDz7obqQf9s5xoJvN0u0o60AS_o0QG9JAXUD0fLo7kXQLsZQPkjtfbB3gYC1Uo4WUh095pKs/s320/DSC_0261.JPG" width="320" /></a>The appointed day arrived, and off we went, back to the garden centre. We found Jana tidying shelves. <i>“Don’t tell me,”</i> she said. <i>“You’re here about the tarantula?”</i> And as she said it, I kid you not, she gave a visible shudder. It was perfectly clear that she had been thinking about us over the last two days, and had been hoping against hope that we wouldn’t turn up. <i>“I fill their water with a large bottle”</i> she said, <i>“and I tip the crickets in. But I’ve never touched them. I don’t know if I could.”</i> Which is, I confess, not exactly what I wanted to hear. Normalisation went out the window, heart rate went through the roof, mum laughed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was escorted backstage, to where the tarantula enclosures could be accessed. First problem: All the videos I had seen showed the spider being gently scooped up from above. But this terrarium opened from the side, so that I would be on the same level as the spider, not above it. This meant, of course, that if it decided to make a run for me, I might not be able to escape in time. Add a few notches to that pulse.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XPAjVrq171omPuzxZ1BZTXT0xFuiEZGsz6jGstYHibOrxnW3tGcaeO4E8D6aFVLHgfjVO1ZnjosB5HEP4ZyQj-NedHCIsvwTm7kogpbcJ2OZab1khSFq1mbmJtYo9gAMqjLQu2Y6uJI/s1600/DSC_0264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7XPAjVrq171omPuzxZ1BZTXT0xFuiEZGsz6jGstYHibOrxnW3tGcaeO4E8D6aFVLHgfjVO1ZnjosB5HEP4ZyQj-NedHCIsvwTm7kogpbcJ2OZab1khSFq1mbmJtYo9gAMqjLQu2Y6uJI/s320/DSC_0264.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tarantula touching kit. Glove and straw</td></tr>
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Jana removed the glass panels at the back of the enclosure. Spiders have tiny hairs on the abdomen, which they shed as a defence mechanism. These tiny hairs embed themselves in the skin and cause irritation. If they are inadvertently transferred to the eyes, they can do serious damage. So, since this spider was completely unused to being handled, I was advised to wear a surgical glove to protect my skin. This I did most willingly, as I’m sure you can imagine.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had brought along a straw, since my YouTube teachers had explained that it is wise to very gently alert the spider to your presence before endeavouring to touch it. That way, if it is hungry or in a bad mood, it will bite the straw. I can assure you that if that spider had bitten my straw there was no way I was putting my fingers anywhere near it. Alas, the spider did not bite the straw. In fact, it stayed eerily still. I was quite sure it was plotting homicide. I tapped it again, very gently, and it bolted alarmingly towards me. I jumped about a foot in the air, and several feet backwards. So did Jana. The next time I put the straw in the terrarium, it was shaking like Shakira. <i>“I don’t know if I can do this,”</i> I said. <i>“Just take your time,”</i> said Jana. <i>“Do everything very slowly and gently. The spider doesn’t want to hurt you. Just let her know you’re there.”</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNhpos6ej9uh7KKT4HeUC3Y_R6ZzOD4bBrRWEmwc6II9krzfRXZzWgocYrsapSaJKcudiO60x9NnJWwv_ZMZTiw_zBPxPdiSrIeM_cCw3cGmMG3ZMSuhungt2NkN6B386Dagy9HQRx2s/s1600/DSC_0275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQNhpos6ej9uh7KKT4HeUC3Y_R6ZzOD4bBrRWEmwc6II9krzfRXZzWgocYrsapSaJKcudiO60x9NnJWwv_ZMZTiw_zBPxPdiSrIeM_cCw3cGmMG3ZMSuhungt2NkN6B386Dagy9HQRx2s/s320/DSC_0275.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jH3-OyBxZJeoD8aoFl4b3DRbcE_IQzxyIq4PjzOCZaNl0nYMeEkU3xr132A-kTN6_2Sx7c21QDGK9kLNAtgE7zoWcEySx-Zo23ggbt3Ru0tNGL0u0gGrmb72X273g9YIUR8BdCMygwA/s1600/DSC_0272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jH3-OyBxZJeoD8aoFl4b3DRbcE_IQzxyIq4PjzOCZaNl0nYMeEkU3xr132A-kTN6_2Sx7c21QDGK9kLNAtgE7zoWcEySx-Zo23ggbt3Ru0tNGL0u0gGrmb72X273g9YIUR8BdCMygwA/s320/DSC_0272.JPG" width="314" /></a></div>
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Jana was fantastic. Despite the fact that she was clearly a little afraid herself, she talked me calmly and encouragingly through the next 20-30 minutes (I confess, time lost all meaning.) Slowly, slowly, I introduced my hand and forearm into the spider’s space. Several times it bolted for one corner or another, clearly just as frightened of me as I was of it, but eventually it seemed to relax. I breathed deeply, and employed a little self-hypnosis, gradually feeling my heart rate reduce. It wasn’t normal, but it was under control. As the spider relaxed, so did I. Sort of. A little bit. Gently, gently, I laid my palm flat in front of the tarantula. (Since there is photo evidence of this I may as well confess that I had applied a rather heftier glove over the surgical one, and that Jana had very kindly tucked in my sleeve.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_-FBMU-M0fWbqFru9YtN2tJD8_3iBN3FDm7paPlczZa2nv2mX2BX9GeXLJY_vDfrcrTmanLNH3XcuOxo0OQ0Tn_v8ihk7IE20-mOJW2-5TGy1PpjsAlZkko8bjHQO92cFYuSBRVmpzU/s1600/DSC_0300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu_-FBMU-M0fWbqFru9YtN2tJD8_3iBN3FDm7paPlczZa2nv2mX2BX9GeXLJY_vDfrcrTmanLNH3XcuOxo0OQ0Tn_v8ihk7IE20-mOJW2-5TGy1PpjsAlZkko8bjHQO92cFYuSBRVmpzU/s400/DSC_0300.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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Softly, I touched its back legs with the straw. It made a sudden movement, but I left my hand where it was. Progress. Emboldened, I touched it again, at the same time gently sliding my hand forward. Suddenly, I wanted very, very badly, for the tarantula to walk onto my hand. <i>“Come one little one,”</i> I willed it. <i>“Come on.”</i> And, one leg at a time, the spider came. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugvaxK5nfvK4-KgoB_cT-bSBi7InRdesBSS_Op-P5ocOCppCETvEr4Z75tlPksOaKQgs6mSxjNC9fh02-HrFK9SBwQxhmgwYyxpvSqvoRk30JQn7e1mJ9tzdBHWH2QytBOK7HEExTWHE/s1600/DSC_0303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgugvaxK5nfvK4-KgoB_cT-bSBi7InRdesBSS_Op-P5ocOCppCETvEr4Z75tlPksOaKQgs6mSxjNC9fh02-HrFK9SBwQxhmgwYyxpvSqvoRk30JQn7e1mJ9tzdBHWH2QytBOK7HEExTWHE/s400/DSC_0303.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A face of absolute concentration and significant fear. And that's just the T.</td></tr>
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It walked slowly forward, and when it was fully on my palm, I lifted it a few centimetres into the air. I brought my other hand close, and allowed it to walk tentatively from right to left. My heart was racing again, but this time it wasn’t just in fear. I was exhilarated too. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmkzgHpP9tuiDyi0nyxvQ77TLvfvq9zseHNxKLEQm0ZDBhT8M4oN5jtNSyJHJ15O6XO5VQqTNv37pZTsLr2rSGZp2NSJr-B9-6ZM06MxywAJXnMJeM36BwO5pbdcuKp3ldDPWgzijFlRs/s1600/DSC_0349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmkzgHpP9tuiDyi0nyxvQ77TLvfvq9zseHNxKLEQm0ZDBhT8M4oN5jtNSyJHJ15O6XO5VQqTNv37pZTsLr2rSGZp2NSJr-B9-6ZM06MxywAJXnMJeM36BwO5pbdcuKp3ldDPWgzijFlRs/s640/DSC_0349.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrBulFHF-rvw8GNDuUsGzUCb345dYvAKIuJFCxokF3mjxSKyHAqakSmnDqPzNigEY9a_JNoaLzFLHFFSNGTSkY_cenqTNaZkZOq4-4USo9yhIJsFdFR8F5C021vFrL2YwPUKlMszUx3Q/s1600/DSC_0366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhrBulFHF-rvw8GNDuUsGzUCb345dYvAKIuJFCxokF3mjxSKyHAqakSmnDqPzNigEY9a_JNoaLzFLHFFSNGTSkY_cenqTNaZkZOq4-4USo9yhIJsFdFR8F5C021vFrL2YwPUKlMszUx3Q/s400/DSC_0366.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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And you know what? I LIKED that bloody spider. I didn’t want to kiss it or take it home, you understand, but I felt so grateful to it, for allowing me this enormous privilege. I drew it carefully out of the glass enclosure for the benefit of a photograph, and then let it gently return home. I was on top of the world.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzL_OgMKk49wIrUz7nBRlI4T0tnnuVsr8COzvfrFFIQfGjffgllUD6EOWfOzSXvAxL4JMtYoXEMewBgh6k8q4sQdIeYAKT9mROs0ZRM3_OJFfVBtZmJXL2BtuXtUtnE_HN3CUKXN2fQU/s1600/DSC_0383.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjzL_OgMKk49wIrUz7nBRlI4T0tnnuVsr8COzvfrFFIQfGjffgllUD6EOWfOzSXvAxL4JMtYoXEMewBgh6k8q4sQdIeYAKT9mROs0ZRM3_OJFfVBtZmJXL2BtuXtUtnE_HN3CUKXN2fQU/s640/DSC_0383.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9fSALWjTj-XsIXPM_rKN73K6kkf9G4-odi6BRw6oXE-JIG3UIfEgVJgkjOBqX1Ce7HJ7vUpz8ru6SJlfUE4R2Lr-Xx2n6LP8h-wRVB89pcRRaukSbRJXN3WzHWL6gnjwt0gpC-HWKzY/s1600/DSC_0385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9fSALWjTj-XsIXPM_rKN73K6kkf9G4-odi6BRw6oXE-JIG3UIfEgVJgkjOBqX1Ce7HJ7vUpz8ru6SJlfUE4R2Lr-Xx2n6LP8h-wRVB89pcRRaukSbRJXN3WzHWL6gnjwt0gpC-HWKzY/s640/DSC_0385.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The T looks kinda small here, but that's just a trick of the camera. I'm telling you, it was GINORMOUS.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje2y4vHn44ScTGnzotmeTemE2pCfy60mvjSU4Jac81GLnjga_6SkRakdku_abpcjqkDl5KpUBgO-7bai80tZsbrPdHYVdJ0bOzE4oYmxrxsULNZDoBB7mueCwC7eqX9bukMdQ7uu-uphw/s1600/DSC_0395.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje2y4vHn44ScTGnzotmeTemE2pCfy60mvjSU4Jac81GLnjga_6SkRakdku_abpcjqkDl5KpUBgO-7bai80tZsbrPdHYVdJ0bOzE4oYmxrxsULNZDoBB7mueCwC7eqX9bukMdQ7uu-uphw/s320/DSC_0395.JPG" width="320" /></a>Jana gave me a huge hug. In the end, perhaps the fact that she was a little afraid herself made me stronger. Or perhaps it was mum’s silent encouragement as she waited patiently with the camera, willing me onwards. Or, most likely, it was a combination of these things, along with a hefty pinch of sheer grit, and the knowledge that I would regret it forever if I chickened out.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I feel fantastic. OK, I didn’t manage to touch the tarantula with my bare hand. I think it would take a LOT more exposure – and a very confident expert - for me to go that far. But I know that I conquered a few demons today, and that I felt true admiration for a creature that had, up until that moment, inspired in me nothing but terror. Without a doubt, one of the most rewarding challenges to date.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kiss the spider!</td></tr>
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Twenty-six down, four to go…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-2825549527852602222013-03-29T04:33:00.001-07:002013-03-29T05:10:16.954-07:00Pole-tastic Pole Dancing.<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sj3MNMew-qKsqXosat_iqB0VyDil4ZsLuz1-Gc1RJ_BjlQU6-gT7nN7TZkNAEOn13CNvw0x6x389L0ugm5_-EfPY103Wh04-tZVD4_04H313uhtcQN8_Tfcpzkom4Azo2irQeWqc6Lc/s1600/DSC_0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sj3MNMew-qKsqXosat_iqB0VyDil4ZsLuz1-Gc1RJ_BjlQU6-gT7nN7TZkNAEOn13CNvw0x6x389L0ugm5_-EfPY103Wh04-tZVD4_04H313uhtcQN8_Tfcpzkom4Azo2irQeWqc6Lc/s640/DSC_0005.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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As if to add insult to injury, the day after the great goat
debacle was earmarked for pole dancing. It’s not that I don’t love to dance - I
do - but I had a feeling that pole dancing might not be quite my thing. I had
this image of a studio full of long-legged, buxom twenty-something sex-pots
with flowing hair, rippling abs, and buttocks you could crack a Brazil nut
with. And then me, in my yoga shorts. It was not a pleasing vision.<o:p></o:p></div>
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However, now is not the time to go wimping out of challenges.
Mum had both suggested pole dancing and taken the time to find me a class. So,
with a heavy heart, and stumpy legs, off I went.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Lu2ytwYRKGED9j9FkHIBCqn9BaR_lUmUFhY7lNBMkBjF7c9XzOnqBcS7ZMf1Bk4ZKO-f5JcipuXSZkU23hNYHnga13FmL9XkZNNSSkWT0n2aXaWhpAzidVTFz8UoJiejeglfMOjxmng/s1600/DSC_0004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Lu2ytwYRKGED9j9FkHIBCqn9BaR_lUmUFhY7lNBMkBjF7c9XzOnqBcS7ZMf1Bk4ZKO-f5JcipuXSZkU23hNYHnga13FmL9XkZNNSSkWT0n2aXaWhpAzidVTFz8UoJiejeglfMOjxmng/s320/DSC_0004.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://www.princessstudios.com/" target="_blank">Princess Studios in Marbella</a> is not afraid to be pink and
sparkly. In fact, it rather embraces the idea. I saw it from the street and
nearly turned back, conscious that this was probably going to be one of those
experiences that would really make me feel my age. I’m not good with pink and
sparkly. It unsettles my sense of all that is right and good with the world.
Having come thus far, however...<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3PX3MQXKP5UlEWSrM6v__OrXB18Gtp4sizddyYpwk0ixK6zDGf9Nux2LEYb-g8glEeysyQzhhQ5FlIDwS5JScsQF0ybgX9cTk9yYKO7EGsGsywXYLfcb48ANCF1eiBkDdxZYvNYamZs/s1600/DSC_0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv3PX3MQXKP5UlEWSrM6v__OrXB18Gtp4sizddyYpwk0ixK6zDGf9Nux2LEYb-g8glEeysyQzhhQ5FlIDwS5JScsQF0ybgX9cTk9yYKO7EGsGsywXYLfcb48ANCF1eiBkDdxZYvNYamZs/s400/DSC_0007.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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To my instantaneous relief, the place was empty but for a
very friendly lady on reception. The hordes of sex-pots were yet to arrive. I
filled in my form, paid my money, and peeked into the studio. There were seven
poles affixed from floor to ceiling, and an ominous hole where the eighth
should have been. Evidently someone not sufficiently sparkly had tried to use
it and had caused irreparable damage. Oh dear. <i>Please don’t let me break a pole</i>, <i>please don’t let me break a pole</i>, I whispered to myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxKQOF_UJvssi7xkoLg46VJ3oTNk7l52qEpoTMTP4x8f_Hzlos6gBZfhTqDIy-t4T57T6c5bwJ4b0AEFN6RA0Wp0Q1VtEyDSqyuWmFiBX6xNHlDpGZczEIDYBc61QOGmoSusWupGKG8w/s1600/DSC_0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfxKQOF_UJvssi7xkoLg46VJ3oTNk7l52qEpoTMTP4x8f_Hzlos6gBZfhTqDIy-t4T57T6c5bwJ4b0AEFN6RA0Wp0Q1VtEyDSqyuWmFiBX6xNHlDpGZczEIDYBc61QOGmoSusWupGKG8w/s400/DSC_0003.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>
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Five minutes before the class was due to start, there was
still no one in the studio except my official photographer and me. Things were
looking up. Perhaps the day’s inclement weather had kept the sex-pots indoors?
The lack of a teacher was slightly more concerning, but was a misfortune I felt
I might be able to bear tolerably well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie28ADetOjoucHCQO4TaqW0t3nMiOu2LALDK6XapE8dR589RBRgPs2PcTWrPXNDUk-w_clVj1nxRHXRf43dDUNgDivk_iF1Y12Ft9pGJ48fRONInyLrq-jgjmIdmu66pipBnK1dd5xuTI/s1600/DSC_0042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie28ADetOjoucHCQO4TaqW0t3nMiOu2LALDK6XapE8dR589RBRgPs2PcTWrPXNDUk-w_clVj1nxRHXRf43dDUNgDivk_iF1Y12Ft9pGJ48fRONInyLrq-jgjmIdmu66pipBnK1dd5xuTI/s400/DSC_0042.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My official photographer shows me how it's done...</td></tr>
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At last my first – and as it transpired, my last – fellow
student arrived. She was indeed endowed with an enviable figure and beautiful
long blonde locks, but she was also quite shy, and confessed to not being very
experienced on the poles. Feeling less intimidated by the second, I started to
relax. Then the teacher, Victoria, arrived, flustered and five minutes late.
Here was what I had been dreading: A pocket rocket with hair down to her hips
and hot-pants that revealed a cheeky curve of nut-cracking buttock. And, even
worse, legs covered in livid purple bruises. If a professional looked like
that, what on earth was I going to do to myself in the course of an hour??</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I try, not very successfully, to be pink and sparkly.</td></tr>
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The class began with a warm-up including hip swaying,
curve-caressing, bum wiggling and hair flicking. I managed everything minus the
hair flicking. Naturally curly, frizzy hair like mine does not take kindly to
being flicked. Instead of cascading alluringly down my shoulders, it would
merely have grown in unruly volume with each flick. It stayed firmly in a bun,
where it could not get up to too much mischief.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My hair without products. Thank you V05, Pantene, L'Oréal, Wella...</td></tr>
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The first official move we learned was called the ‘Sexy
Squat.’ Is it just me that thinks these two words don’t belong anywhere near
each other? A squat? That is sexy? I can hereby confirm that I was unable to
endow my squat with much in the way of sexiness. I managed, at most, a
coquettish dip.</div>
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Next came instruction on how to walk around the pole, how to
slide down the pole whilst rolling one’s head, how to grind against the pole
and, finally, a basic hook and spin. Which might be better named ‘hook off your skin’, because I certainly
managed that, in several places. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvfswRatbQJNW2kV7vIwRVh4pABzFY4N5250eKw79QwDG477pg1RasJU5JW8WdxHYids9f_mLljnBVzI1NBR1Bt7rdvOG1PXc1BUn3zUUDuJMBsX1QrC_W_JAn-tRlSkSNK3PBU4n-7k/s1600/DSC_0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHvfswRatbQJNW2kV7vIwRVh4pABzFY4N5250eKw79QwDG477pg1RasJU5JW8WdxHYids9f_mLljnBVzI1NBR1Bt7rdvOG1PXc1BUn3zUUDuJMBsX1QrC_W_JAn-tRlSkSNK3PBU4n-7k/s320/DSC_0146.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3nP3Gn1rgvN_dEttHOyC0eSCEAAUei-jmOegKZ-aIs0tV5AdwrAWNh0JOJiq8yqywWxE4VtZEGtcmAZSUeW9JcWZ-gY0cQp4ChbexLDlIILGHERYbWB-jPUWVzWR9X0bN7d4DkIKzQUc/s1600/DSC_0088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3nP3Gn1rgvN_dEttHOyC0eSCEAAUei-jmOegKZ-aIs0tV5AdwrAWNh0JOJiq8yqywWxE4VtZEGtcmAZSUeW9JcWZ-gY0cQp4ChbexLDlIILGHERYbWB-jPUWVzWR9X0bN7d4DkIKzQUc/s400/DSC_0088.JPG" width="400" /></a>Here’s something I didn’t know about pole dancing poles:
They rotate. This probably seems completely obvious, but I had always assumed
that the pole was static, and that the dancer did all the spinning around. Not
so. The pole very helpfully spins around with you, making your main concern to
ascend or descend as required. During a basic hook and spin, the job is to
descend, all the way to the floor. I managed this with only intermittent
success, often finding that whilst my legs were perfectly happy to slide, my
hands stayed resolutely where they were. I think this was in part thanks to the
liberal coating of hairspray Victoria had applied to my palms, in order <i>“to
prevent them slipping.”</i> Alas, it is not particularly sexy when you end up with
your (slightly grazed) knees on the floor, and your arms clinging to the pole
three feet above you. I think it looks rather more like <i>“I’m hanging out of a
window, help me”</i> than “<i>I'm a sex-pot and if you pass me a Brazil nut I can
show you a neat trick.”</i> Nonetheless, I
got some fairly decent thrust on my spins, and exposed myself to significant
g-force on the way around, which was a lot of fun, if somewhat nausea-inducing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxt5E_x0xaedZBFdQN25qIDnDwvDO9QsfgjSCceBtOXclhbpXh2FUaXA6hxsp49kwo-EfNoF80AjkD5mEwZpy5-rGnnDV235OnuE3Md3NANojcFHYpThWw559vcOXjFtwiEqTMFAeAin0/s1600/DSC_0175.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxt5E_x0xaedZBFdQN25qIDnDwvDO9QsfgjSCceBtOXclhbpXh2FUaXA6hxsp49kwo-EfNoF80AjkD5mEwZpy5-rGnnDV235OnuE3Md3NANojcFHYpThWw559vcOXjFtwiEqTMFAeAin0/s200/DSC_0175.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuDH_59h_mDslZ8fA2jbJ-9smAzeaZbIUay3NbKDRUJVGsptNNxfvEqKjNCs6O0ObZocKsBQvwktVUmQJgkzH5FM3c8pcIHtYr1H82Uw1GnO2Zwp8LTfMzGw48MTJ3A1H3FwX6H_OAjA/s1600/DSC_0222.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuDH_59h_mDslZ8fA2jbJ-9smAzeaZbIUay3NbKDRUJVGsptNNxfvEqKjNCs6O0ObZocKsBQvwktVUmQJgkzH5FM3c8pcIHtYr1H82Uw1GnO2Zwp8LTfMzGw48MTJ3A1H3FwX6H_OAjA/s320/DSC_0222.JPG" width="320" /></a>Victoria taught us a simple routine, which we practiced
several times. Her style was not
precise, meaning that she occasionally varied which arm or leg she used at the
start of a move, or where she placed her head and hands. This gave a sense
of fluidity and improvisation to the dancing, which is, I suspect, part of what
makes it exciting in a club setting. An appreciative audience probably prefers a
style that feels spontaneous, as if feeding on the energy of the room, rather
than something too obviously choreographed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMbxabhgD_zHY7g0KBXuPDnHnU38SoXTN8OfvUc3buC_zjIPaHE00z7O8B2moZqfmk1w4wcn1e-fsyFi6n__R-fpgKKl_NP0FZcSxFPEJb2Q1QkxfCAY0YuPtUsGMs5Nws1PeF75WBpc/s1600/DSC_0026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLMbxabhgD_zHY7g0KBXuPDnHnU38SoXTN8OfvUc3buC_zjIPaHE00z7O8B2moZqfmk1w4wcn1e-fsyFi6n__R-fpgKKl_NP0FZcSxFPEJb2Q1QkxfCAY0YuPtUsGMs5Nws1PeF75WBpc/s320/DSC_0026.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, this style was not that easy for a brand new
student to follow. Both my parents are natural teachers, and I have enormous
admiration for anyone who is not only skilful at what they do, but also
passionate when it come to sharing that skill. I have had a few excellent
teachers during this blogging process, and a couple of not so great ones. I
felt that, considering the fact that there were only two students in the class,
this could have been a more intense learning experience. Victoria is clearly a
captivating performer: Sinuous, sexy, springy and spinny. But just being good at what you do doesn’t
necessarily make you a great teacher… Nevertheless, I certainly had fun.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYwcfo3MWLwLcqmPYS7qk8sYux5Z-z_47IAfx0L4NcqdThRFIWDk48Hk61SrfpiQj3eT2_jmht3z63xuQ5wW8kCWRvB07GiCHi6efDEfc0UptDG8Bfi10vtdykoYjBRLK1TGsU_XcH7w/s1600/DSC_0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEYwcfo3MWLwLcqmPYS7qk8sYux5Z-z_47IAfx0L4NcqdThRFIWDk48Hk61SrfpiQj3eT2_jmht3z63xuQ5wW8kCWRvB07GiCHi6efDEfc0UptDG8Bfi10vtdykoYjBRLK1TGsU_XcH7w/s400/DSC_0006.jpg" width="265" /></a>And as has been the case with all my physical challenges, I
find myself full of admiration for anyone who makes pole dancing look easy. It really
isn’t. Executing moves on the pole takes significant strength, particularly in
the abs and arms. Executing them with grace, style and sexiness is on another
level entirely. No mean feat. I can easily see how people get hooked on this as
a form of fitness. Three days later, it still hurts to raise my arms above my
head, and I feel like I’ve done a good dose of sit-ups. Which I haven’t. Though
I really should, seeing as how it’s chocolate season.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whilst I doubt pole dancing will become a regular thing with
me, I would definitely do it again. The spinning was painful but exhilarating,
and I’d be keen to learn the acrobatic elements of the discipline, with a bit
less of the bum shaking. I’ve got bum shaking covered, as anyone who’s seen me
dancing at a wedding can testify. So now to get practicing. Someone pass me the
hair straighteners. And that bowl of nuts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty-five down, five to go…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-63903590542088787782013-03-25T15:39:00.001-07:002013-03-29T03:45:17.856-07:00Got Milk?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4YuRfrdAEyK57CFZrQyCtBfpy8Zx5xNc6Xhs_9SH54Z25iddbwSXA3CH1xSEBQJsGGkdo2_-7hqM-Qn8E-QpKn6b8AZjRr0rtfhIQg5g5SqDdEOzoQAFq4fu7kYf3rA8JTS9mLf2PZ0/s1600/DSC_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4YuRfrdAEyK57CFZrQyCtBfpy8Zx5xNc6Xhs_9SH54Z25iddbwSXA3CH1xSEBQJsGGkdo2_-7hqM-Qn8E-QpKn6b8AZjRr0rtfhIQg5g5SqDdEOzoQAFq4fu7kYf3rA8JTS9mLf2PZ0/s640/DSC_0035.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There’s been some worry, I confess,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Concern that I might make a mess,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And not quite finish what I started<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Before the deadline has departed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For time, you see, is running low,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t have very long to go,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yet seven challenges remain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And doing new ones is a pain;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I find I am not quite inspired<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Fresh ideas are required.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But much as ever I might try<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The font of genius runneth dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">So scraping at the barrel now<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I thought: “perhaps I’ll milk a cow.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, inner London has its charms<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But is not rich in dairy farms,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And not a cow could I procure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">That would be willing to endure<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My clumsy fumblings down below<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For which I cannot blame them, no.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But out in Spain we had a friend<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Who knew a bloke, who in the end<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Requested of his cousin’s cousin<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">- Who’d a goat, or half a dozen -<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If I could come to take a class<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And fill a bucket, or a glass?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ernesto gave a friendly ‘<i>si’,<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He’d be most glad to tutor me.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But on the given time and date<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Some info came in, rather late:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ernesto wasn’t in the know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">With how to make the white stuff flow,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He’d never milked one in his life,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The one who did it was his wife,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">(Who at that point was far away,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Off somewhere on a holiday.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“In that case never mind,” I said<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We’ll think of something else instead.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">(For it did not seem very fair<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">To give the goat a beastly scare<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">By squeezing where one oughtn’t to<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I just don’t think that’s kind, do you?)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ernesto was quite undeterred,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It’s just one goat, it’s not a herd!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Between us we can fill a cup<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Hold on a sec, I’ll tie her up.”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBCvu-C26UIfgnkJtuGDV3c-B44wA_di-lC_XxiG-_3rKEkEvDNffTE13ljQtrSKWdNzRbEKxJUA_XD1H0LETQc28ZMPfIaGK4692ltjN6fv1ueHbC3LMU3hnsKVyUdg2R2BI5U41dQQ/s1600/DSC_0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBCvu-C26UIfgnkJtuGDV3c-B44wA_di-lC_XxiG-_3rKEkEvDNffTE13ljQtrSKWdNzRbEKxJUA_XD1H0LETQc28ZMPfIaGK4692ltjN6fv1ueHbC3LMU3hnsKVyUdg2R2BI5U41dQQ/s400/DSC_0037.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The nanny goat was duly tied,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And swaying on her underside,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Enormous udders milky full<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Were ready, at the merest pull,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">To squirt their creamy, frothy load<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Over my hands, my feet, the road,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anywhere but where I aimed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Because the goat was not quite tamed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She put her back hoof in the bucket<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">As if to tell me where to shove it,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She knew quite well I had no clue<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Of what I was supposed to do,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She had far better ways to spend<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The final hours of her weekend;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">There were some kids she hoped to feed<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">If only I’d give up the need<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">To go on squashing, spilling, wasting<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Something I would not be tasting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">For the fact is that I never<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Never, really, surely, ever,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Would be able to imbibe,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">- Not for quite a handsome bribe - <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">That which came out of her teat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I truly couldn’t take it neat,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I don’t drink milk, except in tea<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I may be weird, but that’s just me.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQuJvLoQ17vjy7vxLWx8vG-1IIoCnNf281M6O_lra-pk4fzHxuNpTBX5V5wJcynn7SXMB9kF567ryWQMamfu0kJe6cb5qYKrRVRVdX4a7erAsKEJMoXFSR0SdI_tOZyCQ-alFLpgYdKM/s1600/DSC_0053.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQuJvLoQ17vjy7vxLWx8vG-1IIoCnNf281M6O_lra-pk4fzHxuNpTBX5V5wJcynn7SXMB9kF567ryWQMamfu0kJe6cb5qYKrRVRVdX4a7erAsKEJMoXFSR0SdI_tOZyCQ-alFLpgYdKM/s400/DSC_0053.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And so the goat was left in peace,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Thankful for her swift release,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">A centimetre in the pitcher,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Just enough to snap this picture:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h1SdLSPOrsPaIWqRZEsaGz4wo8FgiRPUhS0jEKMoIY-FdZtFzlrCswKDw2O6fjHrgOT9Ckv336mxe0PsQFFfzU4J9HYH603WTi0j1GSy8PYI-MgdVO1kot4a5qNX05rhIDn9IC93vKY/s1600/DSC_0057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9h1SdLSPOrsPaIWqRZEsaGz4wo8FgiRPUhS0jEKMoIY-FdZtFzlrCswKDw2O6fjHrgOT9Ckv336mxe0PsQFFfzU4J9HYH603WTi0j1GSy8PYI-MgdVO1kot4a5qNX05rhIDn9IC93vKY/s640/DSC_0057.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I shall no more a milking go,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Amongst the trees and the old hedgerow,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But I have managed one more chore,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Completed: challenge twenty-four.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEffzXHlXcuqPEUgFpXE7PW1OpKoZkNo6pdZeD5o1vsFFdp15aQR1Id1pJHP6wemuFwG-FGYN4duZBRBWUZmdY2COSQ3f1wEEd53WN3MSeSp-8PbGRO9pvU5sCa9XvZHtdVikk55CtDLw/s1600/DSC_0024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEffzXHlXcuqPEUgFpXE7PW1OpKoZkNo6pdZeD5o1vsFFdp15aQR1Id1pJHP6wemuFwG-FGYN4duZBRBWUZmdY2COSQ3f1wEEd53WN3MSeSp-8PbGRO9pvU5sCa9XvZHtdVikk55CtDLw/s400/DSC_0024.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5FMRN82zqrUQyUQCo_-PLSxSXjro7jcnFNNbLfJ2y2fkFljmSrH4nt8zEqBqbZqNrSBFAH4-2Nq0f5GDQBDyf2xrD5fvxunQ2KC88r99xGgSismdR5zxOFzUhUQkrKynruRbfwT-eBA/s1600/DSC_0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5FMRN82zqrUQyUQCo_-PLSxSXjro7jcnFNNbLfJ2y2fkFljmSrH4nt8zEqBqbZqNrSBFAH4-2Nq0f5GDQBDyf2xrD5fvxunQ2KC88r99xGgSismdR5zxOFzUhUQkrKynruRbfwT-eBA/s400/DSC_0029.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mil, mil gracias Lele, Ernesto y Pili.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
Twenty-four down, six to go...</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-2246768885424240382013-03-22T14:23:00.002-07:002013-03-25T15:41:59.097-07:00Zen and the Art of Knitting<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGh5cJq1CQVQ9yvCbDyvdo5La5K-fCMjfw4c_ZAjAWRanGbVNXowiggEvLOErJ_1GSqbqYckQLz3qfK6T3oL8JnPPTLRG3Wc-OKO5lqxEDSDCn6Shc7kgzidnP4xDpcKIGeGxI0yRdwI/s1600/DSC_0121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizGh5cJq1CQVQ9yvCbDyvdo5La5K-fCMjfw4c_ZAjAWRanGbVNXowiggEvLOErJ_1GSqbqYckQLz3qfK6T3oL8JnPPTLRG3Wc-OKO5lqxEDSDCn6Shc7kgzidnP4xDpcKIGeGxI0yRdwI/s640/DSC_0121.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mum caught the knitting bug when she was twenty-four
years old. It was a serious case. Once she started she didn’t stop, and my
childhood was full of adorable knitted outfits, blankets and scarves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVVxNbf33bspNiqN_3R39kNi4SvC4PfsuAKrcPekgN4erlBeuMmrhj-CVvslfo8zWneTArWec0XW9a8ZEbC80vbqj_Ng8895jYN-5-u7i266IT_BRIkca2LvroCSDY-E8OPW-pNdD3p4/s1600/img035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglVVxNbf33bspNiqN_3R39kNi4SvC4PfsuAKrcPekgN4erlBeuMmrhj-CVvslfo8zWneTArWec0XW9a8ZEbC80vbqj_Ng8895jYN-5-u7i266IT_BRIkca2LvroCSDY-E8OPW-pNdD3p4/s400/img035.jpg" width="352" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Aged three I asked her about the birds and the bees. Having
a policy of absolute honesty, she explained to me that boys have willies and
girls have clitorises. A day or so later, a male friend of mum’s came round to
the house and commented on my superb home-knitted jumper.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“That’s a lovely woolly
you have there, Joanna.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I don’t have a woolly”</i>
I replied, quite matter-of-factly. <i>“I’ve
got a clitoris.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ahem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2pi6sh5IzCL_kmWEOuGA18lbG0DI2aw-L1ubgU3cRHsDMPjZ330I7g1rp_yhWXkiUk31Jl-8Dis1VQAX9kkUmMgmltU4hWf-Av5RNMO3KdzmNE1XHStAEIsDeaIEzrVhiaDgUiCARjQ/s1600/img036.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ2pi6sh5IzCL_kmWEOuGA18lbG0DI2aw-L1ubgU3cRHsDMPjZ330I7g1rp_yhWXkiUk31Jl-8Dis1VQAX9kkUmMgmltU4hWf-Av5RNMO3KdzmNE1XHStAEIsDeaIEzrVhiaDgUiCARjQ/s640/img036.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matching woollies.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQ1xoX34YS8lxsUFQWwe606AYXn1YIfn1916ezD1MvJkFr2MUsPMKjlwRxg_mBE52vJgdtWL_o_o9styl-4cC4m4UhJJCeeH-JhZrVBfVNN7e4D9MkiTMVAY4Up1T7Dx-xgU5FZEy07c/s1600/DSC_0054.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOQ1xoX34YS8lxsUFQWwe606AYXn1YIfn1916ezD1MvJkFr2MUsPMKjlwRxg_mBE52vJgdtWL_o_o9styl-4cC4m4UhJJCeeH-JhZrVBfVNN7e4D9MkiTMVAY4Up1T7Dx-xgU5FZEy07c/s320/DSC_0054.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum was, I believe, rather disappointed when I reached the
stage where I flatly refused to wear anything woolly. She had to start knitting
for herself, which left a lot less room for cute designs. I showed absolutely
no interest in learning to embroider, sew, cross-stitch or knit, and I think we
both believed I would simply never be one of those people. But just over a week ago, when discussing my last few
Thirty@30 challenges, she asked again if I didn’t fancy knitting a jumper. I’m
not going to lie, I’m starting to feel time’s winged chariot hurrying near
(that’s a literary reference, don’t you know?) Time is running out on me, and
I’m still a good few challenges off target. So, where I had said No to Knitting
some months ago, I now said yes. A day later I was equipped with 13 balls of
yarn, some needles, and a plan. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is my design, which mum reckoned should be
well within the realms of possibility:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB-HvII_sVvkpD_jNz9vt6jzQgxAyJxFut8yqDChl7-qikvwsK2Q_iFmqBOjrfn1zaqigskaTQtrbsZOjPSRmXcnMqOZNrkOHh5OSBHHaNcJVwofElfLiJIAGtys67sY4Btq99o6BtB0/s1600/DSC_0071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB-HvII_sVvkpD_jNz9vt6jzQgxAyJxFut8yqDChl7-qikvwsK2Q_iFmqBOjrfn1zaqigskaTQtrbsZOjPSRmXcnMqOZNrkOHh5OSBHHaNcJVwofElfLiJIAGtys67sY4Btq99o6BtB0/s400/DSC_0071.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On day one, mum taught me how to cast on (put the yarn on
the needles ready for knitting), knit, and purl. We did a small row of ten to
practice, and then some calculations about how many stitches wide the jumper
would need to be. Having done this test, I had to cast on 55 stitches. Did it
take me one attempt? Two attempts? Three? It took me four bloody attempts to
get the tension right. I felt like I was trying to do everything wearing a huge
pair of gardening gloves. I was clumsy and awkward, but eventually got it
right. Several hours later we realised I’d cast on 54 stitches instead of 55,
but I tell you now that there was no way I was going back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkD7jqpUHqvM-po8hWubmqeLMOFECW038zVI6ZGk4Z0Ol_6RpF5bA81YrH74a4RwR_g-BfScYb9GmRRv0V8Hq4uTwRXkxqqKi_mNRXCWAbwTCHMzOYGbDZgbuAZouqowW72ORAeYE0SIA/s1600/DSC_0049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkD7jqpUHqvM-po8hWubmqeLMOFECW038zVI6ZGk4Z0Ol_6RpF5bA81YrH74a4RwR_g-BfScYb9GmRRv0V8Hq4uTwRXkxqqKi_mNRXCWAbwTCHMzOYGbDZgbuAZouqowW72ORAeYE0SIA/s320/DSC_0049.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyy7DcqP29i9cEyVE-ZvGd98b7UMEewIbFNFxs2gnx8z6OeaWE-X6Mem0NVXDS9APBIOkvU0OC3M3kN7dgV4xs9yX4_1rBYxQk-Mw_zkM0zgQ7j3GK95n2duWezKmrqamyDXaW3TD8ilo/s1600/DSC_0142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyy7DcqP29i9cEyVE-ZvGd98b7UMEewIbFNFxs2gnx8z6OeaWE-X6Mem0NVXDS9APBIOkvU0OC3M3kN7dgV4xs9yX4_1rBYxQk-Mw_zkM0zgQ7j3GK95n2duWezKmrqamyDXaW3TD8ilo/s400/DSC_0142.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Casting on.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After I had cast on, Mum had an important phone call to receive and disappeared for an hour (oh, <i>l'amour, l'amour)</i>. I decided to watch <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Seven_Brides_for_Seven_Brothers" target="_blank">Seven Brides for Seven Brothers</a></i> whilst knitting. It seemed a good
choice because I know it so well that I can watch the whole thing quite happily
without once lifting my eyes to the TV. I am not ashamed to admit this. I love
that film. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Howard_Keel" target="_blank">Howard Keel</a> can bless my beautiful hide any time.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSMP8mVNtF1Lo7FYqU4aYxxa8ncHPq2t5-Yrhq3_2ysPzxpkcTLzndWqn_H5NnilE2ipGq6bQjtma9BJjffWrHEHWy98NbyLZe3LQeoNTPYEPkMlxkb_CdGzgdQ9m39U13LyVnKIC_FY/s1600/DSC_0062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLSMP8mVNtF1Lo7FYqU4aYxxa8ncHPq2t5-Yrhq3_2ysPzxpkcTLzndWqn_H5NnilE2ipGq6bQjtma9BJjffWrHEHWy98NbyLZe3LQeoNTPYEPkMlxkb_CdGzgdQ9m39U13LyVnKIC_FY/s320/DSC_0062.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRYpQT-EXJrvjilt5FgbpXQq9IDyCg2tvr5JvpA34ZyYHBIfLPPLSE2HwELYinDt2LdtTcBzGKZNQNfje3A00HE5zJgmi55RnsiEfVAzhkCJgK9N18wKkQgGG0wqgGK-H-V1Xqp4kCN_o/s1600/Howard+Keel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRYpQT-EXJrvjilt5FgbpXQq9IDyCg2tvr5JvpA34ZyYHBIfLPPLSE2HwELYinDt2LdtTcBzGKZNQNfje3A00HE5zJgmi55RnsiEfVAzhkCJgK9N18wKkQgGG0wqgGK-H-V1Xqp4kCN_o/s1600/Howard+Keel.JPG" /></a><o:p> </o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I successfully knitted ten rows of ribbing. Ribbing is
difficult because it requires knitting one then purling one, alternately, all
the way along the row. My brain was barely capable of this level of
concentration, but somehow I managed. Then I started knitting my regular
stripes, where you knit one whole row, then purl one whole row. This is easier,
but of course I got cocky and then made a mistake. I found myself with a choice
to make: Wait for mum to get off the phone, or try and solve the mistake on my
own. Guess which one I chose? Three minutes later I was in floods of tears with
a broken knitting needle in my hand, and all my hard work unravelled. Mum found
me with my head in my hands, snivelling pathetically along to <i>‘Sobbin' Women.’ </i>Oh the irony.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX38OVw2eBmxuEi6Yv53LzKf7wpLarwwYrpAJnVw0w4kTz6dsHmIL593CdVzjkn0GO2YEVX1jB5LfYQXYwGWB5GWu3xwTVQgjeZKv0iGdAiaZ6v252QkqPioH2-63B1416vY2xwfDVLls/s1600/DSC_0058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX38OVw2eBmxuEi6Yv53LzKf7wpLarwwYrpAJnVw0w4kTz6dsHmIL593CdVzjkn0GO2YEVX1jB5LfYQXYwGWB5GWu3xwTVQgjeZKv0iGdAiaZ6v252QkqPioH2-63B1416vY2xwfDVLls/s320/DSC_0058.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Broken needle. Sad Jojo.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is the situation at the end of day one:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nEIbEE-GCx_nHJ-q-3hjQOcEq7MOKl_dGQBmUC_fms_fBU1I4WQUyyZH52nCt_q5ualLobGSeFTK_8PkeG5orrTknyPBZiZyChtTr8XYOySNL1hCWij_LcYWCpvDK7LDJGKjzUCOZgo/s1600/DSC_0066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1nEIbEE-GCx_nHJ-q-3hjQOcEq7MOKl_dGQBmUC_fms_fBU1I4WQUyyZH52nCt_q5ualLobGSeFTK_8PkeG5orrTknyPBZiZyChtTr8XYOySNL1hCWij_LcYWCpvDK7LDJGKjzUCOZgo/s400/DSC_0066.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day two was better. I got into my stride, and managed to
knit the whole of the back of the jumper without too many tragedies. I also performed
the entirety of <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jesus_Christ_Superstar" target="_blank">Jesus Christ Superstar</a> </i>from
the sofa, singing all the parts, extremely poorly, and making mum howl with
laughter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUQqPxRFuupBofaUJejmsj2_ybhrHFomYR_KnbWDPSsTDOl42SayF4PEP_E6o2GAh3I9xiruC-vKaD-dH8REGTGwWC1DNUpI8B-muXMOgI73XY0NLn0Z8t_IuAwaWrYeWHvn9IsJioRw/s1600/img037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCUQqPxRFuupBofaUJejmsj2_ybhrHFomYR_KnbWDPSsTDOl42SayF4PEP_E6o2GAh3I9xiruC-vKaD-dH8REGTGwWC1DNUpI8B-muXMOgI73XY0NLn0Z8t_IuAwaWrYeWHvn9IsJioRw/s320/img037.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Argentine cartoonist <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quino" target="_blank">Quino</a> captures the lengths to which knitting can take you.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is the situation at the end of day two:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1LNQuKJomRVUg7CvTzrzpRnziXNq004KE6-JHhIYyc8mX4aJrSXJfO5T-Mg6ptR0Dqs4p5pHQg99IaZrQCnzB6sQFjJ0fc7GJipUhFr99UImO1hPXHQxUgwM5-3WcIA8SmwxpDsGWgNU/s1600/DSC_0068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1LNQuKJomRVUg7CvTzrzpRnziXNq004KE6-JHhIYyc8mX4aJrSXJfO5T-Mg6ptR0Dqs4p5pHQg99IaZrQCnzB6sQFjJ0fc7GJipUhFr99UImO1hPXHQxUgwM5-3WcIA8SmwxpDsGWgNU/s400/DSC_0068.JPG" width="288" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORJxuk424HnXM0x8WyuYy2gr9FX6fTGZTHPGOgbg-lbrAJgDXqyRzZab0SjjM7aG18AP054F17Pca0wxYo0rt6AX5oHb5KT92MFKS3jkFyGDudakZSvqV-S2ajZM3aTRC3YRw5v6v8K4/s1600/DSC_0069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiORJxuk424HnXM0x8WyuYy2gr9FX6fTGZTHPGOgbg-lbrAJgDXqyRzZab0SjjM7aG18AP054F17Pca0wxYo0rt6AX5oHb5KT92MFKS3jkFyGDudakZSvqV-S2ajZM3aTRC3YRw5v6v8K4/s320/DSC_0069.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
On day three, disaster struck. We began the sleeves. Oh
sleeves, horrible, evil sleeves. Sleeves, in order to be comfortable, have to
taper. Nice and wide at the shoulder, so that you can move your arms about
easily, and then a more sensible width down at the cuff. You start with the
cuff and work upwards, increasing at regular intervals by adding stitches at
the end of a row. Well, let’s just say that <i>someone</i>
made a little error in calculations, and that five stripes up (i.e., about
three hours work) we realised that I was knitting some kind of an enormous bat
wing. Unravel, unravel, unravel. Cue deep and tragic despair.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4Ci9tl0X4YPFNY3QCDcQtQVIMgetHejC8t04VAuohTbdN0mloZ1zG20pWrPGg_tsCoYQB6AOwT5VCOy5_RP0nf8G0AnIfwg5Iu6VRqHoNsavxSlWwmxLdKOAaBL0TF2eNd4ufAJSVXY/s1600/DSC_0086.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx4Ci9tl0X4YPFNY3QCDcQtQVIMgetHejC8t04VAuohTbdN0mloZ1zG20pWrPGg_tsCoYQB6AOwT5VCOy5_RP0nf8G0AnIfwg5Iu6VRqHoNsavxSlWwmxLdKOAaBL0TF2eNd4ufAJSVXY/s400/DSC_0086.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy blistering batwing, Batgirl! Unravel that madness.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is the situation at the end of day three:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjst5N6nDJGP6vg4_ndtmEXr2nlvNVmDs8uBsvawx8QtnJptBTxLvAaihSNAA9ngnwIqvq7Fs0y6ufogFwHNdyezNQUm3JgSPr0nw8-ohBssgIZahBtechGLP2GjyKMVLkwn40EiP_pKU8/s1600/DSC_0089.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjst5N6nDJGP6vg4_ndtmEXr2nlvNVmDs8uBsvawx8QtnJptBTxLvAaihSNAA9ngnwIqvq7Fs0y6ufogFwHNdyezNQUm3JgSPr0nw8-ohBssgIZahBtechGLP2GjyKMVLkwn40EiP_pKU8/s400/DSC_0089.JPG" width="282" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day four, things got better again. Probably because I
decided that it would be an excellent idea to watch all six hours of the BBC’s <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pride_and_Prejudice_(1995_TV_series)" target="_blank">Pride and Prejudice</a></i> in one sitting. You
know, the one where Colin Firth jumps in the lake? There are few activities
that are not improved by a good dose of Colin Firth in a sopping wet shirt, I
find. Frankly, it was a wonderful day, not least because I conquered my first
sleeve. I was starting to feel a bit less like I was wearing gardening gloves,
though we established that where it took mum 1.5 minutes to knit a row, it
took me 6.5. I guess those thirty-odd years of extra practice count for
something after all…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6imxBI6BLekX3loa50_ZfUXVA4U1LVTZrwrdYjkOp_65iDDgVBmI56iewHOQq6PlN_tInrUh2jxHJu0g4137As6OkUFor4lpsjwd88CPG7HevwHUPEK7EG4YcqMpEVOyMUpdpeoa36E/s1600/DSC_0109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6imxBI6BLekX3loa50_ZfUXVA4U1LVTZrwrdYjkOp_65iDDgVBmI56iewHOQq6PlN_tInrUh2jxHJu0g4137As6OkUFor4lpsjwd88CPG7HevwHUPEK7EG4YcqMpEVOyMUpdpeoa36E/s320/DSC_0109.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Watching the Rome Marathon live feed.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As well as <i>Pride and
Prejudice</i>, I watched a good chunk of the Rome Marathon that day, because my
wonderful friend Julia was running it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She finished in the top of 10<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">% of </span>women, top 22<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">% overall, which I think deserves a serious tip
of the cap. My Jane Austen/knitting marathon was, however, a considerably more
sensible way to spend a Sunday.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Day four’s progress:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgFkDy7Yq1AA0WxvAvSfuFTO-AJzQmwsmpy9MvRfzERnDEDThvu0eKR2tLTFlhPKfbFyeiNtMuOMQfGfWymSvq74wew8gk5-sPS0AtDaI6kyfI6vh0irnednxLjI1cFrUOe_511QeMUk/s1600/DSC_0103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKgFkDy7Yq1AA0WxvAvSfuFTO-AJzQmwsmpy9MvRfzERnDEDThvu0eKR2tLTFlhPKfbFyeiNtMuOMQfGfWymSvq74wew8gk5-sPS0AtDaI6kyfI6vh0irnednxLjI1cFrUOe_511QeMUk/s400/DSC_0103.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By the start of day five, I was becoming slightly obsessive.
I was knitting EVERYWHERE. In bed, cooking, at the hairdressers, driving the
car, taking the dogs for a walk. OK, some of these may or may not be entirely
true. You can decide which.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkW3RtaNjMAoHPA91JIXszfUfqhFCCFGiN4v2Eli7jZcXp0yh29OuDZmBil9hhqISCu11TdX6UBysB-ryWh9NkiQdkGb2ZBh73q5MP4IutwWPlXwD5EY6zpqcNyPKwXZQLOSOPwP2CXs/s1600/DSC_0092.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkW3RtaNjMAoHPA91JIXszfUfqhFCCFGiN4v2Eli7jZcXp0yh29OuDZmBil9hhqISCu11TdX6UBysB-ryWh9NkiQdkGb2ZBh73q5MP4IutwWPlXwD5EY6zpqcNyPKwXZQLOSOPwP2CXs/s320/DSC_0092.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXmfdG5muk53kQ7QqjFr7R4OtwJsfUfP6SdgLhTLE8w5pMKR1jyIn_n3v7MqhWO92nB-Dmcd_BZZVjaslyeX3icMIMqTUz64xh8jUrIDBRmuHYNxj3LNObnK7W_EonyyEjXtFvC0y0SE/s1600/DSC_0091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXmfdG5muk53kQ7QqjFr7R4OtwJsfUfP6SdgLhTLE8w5pMKR1jyIn_n3v7MqhWO92nB-Dmcd_BZZVjaslyeX3icMIMqTUz64xh8jUrIDBRmuHYNxj3LNObnK7W_EonyyEjXtFvC0y0SE/s320/DSC_0091.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yKTUo04mxR1soaciwOvdCounAyUYv8_ot8_dZeKUspgq2I42hrf4BOAVlvwNoYrtVDNflFzl0NdnpEB9ERBHUi6mgiH7b1hHvnlhW0dc1vrkt1sNomJpvTYs0mIijxICiIXwUKk1E18/s1600/DSC_0137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_yKTUo04mxR1soaciwOvdCounAyUYv8_ot8_dZeKUspgq2I42hrf4BOAVlvwNoYrtVDNflFzl0NdnpEB9ERBHUi6mgiH7b1hHvnlhW0dc1vrkt1sNomJpvTYs0mIijxICiIXwUKk1E18/s320/DSC_0137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
This obsession was all very well, but at the end of day five
I was knackered and slightly dizzy. Every time I closed my eyes, green yarn
danced and knotted in front of them.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here’s day five, and how I felt at the end of day five:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVZqnZyTFpW-nBDRiA2K-aRqrB1ouBHxuJ17SETBZABuxUO-5JaAyu8vVqFiaOB4NqW08wQB-8TOVubfeZ3UpGNSNiWWzQ-zaDJ23wdnpf4Yr0niVGGTHsPuOehcIgSTSvtSVjfigeWA/s1600/DSC_0129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyVZqnZyTFpW-nBDRiA2K-aRqrB1ouBHxuJ17SETBZABuxUO-5JaAyu8vVqFiaOB4NqW08wQB-8TOVubfeZ3UpGNSNiWWzQ-zaDJ23wdnpf4Yr0niVGGTHsPuOehcIgSTSvtSVjfigeWA/s400/DSC_0129.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQerQSpIiD5F63TV6DIhDgK9BB6YJfDzaSHuTFWcj0PonZvwjLK2qVJZW1raRoskrbX8IcLWXN9nPjqQRtDLEswZ-V1uOYNCfyenHJ0XZzhCBOBfjMyyiyxA4cvsZRks58iYGkWYiWcIk/s1600/DSC_0132.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQerQSpIiD5F63TV6DIhDgK9BB6YJfDzaSHuTFWcj0PonZvwjLK2qVJZW1raRoskrbX8IcLWXN9nPjqQRtDLEswZ-V1uOYNCfyenHJ0XZzhCBOBfjMyyiyxA4cvsZRks58iYGkWYiWcIk/s640/DSC_0132.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>On day six we went to IKEA. I knitted in the queue. No word
of a lie.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQCbsQwAqAL1Sj7tL2mNryAz3iM9VW6VA-uIeOzLdCRXyfnF9TnxsV-9jigCtIZzHszxjizOVznsqGBXcizcwIkesOPMvLO8T5ZHWd0OT1AH1-iYdkieOAo0gtSX0qGXkgAiQmV0KOfI/s1600/DSC_0152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQCbsQwAqAL1Sj7tL2mNryAz3iM9VW6VA-uIeOzLdCRXyfnF9TnxsV-9jigCtIZzHszxjizOVznsqGBXcizcwIkesOPMvLO8T5ZHWd0OT1AH1-iYdkieOAo0gtSX0qGXkgAiQmV0KOfI/s400/DSC_0152.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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In another shop, mum held up a rather attractive jumper,
suggesting I should try it on. <i>“Bof”</i>
I said, in my very best French accent. <i>“I
can knit zis maself, oui?”</i> Suddenly, I was some kind of Karate Kid-style
knitting prodigy.<i> </i> Despite several hours of retail therapy in
between stitches, I made good progress, and had knocked a full minute off the
time it took to knit each row. Cast on, cast off, Grasshopper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here’s the situation at the end of day six.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnD1MaHjnnLQxbbsLeeVBkwqjw_wrSV7eL0FwjrZTreZ8TFyuowO09s7PZHFOccOGjMmEAQXBOKjcOzQehE63nemp9gQzikUHhKkbK23Q-rSreDEOsDNwdP2DZgvV2hASmCyI9fCoYnZo/s1600/DSC_0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnD1MaHjnnLQxbbsLeeVBkwqjw_wrSV7eL0FwjrZTreZ8TFyuowO09s7PZHFOccOGjMmEAQXBOKjcOzQehE63nemp9gQzikUHhKkbK23Q-rSreDEOsDNwdP2DZgvV2hASmCyI9fCoYnZo/s400/DSC_0146.JPG" width="353" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOO-761UxcLfgrqEPxTVJ6bCWqxvwFxnlhYQr28_Mgbfisa4d-69I6kZ7DgB-5vCdIoHTdhNuZXFGfEPGNOFYwJcQGx0kAEjyFNjj97cV1Gq0qse44Eg-alZO19X8SjajnK-LF3kRPy3c/s1600/DSC_0161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOO-761UxcLfgrqEPxTVJ6bCWqxvwFxnlhYQr28_Mgbfisa4d-69I6kZ7DgB-5vCdIoHTdhNuZXFGfEPGNOFYwJcQGx0kAEjyFNjj97cV1Gq0qse44Eg-alZO19X8SjajnK-LF3kRPy3c/s320/DSC_0161.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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On day seven, I started the heart, and it all got a bit
intense. The concentration required to keep changing colour from dark green to
red to light green to red again was immense. There were more tears, because I
felt tired and overwhelmed. I was trying so hard to do it perfectly, to get it
right, to impress mum and make sure my design came out as I had imagined it.
Several times I started knitting with red and just carried on to the end of the
row, when I should have swapped to green at the edge of the heart. Back I went,
unpicking, counting furiously, fighting to stay cool. In the end - and this is
a measure of how exhausted and stressed I was - I went to bed leaving just ONE
LINE of the heart unfinished. Is it only me that finds this extremely strange
behaviour? One line? Surely I could have finished the heart? But I really and
truly couldn’t do any more. Not a single stitch.</div>
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Here’s the end of day seven:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7paY2rQ-pnkdePXDlcbaHeSwwWObC2fhLhwpQYsGgZhkCGL1Km3Aa-PmNHK82SBL30JFtwAZEWXgmY8XYJWOvF3F_SheOjYlGpcaBkTcjn7BnPp6s-MAkpuGfvVGu6Qx5U9WTPivJr8/s1600/DSC_0160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO7paY2rQ-pnkdePXDlcbaHeSwwWObC2fhLhwpQYsGgZhkCGL1Km3Aa-PmNHK82SBL30JFtwAZEWXgmY8XYJWOvF3F_SheOjYlGpcaBkTcjn7BnPp6s-MAkpuGfvVGu6Qx5U9WTPivJr8/s400/DSC_0160.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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On day eight I awoke refreshed and ready. I finished the heart in the shower. OK, I
didn’t really. Or did I? I wouldn’t put it past me…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4WuyCDHYax-SzFq_64aDeDVINIdOR-SrJd5kLKwbYc3MaaWRDnqolCTUAjpld0M8rmbwmRK983o6Q4RfMzRRWA9-3XmqaBZbM1pkDvI7-oig-sXzBbz3tlw1H6W4nzQGtU0cF7tZ8xc/s1600/DSC_0162.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN4WuyCDHYax-SzFq_64aDeDVINIdOR-SrJd5kLKwbYc3MaaWRDnqolCTUAjpld0M8rmbwmRK983o6Q4RfMzRRWA9-3XmqaBZbM1pkDvI7-oig-sXzBbz3tlw1H6W4nzQGtU0cF7tZ8xc/s640/DSC_0162.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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The sun shone, meaning more multi-tasking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmapTCjvK23GJFbDO748byhqILx55i81laxwNt1Vtjb-DXv8S01SXANjwrjBW3q_MkCXGbVndsS31EMxmG38NZCcHDV5Znf6_07GMlGndRa7S1fx5feG2va_hxz_R2jVVJuG0SteoG7gA/s1600/DSC_0168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmapTCjvK23GJFbDO748byhqILx55i81laxwNt1Vtjb-DXv8S01SXANjwrjBW3q_MkCXGbVndsS31EMxmG38NZCcHDV5Znf6_07GMlGndRa7S1fx5feG2va_hxz_R2jVVJuG0SteoG7gA/s320/DSC_0168.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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At the end of day eight, all the pieces of the puzzle were
ready: two sleeves (evil sleeves), and a front and back that had been sewn
together, allowing a continuous rib to be knitted all around the neck with
circular needles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSg8c3eV1Ml2mK6zBiguNuXpgHuhjjnXXmy_N5VOKv78LpaV70-nXFSirDy9boyMrktEaRnDP2fypx7mItottt3lVaQbixWPaKVUlRXi3Nvp2tmCvAEYe8GcKETwVKdRFMj5GXLIdXklg/s1600/DSC_0169.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSg8c3eV1Ml2mK6zBiguNuXpgHuhjjnXXmy_N5VOKv78LpaV70-nXFSirDy9boyMrktEaRnDP2fypx7mItottt3lVaQbixWPaKVUlRXi3Nvp2tmCvAEYe8GcKETwVKdRFMj5GXLIdXklg/s320/DSC_0169.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
End of day eight:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNleoq7hWThyLagaGB0UDEKtvg1j_RZY_xSVrOnnagEKpY4ffJEpF1eWdlNwd55E4k5NXRDlEUc74PrTr_vcNR16fkYICvxOX4c7tA2RC-tcEG9NPp2RjqMnkbL3zeP7AX4I-9qE8WxNQ/s1600/DSC_0176.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNleoq7hWThyLagaGB0UDEKtvg1j_RZY_xSVrOnnagEKpY4ffJEpF1eWdlNwd55E4k5NXRDlEUc74PrTr_vcNR16fkYICvxOX4c7tA2RC-tcEG9NPp2RjqMnkbL3zeP7AX4I-9qE8WxNQ/s400/DSC_0176.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Day nine was sewing day. I freely admit that I allowed mum
to sew the evil sleeves to the body of the jumper. She kindly left me the easy
bit, which was sewing up the sides. It was extremely satisfying to discover
that the stripes front and back did indeed match up. There had been doubts at
one stage, due to some slightly overzealous ironing. It isn’t wise to
overzealously iron one’s woolly…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRfigc9xEm2ONdCCXhBaD3FOGHMmscdczdVxW1bjKJyDkMmGC_w0B7hyIOpXxacK0bLnGOwBLKiRZL0AFCyhYkdStn0YtdK7OssrAaGKChzfOu44o5JyxD_hWR34326OWzNrlCsenZ9s/s1600/DSC_0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVRfigc9xEm2ONdCCXhBaD3FOGHMmscdczdVxW1bjKJyDkMmGC_w0B7hyIOpXxacK0bLnGOwBLKiRZL0AFCyhYkdStn0YtdK7OssrAaGKChzfOu44o5JyxD_hWR34326OWzNrlCsenZ9s/s400/DSC_0101.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1aDz5_pacsn35hdzL5n0a4Op3KJF-ckGYxR45rPnrZ_nsIxuzczTMw_BEfdTsWRzw82FFEHlIhNCwxZKWQ9q48vhuP0Ch43UJc9nDM8w2-j99nKJDS4CP9Rkmz7P6EFmRjJb9VY5WU0/s1600/DSC_0186.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1aDz5_pacsn35hdzL5n0a4Op3KJF-ckGYxR45rPnrZ_nsIxuzczTMw_BEfdTsWRzw82FFEHlIhNCwxZKWQ9q48vhuP0Ch43UJc9nDM8w2-j99nKJDS4CP9Rkmz7P6EFmRjJb9VY5WU0/s640/DSC_0186.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sewing the stripes together</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of day nine: It lives, Igor, it lives!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzZQd8uoKmQ1fX8xisj1phcUFAQofCEwAqRjhIa_g-BtbNdfrvG2e2ZIEJHYJUJZml_P_dqOhyphenhypheniBE7VaGiFO7AUIBWxWS1uAGkZe4vqEteBctMRt8MnBJimrFmWn8ALt0flJXxuPVXyk/s1600/DSC_0211.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="548" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMzZQd8uoKmQ1fX8xisj1phcUFAQofCEwAqRjhIa_g-BtbNdfrvG2e2ZIEJHYJUJZml_P_dqOhyphenhypheniBE7VaGiFO7AUIBWxWS1uAGkZe4vqEteBctMRt8MnBJimrFmWn8ALt0flJXxuPVXyk/s640/DSC_0211.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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So, all-in-all it took: nine days, a full kilometre of yarn,
one broken needle, two viewings of <i>Seven
Brides for Seven Brothers</i> (yes, I watched it twice, and what?), a full
rendition of <i>Jesus Christ Superstar</i>,
six hours of <i>Pride and Prejudice, </i>a
few outbreaks of tears, a lot of patience, a little obsession, and enormous
supervision from She Who Must Be Obeyed. Not in a million years could I have
done it without her. Thank mum!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtC0C0DVrW0NihfbrAC6p4-bWDrJCqzrK4hsUaWIx26LhJ4BurQINodFdrFlfkcI53fmanuX8iu5ZSx6MTxBXJ6uu0og_zySTXLJnHmxWuJo2AgJHtHPwQwVybDpqedF7v5IjrLYX8Xh8/s1600/DSC_0199.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtC0C0DVrW0NihfbrAC6p4-bWDrJCqzrK4hsUaWIx26LhJ4BurQINodFdrFlfkcI53fmanuX8iu5ZSx6MTxBXJ6uu0og_zySTXLJnHmxWuJo2AgJHtHPwQwVybDpqedF7v5IjrLYX8Xh8/s640/DSC_0199.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She Who Must Be Obeyed. A worldwide knitting legend.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw1mkDzyJ5XrlaejHQSyLw_JQ6hfjWsMNwyTf3nWLqb0p8oKIvd2xCAYY7o_CtgXzSjsovLOfgWYIOua9Govb-a9p2VR8gCyi1SGl_Jh4uoGc3Zz829Z_M6HwIneiWq53YwJTYNes4vA/s1600/DSC_0001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJw1mkDzyJ5XrlaejHQSyLw_JQ6hfjWsMNwyTf3nWLqb0p8oKIvd2xCAYY7o_CtgXzSjsovLOfgWYIOua9Govb-a9p2VR8gCyi1SGl_Jh4uoGc3Zz829Z_M6HwIneiWq53YwJTYNes4vA/s640/DSC_0001.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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It was an extraordinarily intense process, and hugely
rewarding to see the long strands of wool becoming a mass of fabric. But at the
back of my mind I always had one worry. What if I hated it? What if I did all
that work, and then I hated it and never, ever wore it?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Well, here's day ten:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEHfqcfuyPh9kZh8UMjA1Om6niiTP4DUUuX6HEdc9gutklVvE5m0833TtpqwRUt6mGqlWJ16QLuLpIUAJX8foWoo_SlQl7Kn2MmmNNXySJCyjjNsPcWMpfaz2QtI4bdaGPX3kOn4lSGk/s1600/DSC_0217.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYEHfqcfuyPh9kZh8UMjA1Om6niiTP4DUUuX6HEdc9gutklVvE5m0833TtpqwRUt6mGqlWJ16QLuLpIUAJX8foWoo_SlQl7Kn2MmmNNXySJCyjjNsPcWMpfaz2QtI4bdaGPX3kOn4lSGk/s400/DSC_0217.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The jumper goes to yoga</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZZAw6IeV0mPS4XVd-83QV2AfOptCsP87KrUDszuyH6PkmgUhpPHeNSGW1bQC2_4UjnHxinBjYoCcy-YdFv6F6eET1wPVSdHiUY8xEDDSGroHbwYDR2yZOgPM9C8ZW8D0BTJfhR1wggQ/s1600/DSC_0219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJZZAw6IeV0mPS4XVd-83QV2AfOptCsP87KrUDszuyH6PkmgUhpPHeNSGW1bQC2_4UjnHxinBjYoCcy-YdFv6F6eET1wPVSdHiUY8xEDDSGroHbwYDR2yZOgPM9C8ZW8D0BTJfhR1wggQ/s400/DSC_0219.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The jumper has breakfast</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBnrorKl9qHg5GPSpWwfYtWnqw9zoDclnSGQzi97DP-iVcRrTYulmbncoAu46biXJlhbjh0NOsP8I5rcek2yWenczt_CoktcbZKjlgbo3yPOkMHyptxBlVc3302MPoXDnmN5FMesr6XQ/s1600/DSC_0223.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBnrorKl9qHg5GPSpWwfYtWnqw9zoDclnSGQzi97DP-iVcRrTYulmbncoAu46biXJlhbjh0NOsP8I5rcek2yWenczt_CoktcbZKjlgbo3yPOkMHyptxBlVc3302MPoXDnmN5FMesr6XQ/s320/DSC_0223.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few hours later, the jumper has lunch. The lady behind the jumper is really enjoying her sausage,</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKFMqek8BSl9jtqoYznm6NfTevc4_56IvIdLkhw6XITyNhAktJHAs4bhyxD2AG3FNUistevtbOOwPYfz2SHQKmRf6vIKQ56eKArG6g6sBo6-O9g9Qpi2xSPplGZrpkklBgT5TjM4rWkE/s1600/DSC_0227.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQKFMqek8BSl9jtqoYznm6NfTevc4_56IvIdLkhw6XITyNhAktJHAs4bhyxD2AG3FNUistevtbOOwPYfz2SHQKmRf6vIKQ56eKArG6g6sBo6-O9g9Qpi2xSPplGZrpkklBgT5TjM4rWkE/s400/DSC_0227.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The jumper drives us home</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWcoPzwC9UfXtC-5jxZLZZlLsphWErC5xbyvM96ETYxtXM5cQXH_DIHwpN5mlI4XYLAJIiBfEIC8bcEC86d4AQsDh3kP8tIxa0DVmghAww1Vp-XNwcsVPXhE94Okf-XQZNQOE7YJ-wUQ/s1600/DSC_0235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSWcoPzwC9UfXtC-5jxZLZZlLsphWErC5xbyvM96ETYxtXM5cQXH_DIHwpN5mlI4XYLAJIiBfEIC8bcEC86d4AQsDh3kP8tIxa0DVmghAww1Vp-XNwcsVPXhE94Okf-XQZNQOE7YJ-wUQ/s640/DSC_0235.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The jumper walks the dogs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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So there’s my jumper. Turns out I definitely like it and I'm definitely going to wear it. It’s a bit baggy, perhaps. The sleeves
are slightly too long. And, well, it’s hardly discreet, is it? You couldn’t
miss me walking down the street in that. But there’s something kind of joyful
about it. I love the contrast of the green on red, and the sheer exuberance
that I feel when I put it on. <i>I made this</i>,
I think to myself. <i>I may look a little
bit bonkers, but I made this</i>. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKgnw_5a5ucFu8aeOrmRG8blzVWFbHFt4ZfR88qEZc1BJehhGBrUHkVK5u3VYmT8JL29A0AF5O5Yltt8OJdKU25u_JKopvgWner5w-m42WqL8S1hHUSvg8vEobItvF5zoC84XRtPusGs/s1600/DSC_0242.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIKgnw_5a5ucFu8aeOrmRG8blzVWFbHFt4ZfR88qEZc1BJehhGBrUHkVK5u3VYmT8JL29A0AF5O5Yltt8OJdKU25u_JKopvgWner5w-m42WqL8S1hHUSvg8vEobItvF5zoC84XRtPusGs/s640/DSC_0242.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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I haven’t quite mastered the Zen
of Knitting, but I think I might be on my way. Oh, and mum's really proud of me. She thinks it's fantastic how I persevered even when it was difficult and frustrating. But just to remind me who's boss, she started a new jumper:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zdaAxYt1Y20b42oYGFgxybopnxtD70w1SlgMpo53_BStfz0g2FAYy0JOeF_dFzBarZKMjOtn0ZFRN_Cbz2VLtw1nU_az34sVInnmwNknbj6v9WMDd1T8fjNEMWueETa71CpFtBHuGeY/s1600/DSC_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zdaAxYt1Y20b42oYGFgxybopnxtD70w1SlgMpo53_BStfz0g2FAYy0JOeF_dFzBarZKMjOtn0ZFRN_Cbz2VLtw1nU_az34sVInnmwNknbj6v9WMDd1T8fjNEMWueETa71CpFtBHuGeY/s640/DSC_0006.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Smart aleck. </div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Twenty-three down, seven to go…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-35510299347390902822013-03-12T15:00:00.002-07:002013-03-12T15:01:47.424-07:00Heart of Glass<br />
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<i>“Are you sure you
haven’t done this before?” </i>asked Adam Aaronson as I twisted my iron in the
glory hole.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>“I’m sure.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“Then what else do you
make? You make something.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“Not really. Actually,
when I try to make things, they generally end up quite wonky.” <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>“In that case, you’re
a dancer,” </i>he said decisively.<i> “I can
tell.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I booked my three-hour introductory glassblowing workshop at
<a href="http://www.aaronsonnoon.com/glass.php" target="_blank">Aaronson Noon</a> after several false starts. I kept looking it up, deciding it was
too expensive (£195), writing it off, and then looking it up again. Just before
I quit my job I decided I’d better go ahead and book, whilst I still had a
salary to abuse. And although pricey, this course was significantly cheaper
than the only other one I could find in London. When it came to it though, I
wasn’t much looking forward to the experience. I’d massively over-booked myself
for the weekend, and getting up early to schlep across London was the last
thing I felt like doing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I arrived in a bit of a flap just before 10am, having waited
an inordinately long time at Earl’s Court for a train going in the right
direction. The District Line really is a bit strange, isn’t it? The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glass" target="_blank">glass</a> on
display at the studio was beautiful, bonkers and inspiring. For example:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiacE9iP-HDdo2biNkLLaqCG557P8QTEiGBJtzbBBrs2Xfs8oyZf5ATRQpbEVd7LcmRc5aKs2PUHTOapfEYC0QoaU01eMkmW4-Nlk33NJwNY_hoiBYiwkB_JdJdSNRL8Lx4_rEcBS-Od5U/s1600/DSC_0472.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiacE9iP-HDdo2biNkLLaqCG557P8QTEiGBJtzbBBrs2Xfs8oyZf5ATRQpbEVd7LcmRc5aKs2PUHTOapfEYC0QoaU01eMkmW4-Nlk33NJwNY_hoiBYiwkB_JdJdSNRL8Lx4_rEcBS-Od5U/s640/DSC_0472.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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There were vases and finials and doorknobs and paperweights
and crazy sculptures and glass glass glass everywhere. It glistened, fragile
and cold, swirling with bubbles and colours. I felt the first stirrings of
excitement, but a little voice in my head piped up with a pragmatic warning. <i>“Remember”</i> it said, <i>“that you are not an artist. You have very good intentions, but when it
comes to making things you kind of suck.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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My fellow students were Carol, an accountant, and Nick, a
purveyor of second-hand books. Carol makes glass beads and had worked in
stained glass before, but other than that we were all newbies. We were
shepherded into the kitchen for a safety briefing and the signing of a waiver
that I decided it would be best not to read. We were handed some groovy yellow Kevlar
sleeves and a pair of sunnies each, before receiving a potted history of glass
from our teacher, <a href="http://www.glassfairs.co.uk/Articles/aaronson.html" target="_blank">Adam Aaronson</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Widely cited as one of Britain’s leading contemporary glass
artists, Adam Aaronson is a man who knows his glass. It quickly became clear that
he is both passionate about his medium, and about sharing knowledge with his
students. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbLc3HM0DjyAHpgR0J88xDvVSBimrPZ7SC1jabb_FwSFpFUmnR25YG9WWOeM7_tMhkgYe2vx1y_etceLmjMadWwQqdEy8b6Wka5cKIVF3aX-I1vcrIQu2qiV9fIoJdzlRfdjujrRjCxI/s1600/DSC_0477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzbLc3HM0DjyAHpgR0J88xDvVSBimrPZ7SC1jabb_FwSFpFUmnR25YG9WWOeM7_tMhkgYe2vx1y_etceLmjMadWwQqdEy8b6Wka5cKIVF3aX-I1vcrIQu2qiV9fIoJdzlRfdjujrRjCxI/s320/DSC_0477.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The glory hole (left) and furnace (right)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The workshop housed many weird and wonderful things. A
glowing furnace, a pot-bellied glory hole, tools of all shapes and sizes, bins
and buckets full of glass nuggets, and drawers and drawers of colours. We had
been warned during the safety briefing not to touch any of the colours, since
many of them contain nasties. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arsenic" target="_blank">Arsenic</a> makes a lovely emerald green, apparently…
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ShZuGYk1ukmh5gUEcRc0keQwVnZXbLnwswCj7_nCrXl4d05JCV0I9fWxk0qr_lGgKbfQdskBAKVrdjgHjCSFbhlzLa6e48sJFWWH2JJvF2X-v2kD_qlw0xBzMrppn4KhNkxPh-3VBkA/s1600/DSC_0475.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4ShZuGYk1ukmh5gUEcRc0keQwVnZXbLnwswCj7_nCrXl4d05JCV0I9fWxk0qr_lGgKbfQdskBAKVrdjgHjCSFbhlzLa6e48sJFWWH2JJvF2X-v2kD_qlw0xBzMrppn4KhNkxPh-3VBkA/s640/DSC_0475.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLLBy3Hppz2l1Y_oUn9z0lsVe2i0LWQ6YqHguRYy1GqaWMGqV7TiMNWjh12b8GGiXgLdtk9fjI2LBzqI7eM3y5ZUQHaXTJjYKdx-4me6yYoJem6KqsaLVUF5QWK2JMlFMdirw1LW5a5c/s1600/DSC_0579.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWLLBy3Hppz2l1Y_oUn9z0lsVe2i0LWQ6YqHguRYy1GqaWMGqV7TiMNWjh12b8GGiXgLdtk9fjI2LBzqI7eM3y5ZUQHaXTJjYKdx-4me6yYoJem6KqsaLVUF5QWK2JMlFMdirw1LW5a5c/s400/DSC_0579.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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We were to make three things over the course of the morning.
A paperweight, a small sculpture, and, finally, a blown piece. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3BjxY1VU-mdCvdsaRCiPQPXAIlxLrGCl_TkDGHYoGHl2FL2sumkn3R-yrcDWjCmB6JoPU-V0XEIjOY-Y2_5bXpx6RueG1_RO_5hyphenhyphenISBPiM1FOEbGXlLpoGEebI0Th-2FdcBN3USxNywY/s1600/DSC_0715.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3BjxY1VU-mdCvdsaRCiPQPXAIlxLrGCl_TkDGHYoGHl2FL2sumkn3R-yrcDWjCmB6JoPU-V0XEIjOY-Y2_5bXpx6RueG1_RO_5hyphenhyphenISBPiM1FOEbGXlLpoGEebI0Th-2FdcBN3USxNywY/s320/DSC_0715.JPG" width="320" /></a>Before being handed any red-hot iron rods, we all had to
practice holding and twirling a cold one. You may think it unnecessary for
three grown-ups to practice carrying sticks, but these rods get damn hot when
in use, and it is amazing how tempting it is to grab right down the business
end. We practiced sliding the rods in and out of a cold furnace, twirling at
all times, simulating the collection of the glass. It was also key to learn to
walk around without jousting anyone with a molten ball of glass death, and to
move from the furnace to the glass-working bench swiftly and safely. There is a
clear choreography to this, which is not exactly intuitive. We all danced
around for a while, spinning our test rods and getting up and down from the
bench. I imagine we looked very silly, especially in our yellow sleeves and
dark glasses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBeKx3HsoxH7O0X8V4rhdN87ah6RO7E1NX-ERCEM3Q_PiySVLXUJmqPbnPi3GxXTq80ZgjBFkhMdSWygznEgwR-ytaj_4fV6gcMqG2BIDEP0-YKNEFZUHZ2FJcB8RbUre5OQ_VFBil9kE/s1600/DSC_0500+-+Version+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBeKx3HsoxH7O0X8V4rhdN87ah6RO7E1NX-ERCEM3Q_PiySVLXUJmqPbnPi3GxXTq80ZgjBFkhMdSWygznEgwR-ytaj_4fV6gcMqG2BIDEP0-YKNEFZUHZ2FJcB8RbUre5OQ_VFBil9kE/s400/DSC_0500+-+Version+2.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice outfit, hotshot...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adam demonstrated the paperweight three times, talking us
clearly through the process and reinforcing the key points. Then it was our
turn. <i>“Who’s first?”</i> asked Adam. <i>“There are three of you, and you’re making
three things, so whoever goes first now won’t have to go first again.” </i>Excellent
logic, but I had no intention of volunteering. Adam made it all look far too
easy. I wanted to see how someone else got on. Fortunately, Carol was brave…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went second, and just before the red-hot iron rod was
placed in my hands I felt a surge of adrenaline and fear. But then, somehow,
the glass took over. Adam and his teaching assistant Sayuri provided constant
guidance and protection, making me feel completely safe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The paperweight process went more or less thus, if I
remember correctly. Which I probably don’t.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> - </span></span>Pick up bloody hot iron rod. Not near business end.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Dip and twist into the furnace to collect glass. Do not
forget your dark glasses, as if you do you will </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
be seeing multi-coloured clouds
in front of your eyes for a good few minutes, as I discovered.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Twist. Do not stop twisting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Dip glass into little metal containers of colour. Red,
yellow and orange for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7V2-BjaBLvCgvhyphenhyphenj587L4371XKM3Dp2YIjMWDB9rWnd6ntxWvDqa_wA488K17btIBZKp5-xDw6ZIcwe1zemmz7FePzldrmBlSjCqfxSYtxxuaIZErD5XU4qpTOX0lNzTP4CC6okd65Ro/s1600/DSC_0500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7V2-BjaBLvCgvhyphenhyphenj587L4371XKM3Dp2YIjMWDB9rWnd6ntxWvDqa_wA488K17btIBZKp5-xDw6ZIcwe1zemmz7FePzldrmBlSjCqfxSYtxxuaIZErD5XU4qpTOX0lNzTP4CC6okd65Ro/s400/DSC_0500.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dipping into the colours</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Insert into the glory hole to melt the colour.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEins9AsDO_oFqh85lpXA38VGcrYOGj1O8e56Jx5jVZRVvCtnPltj_M-M15wDMb31613fjByiiao7PqOkTSyq68659jQ41Pr7iHz73FlAuHisghoJXPiOziE1a7u4ekY7ca7ArbBXVIFapM/s1600/DSC_0626.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEins9AsDO_oFqh85lpXA38VGcrYOGj1O8e56Jx5jVZRVvCtnPltj_M-M15wDMb31613fjByiiao7PqOkTSyq68659jQ41Pr7iHz73FlAuHisghoJXPiOziE1a7u4ekY7ca7ArbBXVIFapM/s320/DSC_0626.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Twisting in the glory hole</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Take your glass to the bench. Sit down without getting
confused.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Pick up some wet newspaper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Keep twisting and rolling your iron rod on the bars of the
bench.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Be brave. Put your hand, covered in wet newspaper, under the
molten ball of glass death. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVQ6Hyao-O7gS9Syp-oD4-E-7uhT4_DUyPCdq7mEze93ZcIOy0x2wQqUyPW-XhC8pw5XxxhWu5NG7nr0k3Eksndud0WgrTQHSzNKRQVg8gOmOugVvhZi05Iyo52n2xfXVvybYGR3DO7s/s1600/DSC_0523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWVQ6Hyao-O7gS9Syp-oD4-E-7uhT4_DUyPCdq7mEze93ZcIOy0x2wQqUyPW-XhC8pw5XxxhWu5NG7nr0k3Eksndud0WgrTQHSzNKRQVg8gOmOugVvhZi05Iyo52n2xfXVvybYGR3DO7s/s400/DSC_0523.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Roll and shape, by gently moving your hand. Don’t push the
glass. Caress the glass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Take your glass back to the glory hole to make it soft
again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Return to the bench, take your tweezers (which are
significantly larger that the ones you might use on your eyebrows) and twist up
the colourful bits to make swirls.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Collect another layer of glass from the furnace.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Shape your paperweight with wet newspaper and your hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Use metal jacks to move glass away from the rod. It’s
possible that this also happened a bit earlier, but - I was confused because of
the multi-coloured clouds in front of my eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWaoaOdMAWBcy2gPeh99qdRoS_8pkzPgQkPRv8vxAVvAUj3WmYIM9EkpXgw5B9At6voapKKW_TpF96vqBBA4E_wba8T2KtsI-DQ5_N8NdomM8nVrFyl6vu-_RgFQmqGwz6Sz-l50xtsY/s1600/DSC_0539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmWaoaOdMAWBcy2gPeh99qdRoS_8pkzPgQkPRv8vxAVvAUj3WmYIM9EkpXgw5B9At6voapKKW_TpF96vqBBA4E_wba8T2KtsI-DQ5_N8NdomM8nVrFyl6vu-_RgFQmqGwz6Sz-l50xtsY/s400/DSC_0539.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At work with the jacks</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Use jacks to mark the base of the paperweight. Sound simple?
It isn’t.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Stand up and look pleased with yourself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Give the hot iron rod to Sayuri (who is also a dancer, by
the way). She will score the base of the </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
paperweight with a knife, and then let
you hit the iron rod with a stick. This will cause the </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
paperweight to fall off
in a most satisfying manner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWQzSO41Ui5AZPi2HDPgDJ0Nve6LNFs0DObdMxtAy2fFP2VWUTXveubR4KG5JSz8FKV3gdkx7dcEM46I_MWoSFEiw3Vzoe_wZeKcy2M4-a3edtkOYA_I-HzMMH87x5Nijwh6BwQInvM0/s1600/DSC_0544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgWQzSO41Ui5AZPi2HDPgDJ0Nve6LNFs0DObdMxtAy2fFP2VWUTXveubR4KG5JSz8FKV3gdkx7dcEM46I_MWoSFEiw3Vzoe_wZeKcy2M4-a3edtkOYA_I-HzMMH87x5Nijwh6BwQInvM0/s320/DSC_0544.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- Sayuri applies a blowtorch, and then pops the paperweight in
the annealing oven. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQI8sDvBNwg9EV5VkozNk-a-mTs3oOgXiAJd9W0PKo9UODXaHGAL2KDUZdAQjTTYKnnuq7dSunpRq_ZXxcyD4fL4gnpk9A_Jdk50B5ju9uzRiLOw05aHaoj3hqwpeE-qrj_JNb6x47rfc/s1600/DSC_0548.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQI8sDvBNwg9EV5VkozNk-a-mTs3oOgXiAJd9W0PKo9UODXaHGAL2KDUZdAQjTTYKnnuq7dSunpRq_ZXxcyD4fL4gnpk9A_Jdk50B5ju9uzRiLOw05aHaoj3hqwpeE-qrj_JNb6x47rfc/s320/DSC_0548.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwn2u54CodzeZvWcoCSCy7jwJJuwjRugvo6a3iDpsNoa-_Nm0xjGInshyphenhyphenBb-XjG6OIQb5N-h-8JJPo3LQA_wTPo5DyPPKOhoYKFS966Zr0r9dil9XRG1WPKqI-PU-_wPWD0uHh41RxPg/s1600/DSC_0546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHwn2u54CodzeZvWcoCSCy7jwJJuwjRugvo6a3iDpsNoa-_Nm0xjGInshyphenhyphenBb-XjG6OIQb5N-h-8JJPo3LQA_wTPo5DyPPKOhoYKFS966Zr0r9dil9XRG1WPKqI-PU-_wPWD0uHh41RxPg/s400/DSC_0546.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
- - - </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
----- --- Ta daa!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>S</o:p>o, my paperweight isn’t exactly spherical. OK, so it actually looks a lot like a Smurf’s hat, if the Smurfs ever got into tie-dye. But hey, I’ll bet it holds down a pile of papers!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkzvz-OaeN_uD3SfKT97_Ge-D60W6hYkKgs0B08tWvyN-5NLfXWHTqjCWn7kxoeuDt8BFkAAxhbkbWch3bNcO1kqd0OQotk3pgMjV0DNNGHjUVmGh6ZNBTZT8u9tF79-YopmEezoB42dw/s1600/Smurf's+hat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkzvz-OaeN_uD3SfKT97_Ge-D60W6hYkKgs0B08tWvyN-5NLfXWHTqjCWn7kxoeuDt8BFkAAxhbkbWch3bNcO1kqd0OQotk3pgMjV0DNNGHjUVmGh6ZNBTZT8u9tF79-YopmEezoB42dw/s640/Smurf's+hat.JPG" width="608" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few days later... For the grooviest Smurf in town.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next up was sculpture, and a choice of freeform or
figurative. We were all a bit predictable and went figurative. That little
voice in my head told me that if I attempted freeform I would probably end up
with something resembling a spiky glass turd. Nick and Carol both chose to make
penguins, whilst I decided on a heart. A bit cheesy, but I had seen Adam’s
glass hearts on sale in the gallery and found them enormously pleasing. I
wanted to own one, and what better way to own one than to make it myself?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewF9nal3WcxJwYUfHieL9JzTcpx0rLZP91qy_pGV7izesJ0fKOdPXf4ojuhVOm3BC3dZMwpFyMCaNME8TyE5a5-b-w41FUxTuXcKr-rQqh2HrCDO4ziodmHbOTZ806K8qCV2pAdllqtw/s1600/DSC_0636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewF9nal3WcxJwYUfHieL9JzTcpx0rLZP91qy_pGV7izesJ0fKOdPXf4ojuhVOm3BC3dZMwpFyMCaNME8TyE5a5-b-w41FUxTuXcKr-rQqh2HrCDO4ziodmHbOTZ806K8qCV2pAdllqtw/s400/DSC_0636.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working on my heart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The process for the sculptures was very similar to that for
the paperweight. The tweezers were used to pull out, respectively, the beak,
tail and wings of the penguins, and the pointy bit of the heart. I also had the
added tasks of flattening my glass ball into a disc with the heel of my hand,
and then taking a meat cleaver to it, for the indentation. That’s right, I
meat-cleavered some glass. How hard-core am I? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqYSQCmRCDP9I5HoPASj-bmrSQWmT2Qqgc9yff6MWD3qjShc8Xc7KBL5L_RKkqfSCn2CoMDHxba3LWBKnFLj2mOMxIqoGuKa417Z9lbaC8RqvoTEJvU-xQWcFrO3R_ZJSD2R6LPaiQz0/s1600/DSC_0622.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSqYSQCmRCDP9I5HoPASj-bmrSQWmT2Qqgc9yff6MWD3qjShc8Xc7KBL5L_RKkqfSCn2CoMDHxba3LWBKnFLj2mOMxIqoGuKa417Z9lbaC8RqvoTEJvU-xQWcFrO3R_ZJSD2R6LPaiQz0/s320/DSC_0622.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two tones of Jade for my heart</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gRkcvxABVxrlTtFwcIAd4lzytRBlPZmAdKlYi9cwU2ykk-bvELpVqyizE16uN4-XZ9MS0FmfqBP8xAJQ1Ns-2C4CsxuUPg8H02xNN35a6AqdgEyPjNa4zvOEW8Gk-SYi3FHb0ZVOWdg/s1600/DSC_0603.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2gRkcvxABVxrlTtFwcIAd4lzytRBlPZmAdKlYi9cwU2ykk-bvELpVqyizE16uN4-XZ9MS0FmfqBP8xAJQ1Ns-2C4CsxuUPg8H02xNN35a6AqdgEyPjNa4zvOEW8Gk-SYi3FHb0ZVOWdg/s320/DSC_0603.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nick's penguin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPYuP3fY9nV9gitKACHVI_JndwOpaH1AOJjXZHaHKf67Ig1dK0EAmioSELzjBOMSm5ESgtexKbVMNmt4iu3-XQR9B2YrFU7usAKtT64pdr3GkCeOPO2-H8GKPMhaFJ4a_sYbbJ4jdaAs/s1600/DSC_0620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPYuP3fY9nV9gitKACHVI_JndwOpaH1AOJjXZHaHKf67Ig1dK0EAmioSELzjBOMSm5ESgtexKbVMNmt4iu3-XQR9B2YrFU7usAKtT64pdr3GkCeOPO2-H8GKPMhaFJ4a_sYbbJ4jdaAs/s400/DSC_0620.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carol's penguin</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixPYuP3fY9nV9gitKACHVI_JndwOpaH1AOJjXZHaHKf67Ig1dK0EAmioSELzjBOMSm5ESgtexKbVMNmt4iu3-XQR9B2YrFU7usAKtT64pdr3GkCeOPO2-H8GKPMhaFJ4a_sYbbJ4jdaAs/s1600/DSC_0620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFln17DqrqJIz5IPOvrp3_XgeY9tVDP4PVzBInU2zFG17XHvtDxjYnbe-H5dNZ2R7h0oy8Lv8VEnZz6Jwk7xpbT1jvV4VJFfk7Q8NeuJVU0NnSLCEJS6McokbMuIGI3WCt5Yw3nk9X9Q/s1600/DSC_0643.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfFln17DqrqJIz5IPOvrp3_XgeY9tVDP4PVzBInU2zFG17XHvtDxjYnbe-H5dNZ2R7h0oy8Lv8VEnZz6Jwk7xpbT1jvV4VJFfk7Q8NeuJVU0NnSLCEJS6McokbMuIGI3WCt5Yw3nk9X9Q/s320/DSC_0643.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hot hearted</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By now I was a little more familiar with the feel of the
molten glass, and I was really falling for its allure. It drew me in, moving
like caramel, twisting and snaking and changing shape. I liked the weight of
the iron rod in my hands, and the glowing, undulating colours. Perhaps it’s the
yoga, but I’m starting to find meditation opportunities all over the place... It
sounds very strange to say this, but I am pretty strange sometimes so: I kind
of fell in love with the glass. There’s something truly magical about it.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGn6GqtyLcCcnD1B_ZgW8rJW1cyypHcioGjA4NqCQJikV1WAdX15hdXoh2D2h4AAH4JK1UH77KhNT3VdLgEJHugHYR0h1jXmwKWD0_SZD5Y_DS4TPHDUhOmJW4uzsdlI7ym_qfqh2A2I/s1600/Glass+heart.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJGn6GqtyLcCcnD1B_ZgW8rJW1cyypHcioGjA4NqCQJikV1WAdX15hdXoh2D2h4AAH4JK1UH77KhNT3VdLgEJHugHYR0h1jXmwKWD0_SZD5Y_DS4TPHDUhOmJW4uzsdlI7ym_qfqh2A2I/s640/Glass+heart.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A few days later. I love the colour!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a cup of restorative tea it was finally time to make
our blown piece. My earlier refusal to go first now came back to bite me in the
ass. Blowing glass is, unsurprisingly, more involved and complicated than
making hearts and Smurf’s hats. The iron rod now has a hole in it. It is wise
to blow down this to make sure it’s not blocked, before you go dolloping glass
on the end. To get the blowing started, you send a little dart of air down the
pipe and trap it by covering the top with your thumb. Once you have a bubble,
you twist and blow and shape and blow and twist and occasionally pay a quick
visit to the glory hole to keep your glass hot. Adam talked me through, and I
was almost in a trance, just following his instructions and seeing the glass
stretch and swell before my eyes.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirY5ABmcJbmdCPVxjljJ7hOOXzBJWLoKS6pD64eZSp8B7ZE7hDklj-MW2SkLUXjho2Q7cskrS2DmHbannpIJyFVubmvcyReUsTBSVahI0dNLMEbUfTeSSf5leKnjSfcf8aUMTl2fP1xlk/s1600/DSC_0670.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirY5ABmcJbmdCPVxjljJ7hOOXzBJWLoKS6pD64eZSp8B7ZE7hDklj-MW2SkLUXjho2Q7cskrS2DmHbannpIJyFVubmvcyReUsTBSVahI0dNLMEbUfTeSSf5leKnjSfcf8aUMTl2fP1xlk/s640/DSC_0670.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Once you have a good globe, you use your tweezers to guide a
punty -another iron rod with a tiny piece of hot glass on the end - on to the
base of your glass. Don’t, for Pete’s sake, stop twisting. The jacks are then used
to score the glass where you want it to separate. Next, give your rod a sharp
tap with the end of the tweezers. Ideally, this will cause your globe to separate
from the original rod, but remain attached to the punty, which is being
expertly handled by your lovely assistant. Does that make any sense at all? No? Well, I would caution strongly against using these descriptions as any kind of a ‘how-to’ guide. You are likely to end up with third degree burns, little coloured clouds dancing in front of your eyes, and a spiky glass turd…</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvn8WQrkJQiUtDMrnI-hPabcLb5p_tdndRr9_2RC4fwLnL4DJRW-JwzLCy-cn1k7BOiscJJvDLH0pynpWQz5wXsFM7kQuwUE1CSnV58UZcHIV1xKbs-G8UslDI-_lGo3oi__nwLWMj1T4/s1600/DSC_0678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvn8WQrkJQiUtDMrnI-hPabcLb5p_tdndRr9_2RC4fwLnL4DJRW-JwzLCy-cn1k7BOiscJJvDLH0pynpWQz5wXsFM7kQuwUE1CSnV58UZcHIV1xKbs-G8UslDI-_lGo3oi__nwLWMj1T4/s640/DSC_0678.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sayuri attaches the punty to the bottom of the glass vessel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway. I knocked my blown piece off rather neatly, and then
took it back to the glory hole. It was now attached to the punty at the bottom,
leaving the top open. At this stage I had a mini-panic because I didn’t know if
I wanted to make a bowl, a glass or a vase. It’s never a wise idea to start
these things without knowing what you want to end up with. I opted for a vase.
Back at the bench, I widened the globe by inserting jacks and gently letting
them open as the glass turned around them. I messed up a bit by widening too
much. Unless someone starts giving me very short, fat bouquets of flowers, I’m
not sure it’s going to be used as a vase all that often. It’s more of a
slightly wonky bonbon bowl. But, hey, I made it myself, dagnammit! <i>And </i>I used the tweezers to make some
little peaks around the edge, which was almost artistic of me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESVD30eQbs-5I9qbxGFLhOFRTnzXBx3Bw9nMcEIL8711P2H5ZqKurXIwxsBdxljcddU7-6axVnUR9WsG_ZD3jZGYokXG6V5Ad7_c5-lSVL_Uu38mXRRdQrTem6L7jFVCVxjHGYw95Pfo/s1600/DSC_0685.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESVD30eQbs-5I9qbxGFLhOFRTnzXBx3Bw9nMcEIL8711P2H5ZqKurXIwxsBdxljcddU7-6axVnUR9WsG_ZD3jZGYokXG6V5Ad7_c5-lSVL_Uu38mXRRdQrTem6L7jFVCVxjHGYw95Pfo/s640/DSC_0685.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stop Jojo, that's wide enough!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Carol made a lovely vase for a single bloom. Nick’s piece
needed a small rescue, as he bashed his rod a little too sharply when
separating it from the blow iron, causing the edge to shatter. This led to a
perfect demonstration of the wonder of glass: with a little heat, mistakes can
be remedied, and he ended up with a very stylish bowl.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdJ70y86Guvq8uyovRJ_lC0Ey0EwVSHud9bHez9Bsfs6J7dWSHdKY5vCGe43KCk2ydKZKvBWkMyeKd9XpJA91pN5hgtwZbTFCoSqkF2baXiNI707zXBG0EWH9t6VGJwVzf1PETwRBa-c/s1600/DSC_0720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPdJ70y86Guvq8uyovRJ_lC0Ey0EwVSHud9bHez9Bsfs6J7dWSHdKY5vCGe43KCk2ydKZKvBWkMyeKd9XpJA91pN5hgtwZbTFCoSqkF2baXiNI707zXBG0EWH9t6VGJwVzf1PETwRBa-c/s640/DSC_0720.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sayuri, Adam, Me, Nick and Carol.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, just like that, it was over. I was hot, and starving,
but I honestly could have stayed in that workshop all day, watching Adam create
amazing things, and practicing my simple techniques. I felt like I wanted to
play and to experiment, and to make glass hearts for everyone I love in this
world. That’s £195 more than well spent, I should say. Worth every penny.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUtmQsYGzAWh7SvUfI7WGP-INwT7xvPqEJsxkbSGkPukuyzTPDpSivOBpbOMI3vNUtQEhXLsL1iaoZF5VU856PNq9z02etrGmui2QwEIf7QezOChHwV7vuBIktNohZ3C-7K2RWRTWGUQ/s1600/Vase.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyUtmQsYGzAWh7SvUfI7WGP-INwT7xvPqEJsxkbSGkPukuyzTPDpSivOBpbOMI3vNUtQEhXLsL1iaoZF5VU856PNq9z02etrGmui2QwEIf7QezOChHwV7vuBIktNohZ3C-7K2RWRTWGUQ/s400/Vase.JPG" width="396" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The vase. Bowl. Thingy.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spoke to Adam after the course, as he sneaked in a
well-deserved sandwich outside the heat of the studio. <i>“The more I learn about glass”</i> he said, <i>“the more I realise how little I know. The possibilities seem almost
infinite.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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About once a year, I get an artistic itch. I gather together
some materials; paints, beads, moulding clay etc. and I start to create. Two or
three hours later, I remember that I’m not an artist. I throw away whatever
monstrosity I have ended up with, and pack away the toys. Well, I’m still not
an artist, but somehow I feel like hot glass and I could get along. I think it’s
because, even though it ends up cold and rigid, I know its secret: There is
magic and movement in that glass. It, like me, loves to dance.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7GYs68vAyeKZlqwP1SBgRyGRBivQH3mLQudeDdqSNK0BoR_fnQbOXk_mptawSS8X_Oa8YiTyJ1cHMcHc1uJOWLBkbNKWZNxpAaRJ85y_d7vA6Zrjizo8uXk6-l7a3Qc9kFZntJc1Qkc/s1600/Group+glass+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7GYs68vAyeKZlqwP1SBgRyGRBivQH3mLQudeDdqSNK0BoR_fnQbOXk_mptawSS8X_Oa8YiTyJ1cHMcHc1uJOWLBkbNKWZNxpAaRJ85y_d7vA6Zrjizo8uXk6-l7a3Qc9kFZntJc1Qkc/s640/Group+glass+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<o:p> Twenty-two down, eight to go...</o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-58025204053091996582013-03-04T13:58:00.000-08:002013-03-05T07:05:30.191-08:00Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot: The Bikram Yoga Challenge<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qJdfxaYPVU7zGxnxQgNl0TlA__-JcV8skADUmC_szgcqulFLBapASzTSJQhNnIZruoO6jvObNUwpYEOdcfRjcpCiXzWlJUCwl-FZg2d0B-ld_z0rW5RUMQYCbOKZfjzfEdoj-lX1L10/s1600/_MG_7055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qJdfxaYPVU7zGxnxQgNl0TlA__-JcV8skADUmC_szgcqulFLBapASzTSJQhNnIZruoO6jvObNUwpYEOdcfRjcpCiXzWlJUCwl-FZg2d0B-ld_z0rW5RUMQYCbOKZfjzfEdoj-lX1L10/s400/_MG_7055.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ve had a lot of interesting suggestions for this blog,
some always more likely to be marshalled into action than others. Having a go on the <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.com.es/2012/08/hup-hup-and-away.html">flying
trapeze</a>, for example, was a goer. Masturbating a shark probably wasn’t.
Likewise <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.com.es/2012/09/a-stitch-in-time.html" target="_blank">sewing something and wearing it</a> was a yes, but, for some reason, going
blonde was a no. I mean, seriously, with <i>my</i>
eyebrows?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Further down the list were ‘Try <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bikram_Yoga" target="_blank">Bikram Yoga</a>’ - suggested by my lovely friend Gemma - and
‘Become a Morning Person’ - suggested by myself. These two fell, respectively,
into the categories of ‘probably gonna happen’ and ‘no way, José.’ Because if
there is one thing I am not, it is a morning person. These blogs, have, almost
without fail, been written in the depths of night, when my brain seems to
function relatively effectively. In the
mornings, I put grapefruit juice in my coffee instead of milk. OK, that wasn’t
actually me; it was my mum. Morning-brain must be genetic... <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And yet, this is the story of how I ended up going to Bikram
yoga thirteen days in a row, and how nine of those sessions occurred at the
ungodly hour of 7am.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlvFaGfaEkkG6ZlMauOC4w9Hr02G4t7XbZ-evhWCaXLeG__rdwEAys9cJ6XXmTqZJJZ6_9TCdyDv6a-fAGDM3rFPEhegEzqKHb57TRZebBveLv0mURXg8WrE01zxCbQeB3YFDuYGK7T4/s1600/url.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlvFaGfaEkkG6ZlMauOC4w9Hr02G4t7XbZ-evhWCaXLeG__rdwEAys9cJ6XXmTqZJJZ6_9TCdyDv6a-fAGDM3rFPEhegEzqKHb57TRZebBveLv0mURXg8WrE01zxCbQeB3YFDuYGK7T4/s640/url.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">The Bikram Yoga postures. One of them is called ‘Awkward Pose’. It is aptly named.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My first class at <a href="http://www.bikramyoga.co.uk/studio_north.html" target="_blank">Bikram North</a> in Kentish Town –
accompanied by the wonderful Julia (of <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.com.es/2012/10/run-forrest-run.html" target="_blank">running</a>, trapeze and <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.com.es/2012/06/trying-on-westuits-at-cycle-surgery.html" target="_blank">triathlon</a> fame) - I
didn’t know what had hit me. I have never, in all my life, sweated like that.
Not to gross you out or anything, but by the end the towel I had been standing
on looked like it had been dropped into a swimming pool, and I had to peel off
my clothes. Here’s how many things I had to drink afterwards, to feel like I
was anywhere near recovering the lost liquid:</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoBQhQIlNojM_u9nu0CoY1fRZEgPpOsfbPmxH2GYnZRYPfK_wsg_H2oO80tQ1aeALRAapA6KYG5S96Pl-k5ScYa3cdDF6FLCSmYbP9SKRRWx696HeLUVrdpodQAqr2qV6y2GWBUO2pHQ/s1600/photo+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPoBQhQIlNojM_u9nu0CoY1fRZEgPpOsfbPmxH2GYnZRYPfK_wsg_H2oO80tQ1aeALRAapA6KYG5S96Pl-k5ScYa3cdDF6FLCSmYbP9SKRRWx696HeLUVrdpodQAqr2qV6y2GWBUO2pHQ/s400/photo+5.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Bikram Yoga is a pretty extreme activity, in my book. Each
practice lasts 90 minutes, takes place in a studio heated to <span style="background-color: white;">40.6°C/105°F</span>, and comprises 26 postures,
two breathing exercises and a whole lot of Savasana. Savasana is ‘dead body
pose’, and is basically where you lie on your back and think that maybe death
isn’t such an unappealing option.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-ylIAMFcWti8XycirQ9fIKbcnLZ6b2tMysFTIt6wVqZmIrvwJTueyzRVsv5Souxmi2mdPnBtk3HTSKrn3m02Updl7FjG62C8hnLsBkl9zfMQbkJNmBpl3rLymwKrNJM2mESOjpYlv98/s1600/_MG_6985.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-ylIAMFcWti8XycirQ9fIKbcnLZ6b2tMysFTIt6wVqZmIrvwJTueyzRVsv5Souxmi2mdPnBtk3HTSKrn3m02Updl7FjG62C8hnLsBkl9zfMQbkJNmBpl3rLymwKrNJM2mESOjpYlv98/s640/_MG_6985.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Savasana. I'm really good at this one. © Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Here is a small selection of the phrases you are almost
guaranteed to hear in any Bikram session:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Don’t worry, your
back is supposed to hurt.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Don’t worry, your
elbows are supposed to hurt.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Don’t be scared.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Feel a tremendous
stretching almost pain sensation from bones to skin, coccyx to toes.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Have a mini heart
attack now, to prevent one later.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“From the side you
should look like a Japanese ham sandwich.” (???)<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Experience that
choking sensation.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Push, push, PUSH.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“Use the sweat.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During that first class, I was woefully incapable of
lifting, holding, flexing, pushing or bending to any respectable level. I was
completely inflexible, and felt decidedly flabby. I definitely didn’t look like
a Japanese ham sandwich, whatever one of those is. One of the problems with
Bikram, especially for a beginner, is that it tends to create devotees.
Devotees, by virtue of doing a lot of Bikram, are extraordinarily bendy, strong
and toned. I’ve attended 24 sessions in total now, and none included any less
than 70<span style="background: white; color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">%</span> gods and
goddesses. Being a mere mortal, this is a little intimidating.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, for the rest of that first afternoon I felt pretty
great. A bit tired, perhaps, but sort of like I’d had a deep clean with an
electric carpet shampooer. In a good way. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2Z8FwFi3digNjHoOTs2L1IIGJw5pmT9B9l17DKLmL9XjOSNGW47718_w82dm0-egM2qtbOprr3NyizF2mYbRB0q0DrFkh9MKu4xpe0tX85kVpr8pTiBgkFfoBc2CnT9olMO8sJFqwJc/s1600/photo+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT2Z8FwFi3digNjHoOTs2L1IIGJw5pmT9B9l17DKLmL9XjOSNGW47718_w82dm0-egM2qtbOprr3NyizF2mYbRB0q0DrFkh9MKu4xpe0tX85kVpr8pTiBgkFfoBc2CnT9olMO8sJFqwJc/s640/photo+2.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In shock, right after my first class.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day being a Sunday, I thought I might have another
go. I dug out my only other pair of shorts and, <i>gasp</i>, a CROP TOP. I hadn’t worn a crop top since I was about
fourteen, when it was the height of fashion. OK, it wasn’t the <i>height</i> of fashion. In fact, given that <i>I</i> wore quite a lot of crop tops, it probably
wasn’t fashionable at all. But one bought them in multiple colours from Top
Shop and I thought I looked snazzy. Anyway</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crop-topped and shortsed, I returned to the studio, without
my wing woman, and took up a nice safe spot at the back. I wasn’t any bendier,
I couldn’t lift any higher, but at least this time I wasn’t so utterly shocked
by the heat. I slipped and sweated and shook and wobbled my way through another
90 minutes and, once again, felt thirsty but happy. I bought myself an
introductory offer and, for the next four weeks, went every Saturday and
Sunday. Apart from that Sunday when I was busy <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.com.es/2013/02/the-full-monty-getting-naked-in-name-of.html" target="_blank">getting naked</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
One day, I arrived a little late for class and the only free
spot was at the front of the room, right next to the mirror. I wasn’t pleased.
Flabby mortals don’t belong up the front with the deities. But, actually, it was
a revelation. Looking into my own eyes during difficult poses helped me correct
errors, test my resolve, cheer myself silently on, and ignore what everyone
else was doing. From then on, I always
tried to be as near to the mirror as possible. I started to let go of my
concern for how I measured up to the people either side of me. Such comparisons
only made me dissatisfied, and didn’t help me do any better. I started
competing with myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOWTasNAh55Zs8XACW9ktiTxiL0veKd8EpVgqG35uc10Irv9DuwHMBxB7SmQ6eAnU0WTAjn7df4GaYNKInehO-qT9zifeG1LytixebyEBmIw07Z7fSKpDnmvUQ92d1oEbp5FElqSGz02k/s1600/_MG_6853.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOWTasNAh55Zs8XACW9ktiTxiL0veKd8EpVgqG35uc10Irv9DuwHMBxB7SmQ6eAnU0WTAjn7df4GaYNKInehO-qT9zifeG1LytixebyEBmIw07Z7fSKpDnmvUQ92d1oEbp5FElqSGz02k/s640/_MG_6853.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My ability to do even this much of this pose tells me that I'm getting better. Standing head to knee. Without the head to knee bit. Yet.<br />
© Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I liked the Bikram studio in Kentish Town, but when the intro
offer ran out I had to think very carefully about whether I wanted to continue.
Bikram yoga is not cheap. This is understandable given the rent that one must
pay on a space of that size, and the huge amounts of energy required to heat
the studio, but understanding why it’s expensive isn’t the same as actually
shelling out the cash. I was enjoying myself, and starting to feel some
benefits, but was I feeling <i>enough</i> to
warrant the cost?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WfPHlNQSCj_AEnKFWhBX1C5o0pOxKs3jXJC9g9e3y5_vFQi1635nIW7EciYiazOoAkYgqI5pWO8xgeS9F4ZztIs0Lt3_CogOc0dWDnaNyvZFXTsSC3X4iP-S7CVZBliTm83_ao2i26g/s1600/_MG_7066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_WfPHlNQSCj_AEnKFWhBX1C5o0pOxKs3jXJC9g9e3y5_vFQi1635nIW7EciYiazOoAkYgqI5pWO8xgeS9F4ZztIs0Lt3_CogOc0dWDnaNyvZFXTsSC3X4iP-S7CVZBliTm83_ao2i26g/s400/_MG_7066.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Then my friend <a href="http://robinbayley.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Robin</a> told me that he was about to start work
in a brand new Bikram studio, <a href="http://www.bikramhighburyandislington.com/" target="_blank">Bikram Highbury & Islington</a>. They also had an
intro offer that was extremely reasonable, and I decided to sign up and give
myself more time to decide if I was going to become a devotee or not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtZ5-Ecjcb19a4lT5YKwuTn0Gzy5CAauu3rWAxYD7cpyMRLpArArh-_1_PSb-xpGz_RzCcX7Blyc2L1qEr0uz_v3cXPuzZszl3Hhhw6i8xWdZw0-rqoc02qM1N6_i-46QEwanigdssQE/s1600/_MG_6936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtZ5-Ecjcb19a4lT5YKwuTn0Gzy5CAauu3rWAxYD7cpyMRLpArArh-_1_PSb-xpGz_RzCcX7Blyc2L1qEr0uz_v3cXPuzZszl3Hhhw6i8xWdZw0-rqoc02qM1N6_i-46QEwanigdssQE/s400/_MG_6936.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Triangle pose. © Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t love my first class at the new place. It was
packed, I couldn’t see the mirror, and I accidentally positioned myself directly
under one of the air vents, which was like standing in a desert wind. If I
hadn’t already bought my package, I might never have gone back. But I’d paid my
money, and I am nothing if not bloody-minded. On Sunday, I arrived early enough
to choose my space more carefully. Better, though still busy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday night came around, and I assessed my options. Weekday
Bikram practice, which was bound to be quieter, was available at 7am (yuk, no thanks) or at 12. The problem
with 12 - even though I recently quit my job and have weekdays free for a bit -
is that it cuts a swathe through the day. I didn’t like the idea of not being
able to fully use the morning or the afternoon. So I asked myself, seriously,
if I might not just <i>try</i> the 7am. Just
try it. I packed my bag (two towels, clean underwear, various
toiletries), put a bottle of water in the fridge, put my crop top and shorts
(by now I had even purchased a <i>special</i>
crop top and shorts) by the bed, and set my alarm for 6.30am, Monday morning,
with the full expectation that I would hit snooze until it was too late, and
then fall back to sleep.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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The last six months or so of my job were hell. Day after day
I would respond to the alarm with profound despair, until it became normal to
be unable to drag myself up before 8.30am. I was sluggish and slow and
completely lacking in energy. I’d convinced myself, with the help of a pretty
unpleasant boss, that I was lazy and useless. So when the alarm went off at
6.30 and I ACTUALLY GOT UP, I was pretty impressed. Screw you, Mr Burns.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjan82fIN6oa1v-BrkQFnWAaYbfb_2Rnk9T9ddLv-5SMfbbE0Z5Ej8_y2yptNnv2oXzngX4F9k_EqwZjU-CUTajo7jg-xkF7o6Sk0_daFLWUzK0l8ovj-W3ghczY_5GwlKlAfh6xW-yhU/s1600/imgres.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjan82fIN6oa1v-BrkQFnWAaYbfb_2Rnk9T9ddLv-5SMfbbE0Z5Ej8_y2yptNnv2oXzngX4F9k_EqwZjU-CUTajo7jg-xkF7o6Sk0_daFLWUzK0l8ovj-W3ghczY_5GwlKlAfh6xW-yhU/s1600/imgres.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr Burns should try 'Wind Removing Pose'.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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About fifteen minutes into my 7am Bikram practice I was
asking myself what the hell I thought I was doing. It was still dark outside,
for pete’s sake! It was dark outside, and I was hot and sweaty and thirsty and
a bit faint and in a lot of pain. Was I insane? Who did I think I was, trying
to be all virtuous and exercise-y? Why the hell did I want to look like a
Japanese ham sandwich anyway??<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcZv_OHtgXJhlLV1cFwjWmFusXr_6dHV8RkFkN3ZOPpxiv3DmiH1mK7tbKGBrcvG769S58Gv7WJpK51ZIzirsyGbPDAQoGpJ6CbUPKIPq2H4VIydeHt3sl6OMLyt6KDYIwmygoXWZ5Gw/s1600/_MG_6954.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcZv_OHtgXJhlLV1cFwjWmFusXr_6dHV8RkFkN3ZOPpxiv3DmiH1mK7tbKGBrcvG769S58Gv7WJpK51ZIzirsyGbPDAQoGpJ6CbUPKIPq2H4VIydeHt3sl6OMLyt6KDYIwmygoXWZ5Gw/s640/_MG_6954.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feel that choking sensation... © Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But come 8pm Monday evening, I had forgotten the pain and my
cursor was hovering over ‘Reserve: Tuesday, 7am’, on the online timetable. Come
Tuesday 6.45am, I was cycling through the mist towards the studio. Same
Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Same Monday – Thursday the following week.
During that whole stretch, I didn’t miss a single day. Thirteen classes in a
row, most of them in the morning. I never, not once, lingered in bed. I won’t
say I ‘sprang’ out, because that would be a lie. But I did get up, time-after-time,
never doubting my desire to be there as the class started, and to make it right
to the end. The first day I <i>didn’t</i> go
to Bikram, thanks to a prior commitment that involved catching an early train,
I felt pretty grumpy. Bikram had worked its way into my system, and I was high
on the high, the sweat, and the stretch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7WaDikhfFA7zJa6dYbJ6z0AZD2akLmwbQLajYWHLIlKEVpEf5sZn3wDf07gZW0j7P6cFNtIasP8XmoX42KmNwcgohyphenhyphenB-gO1S35Vv6qj9s5YZ8gjCkOMAIT7e500jOfVoidlknQy8yLSI/s1600/_MG_7015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7WaDikhfFA7zJa6dYbJ6z0AZD2akLmwbQLajYWHLIlKEVpEf5sZn3wDf07gZW0j7P6cFNtIasP8XmoX42KmNwcgohyphenhyphenB-gO1S35Vv6qj9s5YZ8gjCkOMAIT7e500jOfVoidlknQy8yLSI/s640/_MG_7015.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">For some reason this picture really makes me giggle. I look like a tortoise who can't flip over. © Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It was Julia who pointed out that I had completed two
challenges in one, effectively becoming a morning person thanks to the yoga. I
never thought I’d find the motivation to rise early, and I certainly never
thought I’d enjoy it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYYRBt36CcoCmt5IdI7c5_pssPee5KSmfwmoLtXuqoWxyosv5PmOgMr9e1FzkOhItiPCdx89NID0OCPDuVEBDynRb2ui4NVB1pnfIZYV9vquT941HQu0XmwMe3T9TL3dW_HMjjr5RhJ0/s1600/_MG_6872.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZYYRBt36CcoCmt5IdI7c5_pssPee5KSmfwmoLtXuqoWxyosv5PmOgMr9e1FzkOhItiPCdx89NID0OCPDuVEBDynRb2ui4NVB1pnfIZYV9vquT941HQu0XmwMe3T9TL3dW_HMjjr5RhJ0/s640/_MG_6872.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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As I write this, I’m asking myself how this happened. It’s
not <i>all</i> down to the Bikram; much of
this newfound energy comes from having left a job that I hated. But without the
Bikram I would never have tested myself, physically and mentally, in the way I
have. I have learnt so much from the classes. To be decisive. To be still. To
be patient. I find the ‘moving meditation’ element as profound and powerful as
the exercise. The proximity of the studio to my house certainly helps, as does its quality.
Its wall of windows provides bountiful natural light, the staff are friendly
and helpful (except Robin, he’s rubbish), and the energy of the whole place
feels encouraging and inclusive. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Not everyone loves Bikram. I’ve read a good few blogs where
people comment that it’s boring (same poses, in the same order, every time),
that it’s too competitive, or that the teachers are mean. I’ve had about
twelve different teachers now, and I can honestly say that not one single one
has been mean. Some are stricter and scarier than others, but my experience has
been that all of them are passionate about helping students get the most out of
practice. As for the boring and competitive elements, well, that’s all in your
own head, I think. To me, the repetition aids the meditation. And I’ve already
covered the competition; I decided to compete with myself. What anyone else
does is up to them.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmeVRKvKiSP-0DZYnXilIdYCGKKiNhwCkZ_dG6Cz_kCKqKJi-fClMmg6smswlN7xGMMBRjVByHHJnTFbLxG5xAIFwiC4-MyXzCsGmGJtlsZsKWbTcAPrkEnPe65nUbSIzm5XvAScQNzI/s1600/_MG_6976.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTmeVRKvKiSP-0DZYnXilIdYCGKKiNhwCkZ_dG6Cz_kCKqKJi-fClMmg6smswlN7xGMMBRjVByHHJnTFbLxG5xAIFwiC4-MyXzCsGmGJtlsZsKWbTcAPrkEnPe65nUbSIzm5XvAScQNzI/s400/_MG_6976.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One day I will lift my hands. One day. © Carl Gray</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m away now, in Spain visiting mum for a bit, and I confess
that I’m missing the sweat. I know for certain that when I go back to the UK
I’ll be buying myself proper membership of Bikram Highbury & Islington. I
might not go <i>every</i> morning, but I’ll go regularly; for the discipline, for the
meditation, for the stretch and bend and lift. And I hope that whilst I may
never be a goddess, I may one day be a sandwich. Namaste.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_m8Acsv-NbQH2bgbn3iNa51zmFoA4YPLbD9UtW7eXoWBKXNFPSkHkjCYR5b__8hwx4ID3LAY3RH9-TQYRSX1kpIiXyLOWpYzeY09XPsDSn0tbIdKVKf2BA2jwA8ybyA7cT3CnhPFlwE/s1600/_MG_6974.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4_m8Acsv-NbQH2bgbn3iNa51zmFoA4YPLbD9UtW7eXoWBKXNFPSkHkjCYR5b__8hwx4ID3LAY3RH9-TQYRSX1kpIiXyLOWpYzeY09XPsDSn0tbIdKVKf2BA2jwA8ybyA7cT3CnhPFlwE/s320/_MG_6974.jpg" width="260" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMYqL_e3DMowH7kP3-Y8FwrS_14sUmthQM5tCRQ4XVjjw0qrs5ICHAeTiT1ci2jtbXMkeaNvF93gCAh1T9rwZOh7FQog1qZ1aPv56OSmd4JHBrFRoAWGVsKcnYJSPlwl-Z2xGmbYW_Ic/s1600/photo+3+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRMYqL_e3DMowH7kP3-Y8FwrS_14sUmthQM5tCRQ4XVjjw0qrs5ICHAeTiT1ci2jtbXMkeaNvF93gCAh1T9rwZOh7FQog1qZ1aPv56OSmd4JHBrFRoAWGVsKcnYJSPlwl-Z2xGmbYW_Ic/s320/photo+3+(1).jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>Twenty-one down, nine to go…</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">P.S. The fabulous Bikram photographs are by Carl Gray, of <a href="http://www.coolgray.co.uk/" target="_blank">Cool Gray Design</a>, and were taken at Bikram Highbury & Islington. Thanks Carl!!</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">P.P.S. I have resisted the temptation to Google 'Japanese ham sandwich'. The not knowing allows for all sorts of wild imaginings.</span></div>
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<o:p> </o:p> </div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-17952986825985599092013-02-11T05:32:00.000-08:002013-02-11T06:04:49.107-08:00The Full Monty: Getting Naked in the Name of Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRKMs9zHyONv58GQe7YivuDVBK3yV7z28zNsMOWe2DtBLr3LV0nDFz3Nt-TqV6huYQvtDMtYa6PEiMFClAiclQCinDb1I3uPThvk1sjQwVZknKEXLLem9d5OF1_Qv0ShnJUPBeVceXiuA/s1600/062.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRKMs9zHyONv58GQe7YivuDVBK3yV7z28zNsMOWe2DtBLr3LV0nDFz3Nt-TqV6huYQvtDMtYa6PEiMFClAiclQCinDb1I3uPThvk1sjQwVZknKEXLLem9d5OF1_Qv0ShnJUPBeVceXiuA/s400/062.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Lisha Rooney</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When I first came up with the idea for this year of challenges, I knew that getting naked had to feature somewhere. I seriously considered streaking, but decided against adding 'be arrested' to my list of new experiences. Instead, I offered myself up as a nude model for a couple of life drawing classes. Alas, it transpires that you can't just wander into a studio and get your kit off. First of all, they want you to sign up to the <a href="http://www.modelreg.co.uk/index.php" target="_blank">Register of Artists' Models</a>, which costs money. Then they want you to audition. Audition?! I think very much not. Forget it. No way I was getting naked to see if they wanted me to get naked. What if they DIDN'T want me to get naked??? That was the end of that idea.<br />
<br />
Then 2013 dawned, and with it the last four-odd months of challenge time. I thought long and hard about what I hadn't yet done that I really wanted to do, and posing nude was top of the list. Gazing across the fully-dressed landscape of my comfort zone, I saw the tantalising shores of butt-nakedness looking peachy-keen. If no life drawing classes wanted me, I would just have to set up my own. So, without thinking about it too much, that's what I did.<br />
<br />
I booked a studio at the <a href="http://islingtonartsfactory.org/" target="_blank">Islington Arts Factory</a>, emailed their resident tutor, Eamon Kennedy, and set about recruiting some artists. I'm lucky enough to have a lot of very creative friends, and I put out a facebook and email call for anyone who fancied drawing. I asked the people who said 'yes' to bring along others if possible, so that I wouldn't be naked in a room entirely peopled by my friends - somehow that seemed more intimidating that a room full of strangers. In the end I had about twelve people on the list, and Eamon had kindly agreed to come and lead the session, which was a huge relief. I was anxious that the artists should get something out of the experience, and that seemed far more likely with a professional in the room. I (correctly) predicted that I would be far too nervous to do much in the way of organisation on the day, and we didn't want a naked amateur fussing about like a clothes-less chicken.<br />
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Over the next three weeks I did my very best not to think too hard about the impending doom. It had <i>seemed</i> like such a very good idea, but was I really going to do it? Take ALL my clothes off in a room full of people? Most evenings, when I undressed for bed, I had a go at posing in front of the mirror. Mere seconds was all it took for absolute mortification to set in. Then it got worse. I was talking to a couple of friends about it, and the subject of "grooming" came up. Whole new can of worms. They were both bare down there. Help! Is this normal? Don't answer that. Let's just say that there are limits to the things I am prepared to undergo in the name of art.<br />
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The night before was probably the worst. I had intended an early night but instead stayed awake until gone one in the morning, in a sort of reverse of the old Christmas adage that the sooner you go to bed, the sooner Santa will arrive. Let's face it though, not even Mrs Claus wants to see Santa naked.<br />
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The day dawned. I performed a final buff and polish during my morning ablutions, and got dressed without underwear to avoid unsightly marks. A professional in the making, I'm sure you'll agree. When there were no more excuses for staying at home, I shuffled through the rain to the Arts Factory, a former church. There, I was shown to a worryingly cold studio. WORRYINGLY COLD. And worryingly empty of anyone except me. My worst nightmare was about to come true. No one wanted to see me naked. Not even the professional life drawing teacher wanted to see me naked. Oh god. Is it because I'm not bare down there? I was about to get undressed in front of twelve empty easels, and sit there like a sad, naked lemon.</div>
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Then my cousin Daianna arrived. Crap. People <i>did</i> want to see me naked. Damnation.</div>
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In the end, six wonderful people showed up. The other six fell victim to the vagaries of bad backs, sickness, and kidnapping (well, sort of.) Or maybe they just didn't want to brave the rain for the dubious privilege of sketching my - admittedly perky - bosoms. Fair enough.</div>
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I knew five of the artists personally, and am immensely grateful to them for their support. Special thanks goes to Trish though, for being the token stranger in the room. Fortunately, Eamon also turned up, and was absolutely fantastic. Not only was he token stranger number two, he was also (not by design) the only man present. I must just take a second to say that he teaches a regular <a href="http://www.meetup.com/Life-Drawing-Drop-in-Workshop-Islington-Arts-Factory/members/9415480/" target="_blank">Wednesday evening class</a> at the Islington Arts Factory and that you should all go to it if you can.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfQ6HA-cGJYQFWIb0nTgIrgOI758DMwpKxOukYOtlTDqU48uOL1J9QvVk_lxNSp_dJIrzL5wK0BbkqSvoYNfcs3ZzS26qGtjLHXkAmekwXk4B2J1bnDGtwX5zXblYUF20oVHo9br80-M/s1600/010.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfQ6HA-cGJYQFWIb0nTgIrgOI758DMwpKxOukYOtlTDqU48uOL1J9QvVk_lxNSp_dJIrzL5wK0BbkqSvoYNfcs3ZzS26qGtjLHXkAmekwXk4B2J1bnDGtwX5zXblYUF20oVHo9br80-M/s400/010.jpeg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
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Eamon - a professional and very successful life model as well as a teacher - put a lot of effort into explaining the subtleties of posing nude. This was wonderful because as long as he was talking, I still had my clothes on. He is passionate about figurative drawing and inspired us all with his enthusiasm. I was more than a little tempted to suggest that I stay on the papery side of the easel and he do the posing. The papery side of the easel looked super cozy, and significantly warmer than the plinth. If you take a look at the picture to the left, you will notice a heat lamp on the wall. You will also notice, thanks to the distinct lack of red glowy bits, that said lamp is not on. We couldn't make it go on at all. No amount of switch flicking would encourage it. Until the end of the session, when I was dressed again. Then it came on with a vengeance. Perverse bastard of a heat lamp. Excuse my French.<br />
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Right. I can't drag this out much longer. I'm going to have to get to the bit where I took my clothes off. I went behind a curtain and took my clothes off. I put a dressing gown on. I emerged. Look, here I am in my dressing gown:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHqFqF4VAkiDL3m03rdmpg3FMkUN1MJndlIEyzvo5_nWInWBUQaHch3ksKHl8FUyranV9Qh-lUMAu3fTVqkKg9-z7Ah2gn5Wp3BItqyCMEldwAGXSayMTl_UrclzNrwC_UuRq-WbRLT0o/s1600/photo+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHqFqF4VAkiDL3m03rdmpg3FMkUN1MJndlIEyzvo5_nWInWBUQaHch3ksKHl8FUyranV9Qh-lUMAu3fTVqkKg9-z7Ah2gn5Wp3BItqyCMEldwAGXSayMTl_UrclzNrwC_UuRq-WbRLT0o/s400/photo+3.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Daianna Karaian</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIXLHh8hJ0UxOWpLt-v63r6MchGywybO2nz_cLN3P20m7E8M2WcoqkaZoGXX6tSqkWTFd3aqr5g7oFdiavRzrCKWT0AxlRNgRGGtI_GI9CbNe-Lw3cKhsgTEx1vDSILAP_rcB60RYqUY/s1600/020.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIXLHh8hJ0UxOWpLt-v63r6MchGywybO2nz_cLN3P20m7E8M2WcoqkaZoGXX6tSqkWTFd3aqr5g7oFdiavRzrCKWT0AxlRNgRGGtI_GI9CbNe-Lw3cKhsgTEx1vDSILAP_rcB60RYqUY/s400/020.jpeg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Lisha Rooney</td></tr>
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Then the moment came when I absolutely had to get properly naked. Look, here I am properly na...<br />
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Yeah right! You didn't think I was going to commit my wobbly bits to a photograph, did you? And then publish it on this blog? Just think what would happen when I became a famous novelist. People would stop focusing on the writing amidst the furore caused by the discovery that I had once featured in some mild artistic erotica. No siree.</div>
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So, the big moment. I was standing on the plinth, in my dressing gown, in a freezing room, pretty damn nervous. My friend Davina piped up with a well-timed "don't worry, we've all got them." "What, these?" I replied, shedding my robe in one swift movement. That was it. I was nude. I assumed a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contrapposto" target="_blank">contrapposto</a> and did everything I could not to burst out in fits of uncontrollable giggles.</div>
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I did two, two minute standing poses. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgl9JrpSyeunCtB5ZWOCt5xtzZwzak734v4INMTCX_kPHiFne1MgISO01J6kNuA3RkF3xEyAfj1cRh-J0HrMG2La204P2fA8uqyv_1rJ-hetk4uQuJqVb6ZmLEZebQbMoHU521p2PTLs/s1600/037.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLgl9JrpSyeunCtB5ZWOCt5xtzZwzak734v4INMTCX_kPHiFne1MgISO01J6kNuA3RkF3xEyAfj1cRh-J0HrMG2La204P2fA8uqyv_1rJ-hetk4uQuJqVb6ZmLEZebQbMoHU521p2PTLs/s400/037.jpeg" width="245" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing by Trish Turk, photo by Lisha Rooney</td></tr>
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Then a twenty minute sitting pose that helped me learn the true meaning of pins and needles. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bglMW6Eaz3Nv9yQZkQXY4DZw0u4h2i5VYHSztjphJz3RqBLBF5d5dDi-9mS32gfp_Btr954Dfo4JsfwA0Pa-OUwnWnObBhCtVE_N4dM9YUiRdTmr4fngkQo9l376WESBdxBI9it0YFI/s1600/038.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_bglMW6Eaz3Nv9yQZkQXY4DZw0u4h2i5VYHSztjphJz3RqBLBF5d5dDi-9mS32gfp_Btr954Dfo4JsfwA0Pa-OUwnWnObBhCtVE_N4dM9YUiRdTmr4fngkQo9l376WESBdxBI9it0YFI/s400/038.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing by Davina Glen, photo by Lisha Rooney</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmYcyVqJzqai_KOhikzFv_vLtZIwqv6jpkDO6DRQieXAacv2NSsg3w1i0k5Kf7z3c8eqDUnq4oM_sciAKzOx692tBSIpuO2UZFRIImwlgye2kDARyzobeCmBtZFzP2HaPTUv4gPS5ERw/s1600/036.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQmYcyVqJzqai_KOhikzFv_vLtZIwqv6jpkDO6DRQieXAacv2NSsg3w1i0k5Kf7z3c8eqDUnq4oM_sciAKzOx692tBSIpuO2UZFRIImwlgye2kDARyzobeCmBtZFzP2HaPTUv4gPS5ERw/s320/036.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing by Daianna Karaian, photo by Lisha Rooney</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfkShbdVWONaM2x617NJMQZxRMVQnXBV8VN6b2Y64Ew72TRvRH6fCkfHwThb6hzgHXt-F0L2k_58YP2BPk3YC0duynias9mVQAileXlwvpPsh0ZPOAEOrR3ZtOk2AmruoOE-LvpJg2e8/s1600/039.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrfkShbdVWONaM2x617NJMQZxRMVQnXBV8VN6b2Y64Ew72TRvRH6fCkfHwThb6hzgHXt-F0L2k_58YP2BPk3YC0duynias9mVQAileXlwvpPsh0ZPOAEOrR3ZtOk2AmruoOE-LvpJg2e8/s640/039.jpeg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LucyMortonArtist?fref=ts" target="_blank">Lucy Morton</a>, photo by Lisha Rooney</td></tr>
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Then another twenty minute lying down pose. Not, I think, the most elegant moment of my nude modelling career.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O-H0Pnc00J78IkVN5x1hZ2-HKdaTH6GF-RechurOJM4hA4ogUbkVW2z6DY6uIPRBcG6xYUXhgpKdcM9oX1tY8EJhn4VI5fUeTRXzPBfgBZfSs9wrhVxvKvLZn8FyCAGo4PJbdtM3Vzw/s1600/060.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7O-H0Pnc00J78IkVN5x1hZ2-HKdaTH6GF-RechurOJM4hA4ogUbkVW2z6DY6uIPRBcG6xYUXhgpKdcM9oX1tY8EJhn4VI5fUeTRXzPBfgBZfSs9wrhVxvKvLZn8FyCAGo4PJbdtM3Vzw/s400/060.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LucyMortonArtist" target="_blank">Lucy Morton</a>. Photo by Lisha Rooney.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklRMOScWLJMjZI5p4GHzWmkpOMz32zknunrC_Ko-OEXoQVUmdYUynwCbDPZM8FwC3hRV6rRSaI3TL0Z7S88VR3lv9Fo6oMz8Htjb2X3tMNNEmEHp3D4g5uq69hLZ15EpElQ0uFt-RpJY/s1600/046.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjklRMOScWLJMjZI5p4GHzWmkpOMz32zknunrC_Ko-OEXoQVUmdYUynwCbDPZM8FwC3hRV6rRSaI3TL0Z7S88VR3lv9Fo6oMz8Htjb2X3tMNNEmEHp3D4g5uq69hLZ15EpElQ0uFt-RpJY/s400/046.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trish Turk and Gemma Clunie. Photo by Lisha Rooney.</td></tr>
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Then a ten minute sitting pose. And then they'd had enough of me and made me get dressed again. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0UzrgSTBb4ICvaVMW0Wlsfu8hsSz8bBaltFvgJKlDo34aSE0Trx30GsvH5g-x1gYeEtwA3VesdKT4Eiheif0a60aDITPCm6_EzamhuKgi12h_i0IIyPPvPHsFo2vuZvf-bACvHy0jTs/s1600/088.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0UzrgSTBb4ICvaVMW0Wlsfu8hsSz8bBaltFvgJKlDo34aSE0Trx30GsvH5g-x1gYeEtwA3VesdKT4Eiheif0a60aDITPCm6_EzamhuKgi12h_i0IIyPPvPHsFo2vuZvf-bACvHy0jTs/s640/088.jpeg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing by<a href="https://www.facebook.com/LucyMortonArtist" target="_blank"> Lucy Morton</a>. Photo by Lisha Rooney.</td></tr>
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Aside from the 18 minutes of hell after I realised how painful pose number three was going to be, the time flew. I very swiftly forgot my embarrassment at being naked and became far more aware of the fact that I was seriously cold. I loved listening to the swish of the charcoal on the paper, and to Eamon's gentle narrative of advice and commentary. Strange snippets of song flitted through my mind, as did lines from various poems. At one stage I was just counting to six over and over again. It was a remarkably peaceful process. Almost meditative. There are so few moments in this modern life where total stillness becomes one's sole aim. I felt extremely tired afterwards, but very happy, and so grateful for the support of the seven people who gave up their Sunday morning and braved the rain to come and draw me. Lucy even took her drawings home and worked on them some more. Here's the finished version of the sketch shown above. I think it's beautiful:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn77SJN2X0CkpOvOmTT8vIR4A33_A1x_KdnqJcxVLH9-0fr9RRffYrKk37WibvNdZGeDcIujyUbXq9WlB2Q0PeM2LBTB5ywfqCUthS0JgFcEVZ8JoY2WFP6oSeoaUSKlqLiOWtJLrJOsg/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn77SJN2X0CkpOvOmTT8vIR4A33_A1x_KdnqJcxVLH9-0fr9RRffYrKk37WibvNdZGeDcIujyUbXq9WlB2Q0PeM2LBTB5ywfqCUthS0JgFcEVZ8JoY2WFP6oSeoaUSKlqLiOWtJLrJOsg/s400/photo+(1).JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jojo seated by<a href="https://www.facebook.com/LucyMortonArtist" target="_blank"> Lucy Morton</a><br />
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Here's Lucy's other finished creation, which I think is BEYOND beautiful. I really love this one.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75_I-GlCtMCPNI1vutAUrZoH1uwtYv7WtoGNFJRSQTdeHFl1lqN86mjwMVl1WFJZHTgeZxoZlCgr6YAYk07Qh8ze6jLHUgz_Srx7EfwTQy6dpC2PAaOAYInHLAOv5s-aMdLcFNq2Q_SQ/s1600/V__B4A0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh75_I-GlCtMCPNI1vutAUrZoH1uwtYv7WtoGNFJRSQTdeHFl1lqN86mjwMVl1WFJZHTgeZxoZlCgr6YAYk07Qh8ze6jLHUgz_Srx7EfwTQy6dpC2PAaOAYInHLAOv5s-aMdLcFNq2Q_SQ/s640/V__B4A0.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jojo reclining by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/LucyMortonArtist?fref=ts" target="_blank">Lucy Morton</a>.</td></tr>
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Since Lisha Rooney's photographs of the session are also insanely beautiful and moody, here are a few more of them:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUqwUeQmaBe3lI4pBBXJQYltuBR1unGTVqpXUE8nTKvKTT1e1BXxcEdSFoDQFZqJAui6kUGNGzkr68Eeekd4qr_SEwYazE5JeFQu2hH3NZUwJLxTwRsvBJRMn7odzm3Pe3oz3aTUW2LI/s1600/057.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUqwUeQmaBe3lI4pBBXJQYltuBR1unGTVqpXUE8nTKvKTT1e1BXxcEdSFoDQFZqJAui6kUGNGzkr68Eeekd4qr_SEwYazE5JeFQu2hH3NZUwJLxTwRsvBJRMn7odzm3Pe3oz3aTUW2LI/s640/057.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Davina drawing</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoEQyTOqc0QrDdWmJ_7Ovm6oG585gvwtmfbx1wbWDK5AKA2thkwCK5CQINkjio8Uv_pgzBbdD_ppKdZibzKhu7XSY_x0NJwzXIxCxNLDTfTMtSemdDuZj6y_ttHej3TMhwj8y-SgJWDU/s1600/054.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxoEQyTOqc0QrDdWmJ_7Ovm6oG585gvwtmfbx1wbWDK5AKA2thkwCK5CQINkjio8Uv_pgzBbdD_ppKdZibzKhu7XSY_x0NJwzXIxCxNLDTfTMtSemdDuZj6y_ttHej3TMhwj8y-SgJWDU/s640/054.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daianna drawing</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDsvNcEk3ePAkC-zYUqhc53XocrhsBEaL5wK6RfKmZ2pBMPm987GYaSWldueZPUubu1Zn5yDliO98vTe9f85MxjiQlCE_zIpwJgSzaPi0FfOvxE9zYQTv-IcXy1vt7MFO4Lk6OEtza7A/s1600/049.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijDsvNcEk3ePAkC-zYUqhc53XocrhsBEaL5wK6RfKmZ2pBMPm987GYaSWldueZPUubu1Zn5yDliO98vTe9f85MxjiQlCE_zIpwJgSzaPi0FfOvxE9zYQTv-IcXy1vt7MFO4Lk6OEtza7A/s640/049.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The class</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgx1tM4bVKd7VSKq1tDxqjpCzvCKt0kQnkCj9T8Nyx2GR2oYWj5aLFbh8YvzCUJHWp4IrnHlvuaqy9-R8OvGPajj0D3I9HDOjr7xaf5HhGmk2WaZzwVoR8QXCA5E16Bz1L7zMXV4FLDVM/s1600/058.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgx1tM4bVKd7VSKq1tDxqjpCzvCKt0kQnkCj9T8Nyx2GR2oYWj5aLFbh8YvzCUJHWp4IrnHlvuaqy9-R8OvGPajj0D3I9HDOjr7xaf5HhGmk2WaZzwVoR8QXCA5E16Bz1L7zMXV4FLDVM/s640/058.jpeg" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daianna and Gemma</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWa_FT5Wn9DAS3asQrPoJC6sqprfS1FBHsVKG173h9tk_1dchNbhgPPJJJLHbSt21MGqFTBaMyGEH2NgGaA-B3Zom8AZiWw2ocIjc218kSirPtfoC_6r2BlPxPY277rv3o05xQADq9B0/s1600/072.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwWa_FT5Wn9DAS3asQrPoJC6sqprfS1FBHsVKG173h9tk_1dchNbhgPPJJJLHbSt21MGqFTBaMyGEH2NgGaA-B3Zom8AZiWw2ocIjc218kSirPtfoC_6r2BlPxPY277rv3o05xQADq9B0/s640/072.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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In the end, the idea of public nudity was far more frightening than the act itself. The act itself actually felt very natural. As Eamon said, we have learnt to cover ourselves up, and to be embarrassed by the sight of nudity, but after today I feel that there is something innocent and almost pure in the act of putting your naked self on display. Whilst I don't feel the <i>need</i> to do this again, and wouldn't necessarily seek out the experience, I would certainly pose for someone if they asked me. Maybe not in winter, mind...</div>
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I received enormous encouragement around this task, and I'd like to share a couple of the messages that came through afterwards:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-size: 12.727272033691406px; line-height: 15.454545021057129px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">It's the hang ups people have with themselves, but doing shows you are extremely comfortable with yourself. The person behind the paper is also nervous, but the human body is the best thing for an artist to observe, always has been always will be. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">Doing the sketch class was really fun & loosened me up a bit. And you were an awesome model!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">Just being in that environment today lifted my spirits - the objects, the materials, the smells, the artistry. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">If ever you had/have body issues, lose them now.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">Hope you enjoyed it and felt beautiful. You were.</span></span></div>
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I did feel beautiful. And grateful. And not nearly as far out of my comfort zone as I was expecting to be. So look out next time you're at the rugby/football/international lawn bowls, I might be up for streaking after all.</div>
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Twenty down, ten to go...</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-57804758996018514532013-02-04T17:30:00.002-08:002013-02-06T04:32:05.267-08:00Rhythm is a Dancer: My first (and last) 5 Rhythms class.I've just been to my first rave. A hedonistic orgy of dance; arms flinging, sweat flying, beats thumping. Except there was no booze, no drugs, and a disappointing lack of glow sticks. In fact, I'm starting to suspect that it wasn't a rave at all...<br />
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Here's what happened: I had a really terrible day. At about 6.45pm I was sitting on my sofa in floods of tears, contemplating cheese on toast in front of the telly. Not a particularly grim prospect, all things considered, but also unlikely to cheer me up. Then I remembered that a friend had recently recommended something called '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/5Rhythms" target="_blank">5 Rhythms</a>', a form of moving meditation that might help me through these tricky emotional times. A quick google later and I was in possession of the knowledge that a 5 Rhythms class was due to start at 7.30pm at the Old Finsbury Town hall, in Islington.<br />
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I deliberated. Cheese on toast? Strange unfamiliar dancing thingumy? Once again, Thirty@30 made the decision for me. I grabbed a bottle of water and off I went.<br />
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Here is some pertinent information related to me and dancing:<br />
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<li>I love dancing</li>
<li>I don't need alcohol to dance all night</li>
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I have tried all of the following forms of dance:</div>
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Ballet, jazz, tap, belly dancing, contemporary, African, flamenco, salsa, tango, modern jive and hip hop</div>
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This happens ALL THE TIME:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiyyZlkFpW3aHG4JglgvSN5sxqPftxF3j1Q44Nw0Crzj1lhEKJ4aBldgqhGjruYNRZF_OXhGwXqZyNSl2EiILnlHdlvp0hYGZtEvw01_ZVb7m-VEsCUdHhfVMS_8mWJX4hg1fVOWgtRA/s1600/dance-party-for-one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghiyyZlkFpW3aHG4JglgvSN5sxqPftxF3j1Q44Nw0Crzj1lhEKJ4aBldgqhGjruYNRZF_OXhGwXqZyNSl2EiILnlHdlvp0hYGZtEvw01_ZVb7m-VEsCUdHhfVMS_8mWJX4hg1fVOWgtRA/s400/dance-party-for-one.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Given all this, 5 Rhythms should have been right up my alley. Because although there's clearly a huge philosophy behind it, at its core it's just dancing. Lots of dancing. I should have totally rocked it...</div>
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When I walked into the room a trance-like, rhythmic music was already playing. Four bodies were writhing on the floor in slow motion, and another thirty-odd people were bouncing, twisting and gyrating slowly. One woman was juddering. There's no other word for it. I felt like I'd walked into a scene from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hieronymus_Bosch" target="_blank">Hieronymus Bosch</a>. Now, I actually love his paintings, but I wan't expecting to find myself in one.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A detail from 'Hell' by Hieronymous Bosch.</td></tr>
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So this is what <i>I</i> did: I knelt down on the floor and I started sobbing. A wave of utter despair passed through me. There was no way in hell I was going to be able to join in. I felt completely ridiculous. I felt like I was in a room of people speaking a foreign language that I had absolutely no frame of reference for. I was a total outsider. I went to the Ladies' and sobbed some more. I came back into the room, stood at the edge, and sobbed for a bit longer. I thought about leaving. I really, really wanted to leave. Of all things, OF ALL THINGS, a dancing challenge was about to get the better of me. I was small and awkward and embarrassed. I couldn't understand what was going on around me. I couldn't tap in to the energy that was making these people dance. I felt like I'd walked into an orgy that included my parents, all my ex-boyfriends, and a selection of zoo animals. So, pretty wrong then. I grabbed my handbag and made for the door.</div>
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I stayed. Out of absolute sheer bloody mindedness, I stayed and did everything I could to join in. By closing my eyes I managed to centre on the music enough to do a bit of bouncing and gyrating myself. A very small amount. Then a little more. At some stage, my arms engaged in some moderate flailing. After four or so tracks of this the class leader, <a href="http://www.humans-being.co.uk/" target="_blank">Cathy Ryan</a>, took to the microphone and started what she called 'the body parts meditation'. This was massively helpful, because I felt less of a twit twisting my elbows around when someone was telling me to do it. That's just the kind of twit I am. </div>
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Mid-class, I <i>almost</i> found my mojo. I indulged in some intense bouncing. I managed to make eye-contact with a couple of people and not instantly wish that the ground would swallow me up. I positively pranced at one stage. But I never lost my self-consciousness in the way that the others seemed to. Despite the weird, primal movements going on all around, no one else seemed as uncomfortable as I was. One woman spent 99% of the class on the floor. At one stage she was curled up, semi-foetal, caressing someone's shoes, in danger of being danced on. She troubled me quite deeply. I wanted to know what was going on with her, what she was getting from the experience. When she did kneel up for a while, I couldn't tell if she was about to cry, or just at the edge of orgasm. </div>
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There are no specific steps to 5 Rhythms. It's all about how the different rhythms - Flowing, Staccato, Chaos, Lyrical and Stillness - work, to, erm... so then there's the maps - the Waves, Heartbeat, Cycles, Mirrors and Silver Desert - well they, erm... OK, so I've read the Wikipedia page a couple of times and I confess that I still haven't got my head around the theory. I strongly suspect that the only way to really <i>get it</i> is to <i>do it</i> a lot. Which I won't. In fact, I think that this is the first of my challenges that I have no intention of repeating. I know I said that about the <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/trying-on-westuits-at-cycle-surgery.html" target="_blank">triathlon</a>, but frankly I think the triathlon was easier. I wasn't expecting to find it so incredibly difficult to let go. That is clearly something I need to work on, but 5 Rhythms was just too intense for me. </div>
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I'm really pleased that I managed to get to the end of the class, though. Considering the state I was in at the beginning, it was no small feat. Plus if I'd left I would have missed the elderly dancer singing a full verse of 'If You're Going to San Francisco." Don't ask. I don't mean for this to put anyone off trying out 5 Rhythms. It may not have been for me, but everyone else seemed to be attaining significant levels of bliss. In fact, I strongly urge everyone to try 5 Rhythms at least once, if only to assure me that what I saw tonight was real. Perhaps the greatest thing I gained was the knowledge that this strange, tribalistic ritual is actually going on. Now, the next time I am sobbing on my sofa, I can cheer myself with the knowledge that somewhere out there a room full of people are freestyle gyrating in a village hall. This happy vision will doubtless dry my tears and allow me to enjoy my cheese on toast.</div>
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Nineteen down, eleven to go...</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-91486025619329458462013-02-03T10:27:00.001-08:002013-02-03T11:17:50.156-08:00Fifteen minutes of not much fame: My first YouTube video.<br />
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A few days before Christmas I went wandering around my old stomping ground of Muswell Hill. I bumped into my former Head of Year in the bookshop. He didn't remember me until I cited my parents. <i>"Oh yes! The leggy Venezuelan and the comedian who plays two recorders up his nose."</i> Turns out my parents are significantly more memorable than I am. This has nothing much to do with the story, by the way, it just entertained me.</div>
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Having failed quite spectacularly to buy any Christmas presents, I met my dad for a coffee, where we discussed the woes of the season. I explained how the more shops I went in to, the less inclined I was to get sucked in to the commercial frenzy. Everything seemed cunningly designed to make us all spend money we didn't really have on items people wouldn't really want. Bah Humbug. Dad had a related story that really made me laugh. He'd bought a slightly bulky gift for his girlfriend and had "hidden" it in a plastic bag behind the sofa, giving her clear instructions not to peek. A day or so later she texted him the following:</div>
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><b>U kno that present? I havnt looked but if it is a slow cooker i don't want it.</b></span></div>
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Why she suspected him of buying her a slow cooker I am not sure, but my father is renowned for slightly unusual presents. The year I went to university - where I would be living in a dorm with no kitchen facilities - he bought me a pastry cook book... Go figure. He hadn't bought his girlfriend a slow cooker on this occasion, (it was actually a lamp), but her message really tickled me.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An unwanted slow cooker is returned to the shop.</td></tr>
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That evening, around 10pm, I thought there might be a poem in there somewhere. About slow cookers, unwanted Christmas presents, and all the things we get that we really don't want or need. I started scribbling, and an hour or so later I had something I was fairly pleased with.</div>
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I was just about to type it up and send it to dad when I had another idea. Mum suggested some time ago that a good blog challenge would be to post my first video on YouTube. I thought this was a great idea, but had been unable to think of something I could do that was worth posting. Unfortunately, I never did learn advanced pastry making. What if I recorded myself performing the poem?</div>
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I have always loved poetry, but it was only very recently, at an amazing <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/hearts-on-string-evening-with-amanda.html" target="_blank">Amanda Palmer gig</a>, that I had my first taste of the art of spoken word, in the form of <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvEiL-Lzol0" target="_blank">Scroobius Pip</a>. I loved it. The rhythm and music of it. The passion and power of the rising voice. I went home inspired.</div>
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I am a completely tuneless singer. I find this very frustrating, as I'm utterly convinced that the world has thus been deprived of a once-in-a-lifetime pop idol. Or something. The point is that I am a frustrated performer and that, for a frustrated performer like me, spoken word seemed a potential alternative to the off-key caterwauling that regularly takes place in my shower. No one wants to hear that.</div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">By 1am the next morning, I had polished the poem, more-or-less learned it, and had filmed myself approximately sixteen times. Most of these takes stop somewhere in the middle with an elegantly poetic: "</span><span style="color: red; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">S**T BUG**R BO***CKS</span><span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">" as I forget what line comes next. I wanted desperately to go fast, because I could hear the rhythm of the poem pounding in my head, but my mouth worked faster than my brain and I kept getting lost. I finally managed an almost perfect take, but the light was bad, my hair was all over the place and I basically looked a bit like a tired poet zombie.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFt7-PINpVUOBL9WevkPJXneOy_dM6T-1NjO-D0I_10_dNDuGEEi7vq2dIRXqi_rgzmDjL0XepQfPPQ-wbBoA-Zfe4V3IAFuJCvlqIRSzaRphyphenhyphenXYkoKnIlkCjxka0dXqfe9qCCzidM4U/s1600/Zombie+poet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlFt7-PINpVUOBL9WevkPJXneOy_dM6T-1NjO-D0I_10_dNDuGEEi7vq2dIRXqi_rgzmDjL0XepQfPPQ-wbBoA-Zfe4V3IAFuJCvlqIRSzaRphyphenhyphenXYkoKnIlkCjxka0dXqfe9qCCzidM4U/s400/Zombie+poet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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My dreams that night were filled with visions of mountains of unwanted presents and I woke up with the poem scrolling infuriatingly around my brain. That morning, I did something quite pathetic: I pulled a Christmas cracker with myself. And no, that is not a euphemism. I wanted the hat, you see? For a prop. I was getting seriously professional.</div>
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I started filming again, this time <i>avec</i> hat, clean hair, and a more carefully chosen background. It was difficult to keep each take feeling fresh and spontaneous. The writing of the poem was easy in comparison with capturing the performance the way I wanted it. As so often happens with my creative endeavours, the more I worked on it, the worse it seemed to become. Eventually I stopped and decided that what I had would do. The performance was a little slower than I was hearing it in my head, but I hoped it was engaging enough to keep people watching.</div>
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Another hour or so of faffing and occasional expletives and I'd managed to add a title and end sequence to the poem, and upload it to my very own YouTube channel. I posted the link online, sat back and waited to go viral.<br />
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A little over a month later, this is what I have learned: I am in no way as entertaining as any of the following:</div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?gl=GB&hl=en-GB&v=9bZkp7q19f0" target="_blank">Gangnam Style </a>OK, fair enough.</div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PZ5ACLVjYwM" target="_blank">A slow loris that loves being tickled </a>This is a truly awesome video, so I can't complain.</div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgkGogPLacA" target="_blank">A cat that fails to jump over a baby gate</a> I've watched this at least fifteen times myself.</div>
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<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogY44aX5pHU" target="_blank">7.5 minutes of paint drying/watching a slug crawl on a box </a> Seriously!? How can I be less entertaining than a slug on a box? This video had 77,112 views at time of writing this post. Come on, people. Go back to work! Or at least be more discerning in your choice of entertainment...</div>
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I, alas, have attracted a paltry 306 views, far less than I had hoped for.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking slightly concerned at my view count.</span></td></tr>
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It's taken me more than a month to sit down and write up this experience because I've been secretly hoping that my view count would suddenly rocket up. It hasn't, because it's not Christmas anymore and also because, well, my poem is just not as funny as a slow loris that likes to be tickled. It's just not. In fact, I realise that the tone in which I performed it is a bit too hyper-realistic. I suspect it might make people feel slightly uncomfortable, because I seem so bitter. This is actually testament to my acting skills, since I have to say that I am generally spoiled rotten as far as presents are concerned. This poem is nothing to do with personal disappointment. It's meant to be a joke, but I am too earnest. It's a lesson learned, for next time.</div>
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I've also learned that I love reciting my poems aloud. I want to do more, and get better. I want to learn to build a rhythm, rise to a crescendo, tell a story in verse. I think it's the closest I'll ever come to singing, to experiencing that transfer of emotion from voice to ear to heart. I may not quite have mastered making people laugh, but I have a feeling I can get there, with more practice, more patience, and by going to see other performance poets in action.</div>
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Worthwhile success takes time. It takes patience, It takes knock-backs. You have to film yourself over and over, and then wake up and do it again in the morning. You have to post one film, and then another, and another, and another, and still, no one might notice you. BUT if you're good at what you do, and take pains to get better, things might just happen.Take this blog. It's had over 9,000 views. 9,000!!! That might be small fry in comparison to many other blogs out there, but to me it seems a huge and magical number. One day, maybe 9000 people will have watched a video I made, or read a story I wrote. But if not, well, it doesn't really matter. Because the point is that I created something. I found the ingredients, mixed them, tasted them, made them the best I could. And, since it turns out they're not going to ignite all by themselves, I've shoved them in the slow cooker.</div>
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Eighteen down, twelve to go...</div>
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p.s. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAnuKI3z3hg" target="_blank">Please watch my video</a></div>
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p.p.s. Buy less stuff!</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-26725481148262570732013-01-29T10:34:00.000-08:002013-01-29T10:34:24.747-08:00Ch-ch-ch-ch-changing.<br />
<header class="site-header" id="masthead" role="banner" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 1.714285714rem 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><hgroup style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://changerous.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Changerous</a> is a new blog about, well, change. It's been set up by Kirsty. Kirsty was the first total stranger to contact me and provide encouragement in the early days of the Thirty@30 challenge. It never fails to move me when anyone takes the time to do this, let alone someone who doesn't know me from Eve, and has absolutely no vested interest in being nice. My friend Julia is one of my biggest fans, and is hugely supportive and encouraging, but I get to make it up to her by feeding her on a semi-regular basis, and by allowing her to talk me into all sorts of ridiculous things, like <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/trying-on-westuits-at-cycle-surgery.html" target="_blank">triathlons</a> and <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/on-yer-bike-or-how-i-learned-to-stop.html" target="_blank">going commando.</a></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/on-yer-bike-or-how-i-learned-to-stop.html" target="_blank"><br /></a></span>So, huge thanks to Kirsty for encouraging me, and for giving me a guest spot on her new blog. Kirsty is undertaking fifty new challenges at the moment, and I tip my hat to such an endeavour, knowing as I do how difficult it is to think of, find time for, and finance a mere thirty. Next week, on the Changerous blog, there will be a guest piece from Geri Girard, who is doing a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Geri-Girards-40-Things-To-Do-Before-I-Turn-40-Journey/152314234916532" target="_blank">Forty@40</a> challenge. These birthday-related projects are fantastic in terms of motivation, and I highly recommend them, especially if you are an undisciplined person like me. But you don't need to commit to a large or specific number of new things in order to enhance your life. Even tiny changes can make a big difference. So the message for today is that change can be good. Change can be great. And, if in doubt, just say YES. (Unless someone is offering you drugs. Then say no. M'kay?)<br />
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Here's my guest post:<br />
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<article class="post-365 post type-post status-publish format-standard hentry category-uncategorized tag-30 tag-birthday tag-challenge tag-change tag-giving-lood tag-half-marathon tag-helicopter tag-saying-yes tag-thirty tag-triathlon" id="post-365" style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; border-bottom-color: rgb(237, 237, 237); border-bottom-style: double; border-width: 0px 0px 4px; margin: 0px 0px 5.142857143rem; padding: 0px 0px 1.714285714rem; vertical-align: baseline; word-wrap: break-word;"><header class="entry-header" style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px 0px 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><h1 class="entry-title" style="border: 0px; clear: both; font-size: 1.571428571rem; font-weight: normal; line-height: 1.2; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Thirty@30</h1>
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I first read about Joanna’s challenge via Twitter, and I started to follow, because I was working through 50 challenges of my own, for my 50th, next June. I kept following her <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.com/" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">blog</a> because I love the way she writes–and how she shares the fun of her journey. –Kirsty</div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;">It </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.81818199157715px;">wasn't</span></span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;"> so much that I felt I needed to change. It was more that I needed to do something to mark turning 30, and to save me from the vague yet troubling suspicion that I </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.81818199157715px;">wasn't</span></span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;"> making the most of my life. So I came up with what I have since discovered was a far from original idea: To undertake thirty brand-spanking-new challenges between turning 30 and turning 31, and to blog about them all. I told anyone who would listen about </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">Thirty@30</a><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;">, to ensure that I absotively-posolutely </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.81818199157715px;">couldn't</span></span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;"> chicken out.</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/image-8.jpeg" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="image (8)" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-369" height="225" src="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/image-8.jpeg?w=300&h=225" style="border-bottom-left-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 1px 4px; float: left; font-size: 14px; height: auto; margin: 0.857142857rem 1.714285714rem 0.857142857rem 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="300" /></a>Whilst I never set out to change myself, I knew that there was one fundamental shift I would have to make for the project to succeed: I would have to say ‘yes’ a lot more often. Not easy for a homebody with a profound fondness for her purple sofa. But the beautiful thing about this project is that it has a deadline. Everything has to be done by my 31<sup style="border: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; top: -0.5em; vertical-align: baseline;">st</sup> <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/getting-off-my-backside-30-at-thirty.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank">birthday</a>, on May 11<sup style="border: 0px; font-size: 11px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; top: -0.5em; vertical-align: baseline;">th</sup> 2013. I may be lazy when it comes to lots of things – right now I am looking at an oven that is badly in need of a thorough cleaning – but when it comes to deadlines, I meet them. <span id="more-365" style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/dsc_0552.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="DSC_0552" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-368" height="199" src="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/dsc_0552.jpg?w=300&h=199" style="border-bottom-left-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 1px 4px; float: left; font-size: 14px; height: auto; margin: 0.857142857rem 1.714285714rem 0.857142857rem 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="300" /></a>My challenges began, and so did saying ‘yes’ to some unexpected things. When I was offered a place in a <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/run-forrest-run.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">half marathon</a>, I said yes, despite the fact that I had huge – and I mean GARGANTUAN – difficulty shuffling 5k at the end of a <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/trying-on-westuits-at-cycle-surgery.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">sprint triathlon</a>. When I was invited out to a <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/a-little-flutter.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">casino</a> on the spur of the moment, I said yes. When a total stranger on a train platform asked me for a <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/simple-thing.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">hug</a>, I said yes. When my friend suggested cycling from Buckingham Palace to Windsor Castle – and then back again – I said yes. <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/jab-jab-cross-my-first-taste-of-mma.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">MMA session</a>? Yes. <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/flying-fantastic-evening-of-aerial-silks_7.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Aerial Silks</a> class? Yes? <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/get-to-chopper-montserrat-by-helicopter.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Helicopter ride</a>? (Gulp) yes. You get the idea…</em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/dsc_0023.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="DSC_0023" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-370" height="300" src="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/dsc_0023.jpg?w=199&h=300" style="border-bottom-left-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 1px 4px; float: left; font-size: 14px; height: auto; margin: 0.857142857rem 1.714285714rem 0.857142857rem 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="199" /></a>Of course, some yesses were never in question. Blog or no blog, there was only one answer to my friend’s request that I be her <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/under-knife-over-moon.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">birthing partner</a>. I could not have predicted the profound emotional impact of that particular ‘yes’; of seeing the baby reach up to the light for the first time; of being the one to cut the cord binding him to the placenta. In a way, it bound me to him for the rest of my life.</em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;">The challenges </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 21.81818199157715px;">aren't</span></span><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;"> only about saying yes to other people, though. In fact, it is often far easier to say yes to someone else than it is to say yes to myself. It required tremendous will-power to go through with </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/do-something-amazing-today.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">giving blood</a><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.714285714;">, for example, since no one would have been any the wiser had I turned around and sneaked away. Consequently, it is one of the challenges of which I am most proud. In a similar vein, I have just organised a life drawing class of ten-or-so artists, for the SOLE PURPOSE of getting my kit off in a room full of people. Argh! Self-inflicted terror in the extreme. Please subscribe to the blog if you would like to know how that goes. I’m telling you this, incidentally, because now I can’t freak out and decide not to do it….</span></em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/dsc_00061.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="DSC_0006" class="alignleft size-medium wp-image-371" height="199" src="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/dsc_00061.jpg?w=300&h=199" style="border-bottom-left-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 1px 4px; float: left; font-size: 14px; height: auto; margin: 0.857142857rem 1.714285714rem 0.857142857rem 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="300" /></a>Over the last eight months I have become pretty good at this ‘yes’ malarkey, and there’s no doubt that with it has come a certain freeness of spirit, as well as a marked improvement in my self-discipline. When there is a challenge at hand, I do it. When there is a blog to be written, I write it. Alas, the same cannot be said for the ever-growing need to clean the oven. For now, I am still resolutely saying ‘no’ to that particular task.</em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps the greatest challenge – and the greatest change – is one I could never have predicted or prepared for. My partner moved out two months ago, and for the first time in my life I am <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/12/all-by-myself_19.html" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">living completely alone</a>. It is a sad, difficult time, but <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Thirty@30</a> has given me strength and drive where melancholy and inertia could so easily have taken over. All change is a challenge, and with all challenges come change, whether you like it or not. It is the act of consciously inviting these challenges into my life that has helped me to make a whole lot more of it.</em></div>
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<em style="border: 0px; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Now, all this positivity lets me off the hook as far as the oven is concerned, right? Go on, say ‘yes’.</em></div>
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<a href="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/itsu-jojo.jpg" style="border: 0px; color: #21759b; font-size: 14px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="Itsu Jojo" class="alignleft size-thumbnail wp-image-367" height="150" src="http://changerous.files.wordpress.com/2013/01/itsu-jojo.jpg?w=111&h=150" style="border-bottom-left-radius: 3px; border-bottom-right-radius: 3px; border-top-left-radius: 3px; border-top-right-radius: 3px; border: 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 1px 4px; float: left; font-size: 14px; height: auto; margin: 0.857142857rem 1.714285714rem 0.857142857rem 0px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" width="111" /></a>Joanna Josefina Thomas is a London-based writer with a day-job as managing editor of a legal publishing company. She blogs, writes poetry, and is editing (and re-editing) her first novel. She is also a freelance fiction editor. She is not ashamed to admit to a very dirty oven.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-26128569360756430372013-01-11T17:39:00.000-08:002013-01-11T17:42:10.849-08:00Ticket for One: Fuerzabruta at the Camden Roundhouse
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<u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Friday, January 11th, 2013. Lunchtime.</span></u></div>
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<span style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">I came back from a long and peaceful stay at my mum's house
in Southern Spain yesterday. The day before, I spent some minutes hovering over
the 'confirm flight change' button on the EasyJet website, desperately wanting
to stay another week.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The only problem was, at the end of that week, I'd still
have the problem of having to go home. Home to an empty flat. Home to the cold
and grey of London in winter. Home to the office and the responsibilities of
real life.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Plus I'd have a week's more work emails to deal with and a
week's less holiday to take later in the year. So I decided to man up, finish
packing, and get the heck on with it. Needless to say, the whole experience is
proving somewhat traumatic.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjQSwtJ-FRz-pIFGVss0hCaJ-5iNPUTlSYtxlhIcrKhTg_-b67OFikhMdy2DvpKJH57Jhwmey-e7D7AYO6mS0Q7PJdB0YCjPWzr8emd_2me1Td8aBVkX13Gn2JS61Se6qV_XC8h4gmhs/s1600/imgres.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjQSwtJ-FRz-pIFGVss0hCaJ-5iNPUTlSYtxlhIcrKhTg_-b67OFikhMdy2DvpKJH57Jhwmey-e7D7AYO6mS0Q7PJdB0YCjPWzr8emd_2me1Td8aBVkX13Gn2JS61Se6qV_XC8h4gmhs/s1600/imgres.jpeg" /></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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I took off in bright sunshine, spent the entire flight
next to a six-foot teenage boy with no concept of personal hygiene or personal
space, and landed into thick fog. Two and a half hours and three modes of
transport later, I finally reached aforementioned cold and empty flat, where
Sky Plus had lost satellite signal and completely failed to record all the TV
shows that were going to cheer me up.<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUpr3oYyKB3NEdaCtqlD4S6WVi8XcNArdqW-9tgujlEoV1Y1sn0ju8YWDM-OExQtjmUC7tV6uCC1alh1mvq4-t7QKjrRQZzidND7nTy4wVKFkWVvjC8_lTUkFjVQMGFuWe7QNDf-mkfs/s1600/imgres-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUpr3oYyKB3NEdaCtqlD4S6WVi8XcNArdqW-9tgujlEoV1Y1sn0ju8YWDM-OExQtjmUC7tV6uCC1alh1mvq4-t7QKjrRQZzidND7nTy4wVKFkWVvjC8_lTUkFjVQMGFuWe7QNDf-mkfs/s1600/imgres-1.jpeg" /></a></div>
<br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">Then, this morning, the greatest insult of all. The
dreaded alarm clock. The dreaded office. 400-odd emails and a pressing deadline
that caused me to skip lunch. I knew I shouldn't have come back...</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">But mid-way through the day, an email came in from my
friend Jules. It said: </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "American Typewriter";">If you can go to <a href="http://www.fuerzabruta.net/"><span style="color: blue;">Fuerzabruta</span></a> at the Roundhouse then DO, it's
amazing and joyous! I went 7 years ago when they (Argentinian dance troupe)
were last in town and then again last night.</span><span style="font-family: 'American Typewriter';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">I immediately googled Fuerzabruta and saw this:</span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial;">'The biggest natural high in town and absolutely irresistible'
- </span></i><b><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial;">Daily
Telegraph</span></b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Now, an irresistible natural high sounds
like just the tonic for these post-holiday blues. BUT tickets are basically sold out, apart from tonight at
7pm. Who am I going to find to drop everything and come to the theatre with me
on a Friday night? And anyway, over £40 for a STANDING ticket? Everyone,
including me, is broke from the Christmas madness. Any other time, I would
have just dropped the idea, saved myself the cash, and headed for home and a
blanket on the sofa. But then it hit me. I have never in my life been to
the theatre on my own. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I don't know if this is unusual. I mentioned it to a
couple of friends, all of whom seemed to have done it once or twice in the
past. But to me, theatre is an experience I have always shared. Isn't half the
fun to dissect it all afterwards? Isn't it a bit lonely and awkward to travel there
alone, find your seat (or standing spot) alone, have an interval drink alone, and leave alone? ALL ALONE???</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Well, sod it. I want my natural high. And perhaps
going to the theatre alone will be a noteworthy right of passage, in this year
of new experiences. I can't deny that it is slightly liberating, if also
slightly scary, to hit 'confirm purchase' on a ticket for one, without
reference to anyone else's pockets, preferences, or schedule. I'm not saying I
want to live my life selfishly and alone. I don't. But since that's the
position I am currently in I may as well explore it. After all, I won't learn
anything new about myself tucked under a blanket on the sofa. So I'm booked and I'm about to
dash home, eat the lunch I skipped, and make my way to the theatre on my own.
Curtain up...</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_8DaJAUGYbFJ27SDnmOfvFGjZEmfg-mBRvAdb-hd_8Yrqm49Y8R529g2eCWE2Nlwvaf95w-5Y4dzkXGmdZepHlaz1COitDFeZLDipD_CpUUZbOKQpIyHZiKd9gVjilYLID52yakpIWY/s1600/Theatre+alone.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS_8DaJAUGYbFJ27SDnmOfvFGjZEmfg-mBRvAdb-hd_8Yrqm49Y8R529g2eCWE2Nlwvaf95w-5Y4dzkXGmdZepHlaz1COitDFeZLDipD_CpUUZbOKQpIyHZiKd9gVjilYLID52yakpIWY/s640/Theatre+alone.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ticket for one!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Later that evening…</span></u><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">I am home. Under a blanket on the sofa, eating leftover
Christmas Stollen for supper. If I hadn’t gone out tonight I might be
starting to worry…</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhMmwbaxLLhbbA3yUBOprfCMYhdtg5ADOYQtkQE-vc700mtEvK48ud-9icDd7apaeRNHwkl1PfvctMJ39qCoDS-XChepEU5JjeW_G3WPE7zK3lK5Yhak5uCXIWT65YUS6jD-vcCXpXbE/s1600/Stollen+2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhMmwbaxLLhbbA3yUBOprfCMYhdtg5ADOYQtkQE-vc700mtEvK48ud-9icDd7apaeRNHwkl1PfvctMJ39qCoDS-XChepEU5JjeW_G3WPE7zK3lK5Yhak5uCXIWT65YUS6jD-vcCXpXbE/s320/Stollen+2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas Stollen. A beautiful thing. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><u>Earlier that evening...</u></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">The Camden </span><a href="http://www.roundhouse.org.uk/" style="font-family: Calibri;" target="_blank">Roundhouse</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"> is packed. I stand in the queue at
the box office and watch people scanning the near horizon for their friends.
I keep thinking I might see someone I know, unsure if that would be a good thing, or
if I’d have to try and avoid them to complete the challenge. Either way, it
doesn’t happen.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The hordes file into the Main Space, which is dark and thumping
with percussive music. A group of hipsters greet each other to my left, and I
bristle with rage as one of them exclaims: “oh my god, it’s just like
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Auschwitz_concentration_camp" target="_blank">Auschwitz</a>, hahahahaha.” For all the extraordinary kindness and goodness in the
world, there really is some seriously stupid, thoughtless idiocy. A rant rises
in my chest but dies there, because I have no one to share it with. I move
away, deeper into the crowd.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It’s only about ten minutes until the show starts, but it
feels longer. I play solitaire on my phone and wonder if I’m a conspicuous
loner, whilst at the same time realising that this is a ridiculous notion. Why
would I be conspicuous? The only one acutely aware of the fact that I am here
alone is, well, me. At this moment it also occurs to me how ridiculous it was
that I tried on three different tops before coming out. But girls will be girls,
even when there’s no one to see them, I suppose.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_p2tul_4Kh8w1_M335KXVFYeA0DBVneW4Y3VFTj7jqeYRCxXe_ZlatikJiLuRcH_9a7AhHydOPn8d_g5V6-GUmuaNjGS9Tmh0-vkybFiJX86SkfDygghUzdEy11_BBqKHDHdBd7PCF3o/s1600/WP_000218.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_p2tul_4Kh8w1_M335KXVFYeA0DBVneW4Y3VFTj7jqeYRCxXe_ZlatikJiLuRcH_9a7AhHydOPn8d_g5V6-GUmuaNjGS9Tmh0-vkybFiJX86SkfDygghUzdEy11_BBqKHDHdBd7PCF3o/s640/WP_000218.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In this photograph, I carefully document my painstakingly chosen outfit. What a surprise. I am wearing black. So original, dahling.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="color: #990000;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Spoiler alert: If, by any chance, you have tickets for the
London showing of </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">Fuerzabruta</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> over the next couple of weeks,
you may prefer to read the below </span><i style="font-family: Calibri;">after</i><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> you’ve seen it. The
strange surprises are half the fun. Consider yourself warned!</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The performance starts with huge puffs of smoke,
shuddering drums, and a loud chant that is somewhere between mournful and
rebellious. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><i>Guaira que sigue soplando. Guaira que sigue cantando.
Guaira sera. Guaira sera.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Even though I am not exactly sure what a
Guaira is in Argentinian Spanish, the chant strikes chords within me, moves me
somehow. A guira, whatever it may be (the wind from the sea? An instrument of some kind?) continues to blow, continues to sing.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGdbg3S6RXJeIWVBz52BGt6TXqGQUI6ykFVckSxl9xzgJjtrA_5aPBD3P7DYM70zCyR9FLxaGXIU_pZ4feXDnTWztExbJC87rCtkcF0niROb-a5N5PbaNxau2rysH1D6Xda7jcZ_i5Kk/s1600/WP_000230.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTGdbg3S6RXJeIWVBz52BGt6TXqGQUI6ykFVckSxl9xzgJjtrA_5aPBD3P7DYM70zCyR9FLxaGXIU_pZ4feXDnTWztExbJC87rCtkcF0niROb-a5N5PbaNxau2rysH1D6Xda7jcZ_i5Kk/s320/WP_000230.jpeg" width="303" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The man who ran.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And then we descend into chaos, the <i>Fuerzabruta</i> (brute
force) of the title. If I was a creator of theatre, this is what I would like
to create. Noise, exhilaration, madness. A complete lack of coherence. On a giant treadmill, a man runs and is shot down over and over again, each successive shirt spattered
with blood and then removed and thrown to the ground. He runs through walls of
flying cardboard boxes. He hurtles up stairs and falls. He does all he can to
rescue tables and chairs that spin away from him, though they are not <i>his</i>
tables and chairs. Wind and fine rain blast his face, and ours. It snows strips
of fluttering white tissue paper. Girls run back and forth through silver waves, shimmering on the walls.
A man and woman struggle and swarm on opposite sides of a spinning disc,
suspended from the ceiling.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span><br /><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">When the huge (and I mean huge) trays of water begin to
descend from the ceiling, bodies writhing in the swishing shallows, I know that
I have seen this before, on the TV I think. Eurovision, maybe. (Eurovision Moscow, I discover when I get home.) </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgoP-pgwjB0O2zA4jm7ND91JryPZbqQfU5m4pjx1ruEV1ACre8atph1dL-QhCIkNSNoSPtdQpTBUeB80CWT8UCltr656dqxfK1Y2EotpiAaZp8E17wXF3s0NFbfI5GRD0l8PBx5veOSY/s1600/WP_000233.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgoP-pgwjB0O2zA4jm7ND91JryPZbqQfU5m4pjx1ruEV1ACre8atph1dL-QhCIkNSNoSPtdQpTBUeB80CWT8UCltr656dqxfK1Y2EotpiAaZp8E17wXF3s0NFbfI5GRD0l8PBx5veOSY/s640/WP_000233.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The generally terrible camera on my phone gets big points for this picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmI-NF9sEoZodwBSkUlQ5ocS0vr2a2Dt8meKBM2qSsFjECHm_8VV7UkJzI1iHdblfc3ymYoAOLyH1ajpD0iORTP-Ziraju0JLj11sITHyUYMw1swJMMNi8MWQEzLbgVpoD_kP0t5lp5BE/s1600/WP_000242.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmI-NF9sEoZodwBSkUlQ5ocS0vr2a2Dt8meKBM2qSsFjECHm_8VV7UkJzI1iHdblfc3ymYoAOLyH1ajpD0iORTP-Ziraju0JLj11sITHyUYMw1swJMMNi8MWQEzLbgVpoD_kP0t5lp5BE/s400/WP_000242.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">The pools descend to
just above our heads and the swimming, dancing girls fling themselves down with
considerable violence. Everyone laughs nervously and we raise our palms to the flexible plastic separating us from the water. I am strangely, unusually
aware of myself. This is stunning and magical, but I’m not lost in it. Maybe I'm trying too hard to have a good time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPTSIXm_zwc4sg9Y-QEcUskJV5D7PEBf-Ph7-iz5EBVggbaC9bcsA-JrMtkGJ4FraTdEKYo8s01fl-H5gY1gfECYGQDcOUYki6Nprtd3uene59BdBR8P0HMwsF1oWNfDgL9ZJ9Yq1AlI/s1600/WP_000237.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPTSIXm_zwc4sg9Y-QEcUskJV5D7PEBf-Ph7-iz5EBVggbaC9bcsA-JrMtkGJ4FraTdEKYo8s01fl-H5gY1gfECYGQDcOUYki6Nprtd3uene59BdBR8P0HMwsF1oWNfDgL9ZJ9Yq1AlI/s640/WP_000237.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The water descends.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjki8AXbJOA5yChxY0TEtYSA_dEpzE03VenWC4rMeOh-V4LKZYRIzt8enE8gZVH4X2SikTpnvjhXHnpG5a6TH5GwcjnkjamTztlO-RySDBf1uAMnGNgJGzmr3H0h_yInl_1H6zdqzi_WZg/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjki8AXbJOA5yChxY0TEtYSA_dEpzE03VenWC4rMeOh-V4LKZYRIzt8enE8gZVH4X2SikTpnvjhXHnpG5a6TH5GwcjnkjamTztlO-RySDBf1uAMnGNgJGzmr3H0h_yInl_1H6zdqzi_WZg/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I TOTALLY had this one! With the cherries!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">Later, the audience crowd surfs a huge plastic
sheet across the whole room. As it passes over me, the smell of it fills me
with a wave of nostalgia, though for what I’m not sure. My Little Pony? I really love the smell of My Little Pony plastic. Don't judge me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">No no no, says my brain. It’s a bouncy castle! And of course, it is.
It’s a giant bouncy castle, and we are inside it. Awesome. Old-fashioned aviators bounce
above us, and then descend through holes in the dome to pluck up members of the
audience. I confess to being somewhat disappointed that I am neither hoisted to
the heavens nor – later - selected to have an exploding pizza box of glitter
smashed over my head. I want to be part of this experience in a way that I
can’t quite achieve. I think this is partly down to a distant, lingering regret
that I did not pursue a career in the performing arts, and partly down to being
alone tonight, and not quite liking it. I'm uneasy, half in and half outside of the experience.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgU-wy05n7B4oL2FHFgS2Vc5ix3XfZIjyYS5qr84uQqkinRObu_vBmh3d9TxjUQutooJyJ1qmeGeSEXPti4FMm18lgNFBVL7Dt4HsaMkBnfkCe77LPG9J-x3z6PS8QAZ1NY8fn_cClmcc/s1600/WP_000251.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgU-wy05n7B4oL2FHFgS2Vc5ix3XfZIjyYS5qr84uQqkinRObu_vBmh3d9TxjUQutooJyJ1qmeGeSEXPti4FMm18lgNFBVL7Dt4HsaMkBnfkCe77LPG9J-x3z6PS8QAZ1NY8fn_cClmcc/s400/WP_000251.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This blurry man in a suit has a pizza box full of glitter exploded over his head. Now that's one way to unwind after a day at the office.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">Somewhat abruptly, the show ends as it began, with drums and singing. The audience roars its appreciation and then shuffles into the crisp, cold night. It’s early, only 8.15pm, and
people disperse to bars and restaurants. I start walking home, but it’s cold
and I’m wearing a stupidly thin jacket, so when an empty taxi appears I grab
it. You know the rest; blanket, sofa, cake etc… And that’s that. As far a new
experiences go, it leans towards the anti-climactic. But I’m not in the least
sorry that I went. It really was an amazing performance, packed with creativity
and energy, well worth the price of the ticket, the cab ride, and the slight
sense of solitude that accompanied the evening. I’m not sure solo theatre is my
thing, but I’m pleased to know I can do it if I want to. Being brave, it
transpires, doesn’t always mean doing something big. Curtain down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3EOWrSN_SzsxSTllVegXKaQWjRqxrD3lYI6N0RcRneLyqSwPM9gym6WHrNfLVnlT4J3fbGz6AgjS9GtFsjp6NywJM5wfsQxlNL0GGnAuGZrp5R_ql_RtpzAT8IBxCId69ILqBMmEvy4/s1600/GetAttachment.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3EOWrSN_SzsxSTllVegXKaQWjRqxrD3lYI6N0RcRneLyqSwPM9gym6WHrNfLVnlT4J3fbGz6AgjS9GtFsjp6NywJM5wfsQxlNL0GGnAuGZrp5R_ql_RtpzAT8IBxCId69ILqBMmEvy4/s400/GetAttachment.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri;">Now, all this philosophising
isn’t going to do me much good if it continues to be accompanied by sofa and
cake. Thank goodness I’m getting up at silly o’clock tomorrow morning to do my first
ever Bikram Yoga class.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Seventeen down, thirteen to go…</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-26089177516912097102013-01-01T06:42:00.002-08:002013-01-01T09:58:58.651-08:00Been There, Done That.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<br />
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am writing this on January 1<sup>st</sup>,
2013. This means that I have four months and eleven days left to complete my
Thirty@30 challenge. It also means that I am well on my way to being 31, which,
all things considered, is a little disturbing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I´m just over half way through the
challenge, with only a third of the time left. In order to prevent panic, I
have decided to look over a bunch of challenges that would probably have made
it onto the list, if it weren’t for the fact that I’d already done them before
turning 30. Aside from the pleasure of reminiscing, it was a LOT of fun looking
through old photographs in search of the pertinent evidence. For NO other
reason that that it made me weep with laughter for a good five minutes, I´d
here like to include this utterly inexplicable photograph of my mother. WHAT
THE HELL IS GOING ON?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvZuUzhpCbFr1jDHE3LGbgEQ_dkoCLle7fWruEFkunUhoxi6cBaAZOvFfIa8wgs7y_9hjy0tJlOhWYcYikR0j6vPhCJvueD-ZgNNxle_OZTUWsknbNFSjAbfPlQwW_S0cZzQWhK5e9jQ/s1600/img016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvZuUzhpCbFr1jDHE3LGbgEQ_dkoCLle7fWruEFkunUhoxi6cBaAZOvFfIa8wgs7y_9hjy0tJlOhWYcYikR0j6vPhCJvueD-ZgNNxle_OZTUWsknbNFSjAbfPlQwW_S0cZzQWhK5e9jQ/s400/img016.jpg" width="286" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Anyway, now that I have my breath back,
here goes the list, in a very ragged chronological order. Some of the things
have a story to go with them, some have a photograph. All of them brought a
memory, or several memories, into sharp focus in my mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I remembered family and friends that I
haven´t seen for a long time, and to everyone who features somewhere in this
blog post I send my love, and my thanks for being part of my life. If you’re
planning a bucket list of your own, perhaps you’ll find some inspiration<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Get a piercing.<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">My mum is from Venezuela, country of
seriously beautiful women. If you’re in need of evidence, take a look at this
picture of my mum in her youth. HELLO. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4gEvm5uIo5q_XfVv3-QtUJylF2pQ5zWGAwPaSlc7x6l3g7HFBjJaJXmP3DtSrQUE3nfeLfDk7_CAz5UjNUTxBudiikVAJ65qBGf1oAqbsFgRES4rQBkC8ceA5KTG4XbvuDtvZvmG63xM/s1600/img017.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4gEvm5uIo5q_XfVv3-QtUJylF2pQ5zWGAwPaSlc7x6l3g7HFBjJaJXmP3DtSrQUE3nfeLfDk7_CAz5UjNUTxBudiikVAJ65qBGf1oAqbsFgRES4rQBkC8ceA5KTG4XbvuDtvZvmG63xM/s400/img017.jpg" width="273" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In Venezuela, as in many Latin countries,
little girls get their ears pierced pretty much before the umbilical cord has
been cut. It’s just normal. How else is your daughter going to wear her first
pair of gold earrings? I, however, was born in London, where a succession of
nurses, doctors and midwifes looked at my mum like she was a child abuser when
she asked who was going to pierce my ears. It took her six months to finally
locate someone who could be convinced to do it. The day she did, she was a
happy lady. My father’s reaction, when he got home, was “YOU’VE DEFILED MY
DAUGHTER WITH GOLD.” Oops.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqKfrHqLQF-LmkdGjPiowXD99G8emyyDDjfDE9Zy93hQ2itdGTdjaK89a3CETiro9Y6IxQwkRs3B1M6NBbpQ2zpja1EtRzmKkMynZPyH2tTCnS9FpNTZoW_VBz1zmIdMbx55L043yrQM/s1600/img006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="435" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPqKfrHqLQF-LmkdGjPiowXD99G8emyyDDjfDE9Zy93hQ2itdGTdjaK89a3CETiro9Y6IxQwkRs3B1M6NBbpQ2zpja1EtRzmKkMynZPyH2tTCnS9FpNTZoW_VBz1zmIdMbx55L043yrQM/s640/img006.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aged 17, I had my navel done too. I like
this slightly incongruous little detail about myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><u>Become a Domestic Goddess</u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mum trained me to wash up at an early age. To this day, it is one of my finest skills.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTaEVcPz2cIf4z9zn_5CDlaYuk0fZpCIHZ_Xdbnry1qukLJjuwxz-FhXsgD1rXQIZPBFjCo061hBv-M0BGwE40VgmuxQN_bY0vvCGcy257vvV4mNZ7VgDxkIJM20ld8LCUrltmBSTACgM/s1600/img022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTaEVcPz2cIf4z9zn_5CDlaYuk0fZpCIHZ_Xdbnry1qukLJjuwxz-FhXsgD1rXQIZPBFjCo061hBv-M0BGwE40VgmuxQN_bY0vvCGcy257vvV4mNZ7VgDxkIJM20ld8LCUrltmBSTACgM/s400/img022.jpg" width="302" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Perform on stage<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There are SO MANY photographs of me in
various costumes, at various dance shows and plays, that I have decided not to
include any. Everyone already knows that I´m a show off, there´s no need to
enhance the perception. However, I can honestly say that I always did find
being on stage to be an enormous rush, and I miss it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Oh go on then, just for fun, a few pictures of me showing off...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AqckJ5gIqJt_hkyfh9ri-gADRRwqI9SbNA_vAI2Nt7mWmaM2WcXWOjkj7Tyhn0quy5yttRYz4LEeZVbACanfDfgIR2Sg2hywWj9W_079rVI26I2GPHg5Z5IHZFaDCfILwbfeCPNgXWM/s1600/img023.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9AqckJ5gIqJt_hkyfh9ri-gADRRwqI9SbNA_vAI2Nt7mWmaM2WcXWOjkj7Tyhn0quy5yttRYz4LEeZVbACanfDfgIR2Sg2hywWj9W_079rVI26I2GPHg5Z5IHZFaDCfILwbfeCPNgXWM/s400/img023.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To this day, I still have no idea how to apply lipstick.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9G9w9vf5mvIB4qmAyJp5ydjOX2I8PKST55IVoNzjctuMY7VOw0biZfhVC0BH0r78K3Z26z4o4QtSrsXdrT5BeyTfBmFP0HbChFamrRJob901zETvyfvwjAcOw-jNimyAgfa14B6Bfojc/s1600/img026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9G9w9vf5mvIB4qmAyJp5ydjOX2I8PKST55IVoNzjctuMY7VOw0biZfhVC0BH0r78K3Z26z4o4QtSrsXdrT5BeyTfBmFP0HbChFamrRJob901zETvyfvwjAcOw-jNimyAgfa14B6Bfojc/s400/img026.jpg" width="283" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii47DnhYmpvybaJfVdOcdYYKP7z23Saml5KTPYN_kMUMQC0FTafpHi67sla1Bbj8gbfaAY9F4RnHLn3YDKYpAJZ-AwlG4Kf6ha4tvtFGMZ7vvCJIo19YoHQrPbDfcQ0Fg7EDUDVhxy03k/s1600/img025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii47DnhYmpvybaJfVdOcdYYKP7z23Saml5KTPYN_kMUMQC0FTafpHi67sla1Bbj8gbfaAY9F4RnHLn3YDKYpAJZ-AwlG4Kf6ha4tvtFGMZ7vvCJIo19YoHQrPbDfcQ0Fg7EDUDVhxy03k/s400/img025.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyeAGtPRLsyK4ACg3fMCaBNjuDR1u4QkM10kxrSeEyIoDynr0nYlp-bjWbXSCcVk_8VzS-UquSysEae5qFndTp97OhYxJ6B18kjlvuWpljEF0uqPIfxE9lawaXjIBEdpOxyHij7tknNk/s1600/img027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyeAGtPRLsyK4ACg3fMCaBNjuDR1u4QkM10kxrSeEyIoDynr0nYlp-bjWbXSCcVk_8VzS-UquSysEae5qFndTp97OhYxJ6B18kjlvuWpljEF0uqPIfxE9lawaXjIBEdpOxyHij7tknNk/s400/img027.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Was this <i>entirely</i> appropriate for a school production?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_37PEMwi2Y4f9erh7M4JblAKcKUhMPa-4A5o3I9550KJ6eqKQg9utPZmyazOQeB9M_rhyphenhyphenUCheeDNnGQxQYMWT5YvKBVZnqWw3GoVD4C-MIiU8n9gFPlx3w1RmkJnNqprVptFs-2QT7dY/s1600/img028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_37PEMwi2Y4f9erh7M4JblAKcKUhMPa-4A5o3I9550KJ6eqKQg9utPZmyazOQeB9M_rhyphenhyphenUCheeDNnGQxQYMWT5YvKBVZnqWw3GoVD4C-MIiU8n9gFPlx3w1RmkJnNqprVptFs-2QT7dY/s400/img028.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I really have no idea...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Drive a vehicle in a swimming pool.<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">OK, this might just be an excuse for another silly picture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh47j3WWBByOvTCLAXjuopIqkcKBdtcYJSKvlY_sYBwaiktKBF3GwxmmcBvPCiorJ0jqmlrWqolS6Z_K_o8j75irHpGcciaIRY_xEZXuEmRyxRrlnHGYZCNbKJSXiXec1jRiO47SF-gH3M/s1600/img019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh47j3WWBByOvTCLAXjuopIqkcKBdtcYJSKvlY_sYBwaiktKBF3GwxmmcBvPCiorJ0jqmlrWqolS6Z_K_o8j75irHpGcciaIRY_xEZXuEmRyxRrlnHGYZCNbKJSXiXec1jRiO47SF-gH3M/s400/img019.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Fake an illness to get out of school<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, you see, the Chicken Pox was going
round, but I didn’t have it. This seemed somewhat unfair, since it meant I was
going to school when most of my friends weren’t. I decided to remedy this. The
scheme must have been schemed well in advance, as when I rose in the deep dark
depths of the night, I already had the equipment to hand, and there is no way
mum would have let me keep a permanent marker in my bedroom. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojj-XJ6shLlp1i3N0FUnk6gTEU8_ROsj7tNuRoPFbY4dT42qg8LDPmLlK2BTkEX-lHPOGOrGYXOAdtC-xxGGS84bXyGLoprQNBiehIWfhN-EIi55YRFL35LcqOmzpQm0pECufo7VBdss/s1600/img010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgojj-XJ6shLlp1i3N0FUnk6gTEU8_ROsj7tNuRoPFbY4dT42qg8LDPmLlK2BTkEX-lHPOGOrGYXOAdtC-xxGGS84bXyGLoprQNBiehIWfhN-EIi55YRFL35LcqOmzpQm0pECufo7VBdss/s400/img010.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">To her full credit as a good sport, I seem
to remember mum keeping me off school anyway. I do believe that my father (a
consummate actor) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually</i> managed to
get his appendix whipped out, just so that he could get out of games… Like
father like daughter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">See the Taj Majal at sunrise<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There’s not much to say about this other
than, erm, do it. That is one heck of an extraordinary building.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAhGEcYFNwlSPnf-CQBqPKTco1_T3HzhNj1iAjdNaiA69ghim0OtB91ShK8jVZh1OtdahGbQ9UWXWVcYrl7o5marg1kvclMhDaUrBAh1wRdFzyJ7A35pZWCmpES6DnIugr_ZQr6DiraA/s1600/img004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAhGEcYFNwlSPnf-CQBqPKTco1_T3HzhNj1iAjdNaiA69ghim0OtB91ShK8jVZh1OtdahGbQ9UWXWVcYrl7o5marg1kvclMhDaUrBAh1wRdFzyJ7A35pZWCmpES6DnIugr_ZQr6DiraA/s400/img004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and the Taj. And a puppy I found.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Ride an elephant, a camel, and a horse.
Have henna tattoos. Break a bone.<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">If you go to India, the chances are that at
some stage you will end up hitching a ride on an elephant, it’s kind of the
done thing. As is having henna tattoos on your hands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97OpRl1WZ-nxzSlbxkBQHJyHCuL7n2ycJRSI_h-AzQ923xrNC7nDCicND6qvkgSN_qMv8EiCfJid5USolLKU2hNcq_ptFBJqUpdyVw7mu9Gcn4dEz-1axTmcMpI5Szwnu3sTvTM9Fhtk/s1600/img021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh97OpRl1WZ-nxzSlbxkBQHJyHCuL7n2ycJRSI_h-AzQ923xrNC7nDCicND6qvkgSN_qMv8EiCfJid5USolLKU2hNcq_ptFBJqUpdyVw7mu9Gcn4dEz-1axTmcMpI5Szwnu3sTvTM9Fhtk/s320/img021.jpg" width="205" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguynudfNHK67dZyZDhlB-P-FTFOsLIXdHWW-RR2KZb2GTFD9QrsTo36KnWNF0qbts8ufywwNwz1kLKw2vrUQJ4vtdDh2YDbFdO6Emk_F722Z1JdomM5qI7V-rmHyMGo79CUbFVon-Me1k/s1600/img005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguynudfNHK67dZyZDhlB-P-FTFOsLIXdHWW-RR2KZb2GTFD9QrsTo36KnWNF0qbts8ufywwNwz1kLKw2vrUQJ4vtdDh2YDbFdO6Emk_F722Z1JdomM5qI7V-rmHyMGo79CUbFVon-Me1k/s400/img005.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have this idea that I might secretly be
an amazing horsewoman if only my dad would do the right thing and buy me a
pony. But I also secretly know that I’m wrong. I love horses, but am useless
astride one. My thus far one-and-only broken bone (left clavicle) came courtesy
of a white mare that decided she’d had enough. Does anyone know where I can go
to ride an ostrich?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DBJwKBgD8vGQWfHK8a6TeWSxQj2HSfqZWqjSmbHwBxy7Gnj9zfdDCKrgVOUhNKgsJxEydLm6_a3ChWCoID7NhF9v0ELskR2POaG0l1lAIBxPp8LoATSpbaPUVksS2heVFFlMKCqLDtU/s1600/img009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DBJwKBgD8vGQWfHK8a6TeWSxQj2HSfqZWqjSmbHwBxy7Gnj9zfdDCKrgVOUhNKgsJxEydLm6_a3ChWCoID7NhF9v0ELskR2POaG0l1lAIBxPp8LoATSpbaPUVksS2heVFFlMKCqLDtU/s640/img009.jpg" width="446" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and the broken bone. And a truly terrible fringe.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Have a radical hair cut<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I was in my early teens. I went to visit my
brother in Copenhagen. I let a mad Danish hairdresser cut off all my hair with
a razor. It was NOT a good look. I will NOT be doing it again. Yes, there is
pictorial evidence, but NO, I am not going to show it to you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
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<!--StartFragment-->
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-decoration: underline;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Scuba dive<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 115%;">You’re under water,
but you can breathe. There are fish. It’s ace. Here’s me early on in my
sub-aquatic career.</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-decoration: underline;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DRhp8c8TInNz4agAEG_sjuEYRIhOO1fbimr4GIYlmzfYfwWjN8r42QO5fXk3IhjaAm-8D7_8UPjt8arYSjIBtNu2-xSzhYOa93E3E6YlfZNikFbB5XkTd05tjc3cxabEqOCphs_TZy8/s1600/img007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DRhp8c8TInNz4agAEG_sjuEYRIhOO1fbimr4GIYlmzfYfwWjN8r42QO5fXk3IhjaAm-8D7_8UPjt8arYSjIBtNu2-xSzhYOa93E3E6YlfZNikFbB5XkTd05tjc3cxabEqOCphs_TZy8/s640/img007.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
And here’s me
having the correct breathing technique explained by my uncle <a href="http://www.federicocabello.com/" target="_blank">Federico Cabello</a>, underwater
photographer extraordinaire. Oops, I have inadvertently given you a glimpse of
the HAIRCUT OF DOOM.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqc_zv_Y6M8v5mq_Qo2bEhXGphQoX1lNg6c3SvB0Q1Ak2SajEReZOOwVAby7rW_R5X2ct0zfT_ZL-Y-1u6A_rphWtMZbS5MGpK_gEWx-5JFHQ6KR23X7Ts3WIijMzwgYyMt2a4tV0vRw/s1600/img003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwqc_zv_Y6M8v5mq_Qo2bEhXGphQoX1lNg6c3SvB0Q1Ak2SajEReZOOwVAby7rW_R5X2ct0zfT_ZL-Y-1u6A_rphWtMZbS5MGpK_gEWx-5JFHQ6KR23X7Ts3WIijMzwgYyMt2a4tV0vRw/s400/img003.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Play a saxophone to a goat.</span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">There actually IS a photograph of this, but
I can't find it. Which is sad. And also probably a good thing.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><u>Drive a jet ski, a snow mobile, and a quad bike.</u></span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB">I shall never, in all my life, forget the sound of my father howling with laughter as I drove the quad bike, full speed, up a bank and into a large bush.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Bungee Jump<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0bTwWvO8SRYEbMy8PYxk6o5i9pqGY-jfJxLEnCiyk6ihAkIR6ksHfB9ulF-CC8IMPdCvfA9IMihWfEbvvOMaS5aa5GRQFLkVXQBLpw9gufZfDRXH5Ruw3BEuzpse6ZIzBzy0PWekGRo/s1600/img012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0bTwWvO8SRYEbMy8PYxk6o5i9pqGY-jfJxLEnCiyk6ihAkIR6ksHfB9ulF-CC8IMPdCvfA9IMihWfEbvvOMaS5aa5GRQFLkVXQBLpw9gufZfDRXH5Ruw3BEuzpse6ZIzBzy0PWekGRo/s400/img012.jpg" width="266" /></a><span lang="EN-GB">My friend Jane and I went camping in France
when we were 17. She was determined to do a bungee jump at the local funfair. I
thought she was nuts, but when we got there I realised that if I let the
opportunity pass I was going to spend the rest of the holiday feeling like a
wet blanket. So I stood up in the queue with her, trembling with terror. When
the man asked us if we wanted separate jumps, or a tandem jump, the answer was
obvious. So up we went together, in a rickety old crane, Jane’s parents
standing complacently below with the camera. At the top of the crane, the man
holding on to our harness asked if we were ready. My answer was a definite and
decided no. He let go anyway. Jane whooped with a combination of fear and
delight. As we were falling, I was completely and utterly silent. It was a
strange and profound moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew that
I was definitely going to die, smashed on the concrete of a French funfair. I
had nothing to say about this imminent death. I was going with dignity. On the
first bounce, Jane asked me if I was OK. I regained my senses and started
screaming like a madwoman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Skydive<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Yes! Do this! It is amazing! I have never
given so many thumbs up in all my life. My face in the moment just before I
fall from the plane is absolutely priceless. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qf0GPpvwhGoVROAt-DzegQ0NtOX3WKeyuoT9eqPNBH9HkyV1jbYRsmruTID1cSY7QfVouxBDex5iYNkO0bB8AX2S-luEz55tP9gTNHWvC_aio4yaze46lD-TuUHd6GWCIh8qIhuKPY4/s1600/73_23381545600_6845_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6qf0GPpvwhGoVROAt-DzegQ0NtOX3WKeyuoT9eqPNBH9HkyV1jbYRsmruTID1cSY7QfVouxBDex5iYNkO0bB8AX2S-luEz55tP9gTNHWvC_aio4yaze46lD-TuUHd6GWCIh8qIhuKPY4/s400/73_23381545600_6845_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What a rush. I don’t want to gush on too
much about this, but I still get an adrenaline surge when I describe the
experience, or watch the video. It was a fantastic experience, and I highly
recommend it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1UqjoIMfLH8709Gnha2XQrIjyLDIM6rw8XTC8scAnZf3Euggt7J4RoPP1TDrsgzQjSDhcQp3EjbmM5PilrvWFqkEDWRLU6i7uWgXAmnvPdE6Rx2bc1YFShNc86QoWU5BscgeIJ9TCZ0/s1600/73_23381590600_9084_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1UqjoIMfLH8709Gnha2XQrIjyLDIM6rw8XTC8scAnZf3Euggt7J4RoPP1TDrsgzQjSDhcQp3EjbmM5PilrvWFqkEDWRLU6i7uWgXAmnvPdE6Rx2bc1YFShNc86QoWU5BscgeIJ9TCZ0/s320/73_23381590600_9084_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Crash a car<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A mile or so outside Biggleswade South,
Jane turned to me and said “Biggleswade South” what a funny name, wouldn’t it
be horrible to crash there? So, erm, I crashed there, neatly parking my biscuit
tin of a Fiat Seicento right in the middle of a raised roundabout on the A1. A
friendly policeman happened by a few moments later. After leaning close to
check my breath, and realising that I was not drunk, but rather a moronic and
inexperienced driver, he kindly informed me that I wasn’t allowed to park
there. Everyone’s a comedian.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Jump off the high diving board.</span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Scaring my father half to death in the process.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Perform at the Royal Albert Hall</span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Schools Proms, circa 1997, I think. I danced.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><u>Go to Disney World</u></span><br />
Epic waste of money. I was <i>way</i> more interested in the lizards on my hotel balcony than the people in the giant costumes.<br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<u>Camp</u><br />
In a tent, and everything.<br />
<br />
<u>Go to Glastonbury music festival</u><br />
Right at the front for David Bowie, I was.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Get a university degree.<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Trust me, I've been to college...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Ride a tandem bicycle.<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I mostly remember this because I ripped my favorite jeans in the gear mechanism.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-GB"><u>Ride on the back of a motorbike</u></span><br />
Back when my dad still thought he was Paul Newman.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><u>Get actually-off-my-face drunk</u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Once, and never, ever again. True story.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Touch a stingray<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Is it cheating if this was in the
SeaLife Centre in Boulogne? Well, even if it is cheating, I got an almighty
rash. Leave the rays in peace, people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Sleep in a castle<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><a href="http://www.amberleycastle.co.uk/" target="_blank">Amberly Castle</a>, to be precise. Another
extraordinary and beautiful building. I particularly appreciated the giant
bath.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSXlv9tDKAo8NPG-49HLOUYJYRkJS1RuhZBZA09-SdXtfl-VW5CBRUh6ZyxkzSHSfRdc8RWq_oUUACQJW7M-k_o8F5wFPZ0anQbpGQ7CC_ZsoSeX2BL0CTdB171Seq8goJGjYYnun-kA/s1600/2053_135825290600_4262_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSXlv9tDKAo8NPG-49HLOUYJYRkJS1RuhZBZA09-SdXtfl-VW5CBRUh6ZyxkzSHSfRdc8RWq_oUUACQJW7M-k_o8F5wFPZ0anQbpGQ7CC_ZsoSeX2BL0CTdB171Seq8goJGjYYnun-kA/s400/2053_135825290600_4262_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">White Water Rafting<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I’ve done this twice, once in India and
once in Costa Rica. As far as I am concerned, this is the most fun it is
possible to have with rubber. Bring on the rapids. But also be prepared for a
20 minute safety briefing that leaves you utterly convinced that you’re unlikely
to make it home alive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnb80VTznvbtyVD2PIq6g0lHkCeNY391T6pG5MnzAcM__dQ1_7Ua7ygwTj_X86AuB7J6_57PJssR9cEugHbBYBxVHNAAcIAn1s-035pbmYNzLBuTkysj_XzmhbTK0mBjB6U2DwBh8qAZA/s1600/img018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnb80VTznvbtyVD2PIq6g0lHkCeNY391T6pG5MnzAcM__dQ1_7Ua7ygwTj_X86AuB7J6_57PJssR9cEugHbBYBxVHNAAcIAn1s-035pbmYNzLBuTkysj_XzmhbTK0mBjB6U2DwBh8qAZA/s400/img018.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyKcwbu9khrW1qMUxjxh0Cckdd-uAc0BD7evyuisE1ziu36nH9L6DfEdh6rTXIxMy90ztvhqHG9cTX_uk4a7Aa4aboTlcBYhb_PsdmmMHvx3hhwIxwwx1fRFAOHA0NW3AnsMA5D00zX4/s1600/6528_270896940600_5745290_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDyKcwbu9khrW1qMUxjxh0Cckdd-uAc0BD7evyuisE1ziu36nH9L6DfEdh6rTXIxMy90ztvhqHG9cTX_uk4a7Aa4aboTlcBYhb_PsdmmMHvx3hhwIxwwx1fRFAOHA0NW3AnsMA5D00zX4/s400/6528_270896940600_5745290_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Still rocking the neon life jacket, twenty years later.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Skinny dip</span></u><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Happily, no pictorial evidence of this. Feels
nice, though.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Ski/Snowboard<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">I worked two seasons in a ski resort in the
French Alps just after university. I have little technique on either skis or a
board, but I love them both.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDE7FvsIfEjiRMtpgSK4-_h5h1LS3GhzarYB4rw5Aw0a3INkte0BpEqylKgwzsQ2tN-TEwjUkuZxJD5upm01NeApW9rMxh-RAPMcAkB-o-uCeytGXJdCQje8kllmmtiEz64-EfG6217Y/s1600/img008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDE7FvsIfEjiRMtpgSK4-_h5h1LS3GhzarYB4rw5Aw0a3INkte0BpEqylKgwzsQ2tN-TEwjUkuZxJD5upm01NeApW9rMxh-RAPMcAkB-o-uCeytGXJdCQje8kllmmtiEz64-EfG6217Y/s400/img008.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u>
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Drive a dogsled</span></u><br />
Mush!<br />
<u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u>
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Volunteer<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Aside from raising money for charity
several times, with sponsored activities and bake sales (I once baked 150 fairy
cakes in one session) I have also volunteered my time, working in a homeless
shelter on Christmas Eve. The impetus for this was all mum’s though, and I am
thinking that the time has come to do something else along these lines. Any
ideas?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Shoot a gun<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">At clay pigeons, I hasten to add. And,
whilst I am not a vegetarian, and part of me feels that it would be a valuable
life experience to kill something and prepare it to be eaten, I am such a lousy
shot that I would undoubtedly cause unnecessary suffering. So I shall pass on
that one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Catch a fish<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Obviously, the same boyfriend who was
captain of the clay pigeons also had a lake in his back garden. That’s normal,
right? The fish went back in the water unscathed. Actually, I have to say that
I quite enjoyed fishing, and would like to try it again. It was kind of
peaceful and meditative.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRKclPdCiNprgxXfo1IYQs3FRRXRy2-hpywv9uhx2RO44sSpwV6y16I3H3oajmUXpL9GeG7ECm1aj75Y5QoFtrVU1HO9yDxrKqQGDOxZ7v1xOMVg7-61m_7i2DUjRu0O3qa99ESLK_P0/s1600/img024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRKclPdCiNprgxXfo1IYQs3FRRXRy2-hpywv9uhx2RO44sSpwV6y16I3H3oajmUXpL9GeG7ECm1aj75Y5QoFtrVU1HO9yDxrKqQGDOxZ7v1xOMVg7-61m_7i2DUjRu0O3qa99ESLK_P0/s640/img024.jpg" width="449" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I showed aptitude for fishing from an early age. I also make a pretty good gnome.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<!--StartFragment-->
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-decoration: underline;">
<span style="font-family: Times;">Watch live sports (rugby, football, ice hockey.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times; line-height: 115%;">There was even a
streaker at the ice hockey. Seriously, if you´re going to streak, you may as
well streak on ice, right?</span><span lang="EN-GB" style="text-decoration: underline;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Canoe/Kayak<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<u><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></u></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BaqZ5TRpq316YULziJPxBY6Y0gOxSJZD8gLjsGiGLuawnSisNorK1Qr61fMwCtc_a5QqJCbDxplmwCe_FakvRKoeTSikWr2q2ZT2u-eNmJ-m6hCjTEFIbObzIT5eWXLso4FRJq3CfD4/s1600/38300_10150244113645601_6050547_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2BaqZ5TRpq316YULziJPxBY6Y0gOxSJZD8gLjsGiGLuawnSisNorK1Qr61fMwCtc_a5QqJCbDxplmwCe_FakvRKoeTSikWr2q2ZT2u-eNmJ-m6hCjTEFIbObzIT5eWXLso4FRJq3CfD4/s320/38300_10150244113645601_6050547_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Whale and Dolphin watching</span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Whales and dolphins make you feel good.
It’s just a fact.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Climb a mountain</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kilimanjaro was certainly the greatest mountain climbing challenge I’ve ever undertaken, and it beat me right at the end, with a healthy dose of altitude sickness. However, I <i>have</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none;"> been to the top of Borneo’s beautiful Mt Kinabalu, the highest mountain in South East Asia. Oh, and Cader Idris, in Wales.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Buy a house<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As with so many of these challenges,
there’s no way I could have done it without tremendous help. The deposit is
part gift and part loan from my mum, but the mortgage is all me, paid with my
own fair hands. It can be a burden, but it feels good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Soak in a natural hot spring<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">What's not to love about this?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><u>Go on Safari</u></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Well, </span>it’s only polite to visit the Ngorongoro Crater whilst in Tanzania…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp8FtYceii5ZTIU_YpHFZ2nk2bzxuPWzSxFCcunQx3Cexxrb-oJfeIzdMetQnCUEUhNqnTIK4pVnUHaQxnwOME5OeIoSROdDH7CVcDZoyuzBwvdoh7Rx4QBw10sPc4dYbBT2df0uNBUk/s1600/Tanzania+2011+373.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYp8FtYceii5ZTIU_YpHFZ2nk2bzxuPWzSxFCcunQx3Cexxrb-oJfeIzdMetQnCUEUhNqnTIK4pVnUHaQxnwOME5OeIoSROdDH7CVcDZoyuzBwvdoh7Rx4QBw10sPc4dYbBT2df0uNBUk/s640/Tanzania+2011+373.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><span lang="EN-GB">Convince a tortoise to make sweet love
to my shoe.<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">No, I´m not proud of this. But I did laugh.
A lot. OK. I might be a little bit proud of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjf8TKS1iG3AbfUL2s5l_R0zrl0ojao_3DLu69cE4voP_cxjl5efPB7S-bLThg1abpupxzi-XOf1JVWQQNcn2nW4I8yJFtcdAWjncZMsNstC2n050UGR72BGH3jz88sQ7UuFR5TGz26Yo/s1600/5208_231491690600_361742_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjf8TKS1iG3AbfUL2s5l_R0zrl0ojao_3DLu69cE4voP_cxjl5efPB7S-bLThg1abpupxzi-XOf1JVWQQNcn2nW4I8yJFtcdAWjncZMsNstC2n050UGR72BGH3jz88sQ7UuFR5TGz26Yo/s640/5208_231491690600_361742_n.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I feel there’s no better way too end this reminisce-a-thon than with the delightful image of a tortoise making love to a Birkenstock, so
that’s all for now. Except to say that I’m STILL looking for ideas for my final
fourteen challenges, so if you have any, please do drop me at email to: 30atthirty@gmail.com<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Ohh, and also, for my next post I’m going
to be writing about uploading my first ever video to YouTube. I’d love to get a
few more page views before I do, so please <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAnuKI3z3hg" target="_blank">go and check it out</a>, if you haven´t
already. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Happy New Year everyone! May 2013 give you the opportunity to have a lot of fun and take a lot of silly pictures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-70085985283587496472012-12-29T04:26:00.002-08:002012-12-29T04:28:40.306-08:00Gold? Sold.
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I love
driving away from the charity shop, both my car and my conscience lighter than
when I set out. Dropping off a whopping great bag of dust gathering knickknacks and clothes I'll never wear again is, for me, a truly cathartic experience.
Knowing that someone else might get some use or pleasure out of said rejects,
and that the money earned is for a good cause are both a bonus. But what I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>like is the space where once
there was clutter. The absence of things that I neither want nor need.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAkI1HBoHefMOC-m4gYWUvYwzfrHyaiIFG8AhlhRkXxfvs714VOmY9pQZixodIkNgfLHsDJsazC6_UkAxQDAbzmofgkNx0iJI2mJjRntBzJWXdHkUHErcktG77EhEcoLu0lNSTZ6UX9Y8/s1600/DSC_0445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAkI1HBoHefMOC-m4gYWUvYwzfrHyaiIFG8AhlhRkXxfvs714VOmY9pQZixodIkNgfLHsDJsazC6_UkAxQDAbzmofgkNx0iJI2mJjRntBzJWXdHkUHErcktG77EhEcoLu0lNSTZ6UX9Y8/s400/DSC_0445.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dreaded drawer of useless clutter.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Funnily enough,
however, I have never embarked on a selling kick. Once I decide I don't want
something, I like to see it off the premises as swiftly as is humanly possible.
I don't really have the patience to take pictures of it looking pretty, put it
on EBay, wait for someone to buy it, and then schlep off down to the Post
Office, most likely all for a measly profit. Sounds like a mug's game to me,
even though I know full well that people make tidy little sums from doing just
that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So, this
blog is all about my first experience of selling something. For the first time
in my life I came out of a shop better off than I was when I went in. I suspect this
will not happen many times in my life, so I'm glad to have an excuse to note it
down for posterity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">For my 21<sup>st</sup>
birthday, my then-boyfriend gave me a matching necklace and bracelet, in white
gold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Said boyfriend had persuaded my
best friend on a FOUR HOUR shopping trip to help him choose it. During this shopping
trip he forbade her from entering any clothes shops, but browsed in a camera
shop for a good 45 minutes. On the way back, she asked if he'd wait whilst she
popped into the supermarket. He said he didn't have time and left her to catch
a bus. After all that, he'd chosen the jewellery on his own anyway.
Unsurprisingly, my friend was not impressed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">I of
course, was VERY impressed. WHITE GOLD? It was undoubtedly the most expensive
present I'd ever received from a boyfriend. The necklace didn't half catch at
those little hairs at the back of my neck, but I was besotted and wore it
non-stop. Until he dumped me, when I took it off, put it, and the bracelet,
back in the box, and forgot about it as swiftly as I could. It's been in the
box, in a drawer at my mum's house, for nearly ten years. Every now and again
I'd get it out and wonder what the heck to do with it. There is no pain
associated with that relationship now, but no sentimentality either. We were a
highly unlikely couple, and I was the only one who couldn't see it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Blah blah
blah. The necklace. <o:p></o:p></span>On a whim, I decided to try and sell it, just to see what it felt like. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-f8dtJg5rfTZcLTuNBV1itfi3gf-TbDRemy-wqhuc1UoskLmamMjFSOwoSIBKmube531K357nRTNOGpXymAhUcVQAleufLwCRpD29Mei87s6O2xvA6xSlvmw8m12gnuGXgADkP5XiGI/s1600/img001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9-f8dtJg5rfTZcLTuNBV1itfi3gf-TbDRemy-wqhuc1UoskLmamMjFSOwoSIBKmube531K357nRTNOGpXymAhUcVQAleufLwCRpD29Mei87s6O2xvA6xSlvmw8m12gnuGXgADkP5XiGI/s640/img001.jpg" width="481" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The offending necklace, in use.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Once upon a
time the small Spanish town of Estepona was all about family businesses; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cafeterías</i>, bakeries, boutiques for
older ladies and quirky little jewellery shops selling a mix of antiques and
modern pieces. Then, suddenly, between last summer and this Christmas, the WE
BUY GOLD stores appeared. Not one or two of them, but at least six, with
their gaudy signs and security windows. They look alien and ugly in this gentle
place, a sign of the terrible times that have hit Spain during the current
economic crisis. I feel an inherent distaste for places that seem to take
advantage of people's encroaching poverty in order to make a fast profit. But
then again, if selling an old piece of precious metal means the difference
between having a family Christmas or not, maybe these places are not such a bad thing. I
consider myself extremely fortunate to have been selling something simply out of curiosity, and because I had no desire to keep
it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">So, down in
Estepona, mum and I trotted into the first of the big gold buying shops. I
handed the necklace across the counter (protected by bullet-proof glass, of
course) and we watched as the man set about rubbing the chain on a stone,
leaving a faint orange scuff. Intriguing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then he took a little glass vial from his alchemist kit, and dripped
some clear liquid onto the stone. The scuff made by the necklace disappeared.
He repeated the process, dripping liquid from a second vial. Same again. Then
again, from a third. By this time, mum and I had our noses pressed right up
against the glass. “What” she asked, “has to happen, exactly?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjpTYf9Y4c9G10tGi-7EIfZeGfX1H5zH7oEb2ifw8PnKDS2n-NsTaaJJzR3xHNW4rXDg0okvPUvkUX0tUBVy7aJ6x8MSOwnmAUXE-bvXOyWNSciZmSXwYNlwAldeR1v0xYwefuUNftZwE/s1600/Unknown-4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjpTYf9Y4c9G10tGi-7EIfZeGfX1H5zH7oEb2ifw8PnKDS2n-NsTaaJJzR3xHNW4rXDg0okvPUvkUX0tUBVy7aJ6x8MSOwnmAUXE-bvXOyWNSciZmSXwYNlwAldeR1v0xYwefuUNftZwE/s400/Unknown-4.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The alchemist´s equipment.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“I'm
testing for the quality of the gold” he explained. "The little mark made by the
gold has to stay on the stone.” He turned the vials towards us. The first said
18k. The second, 14k, the third, 9k. “The mark <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almost</i> stays with the 9k solution, but it fades a bit, meaning this
is pretty poor quality gold, just under nine karats. And it's very light too”
he said, putting the necklace and bracelet derisively on his little scales. The
$ signs disappeared from before my eyes, and mum and I whispered a synchronised
“cheapskate” under our breaths. We were referring, or course, to the old
boyfriend, rather than the gold guy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvUYNUpGFdi_QKtXyfpULs8mHCb2LUSKkoefP8ILlSTkdOumvqg0zkFvQUr7yqJZH_k_BgBoNyz-8jIyqNyb5qfzK3EAJfcUMAkhcOzONdCdnbrVVOqxmSjB9VQtiap8MCLPy56Sdvs0I/s1600/Unknown-9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvUYNUpGFdi_QKtXyfpULs8mHCb2LUSKkoefP8ILlSTkdOumvqg0zkFvQUr7yqJZH_k_BgBoNyz-8jIyqNyb5qfzK3EAJfcUMAkhcOzONdCdnbrVVOqxmSjB9VQtiap8MCLPy56Sdvs0I/s400/Unknown-9.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not quite nine karats. Get it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“So, what's
it worth?” I asked. He explained that he wasn't really allowed to buy gold that
was under nine karats. He might be able to get authorisation from the big boss,
but he could probably only give us €70, max. I was unimpressed, especially since the
rubbing against the stone had buckled the delicate necklace so that it didn't have much value as a piece of jewellery anymore, either. “You
could try the other places” he said, “they might give you a better price. If
not, come back to me.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">This seemed
sensible, so mum and I went round the corner to shop number two. Shop number two wouldn't
touch my just-under-nine-karat-nonsense with a dirty barge pole. In shop number three, we had to queue behind a lady who was selling something for €450. She
looked deeply sad when the gold purchaser wished her <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">felices fiestas</i>, happy holidays, and I was reminded that I really
didn't have to worry about what I made from the necklace. This guy was also unimpressed with my flimsy offering, but
proposed €50. I may have been relaxed about the price, but I wasn't quite silly
enough to take €20 less than I'd already been offered. So, as is so often the
case when shopping around, we ended up back at the place we started.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwirCPhpCaa1zu_NoiaoqjG7tJDw1RouxaIusCdN4o15vFhmwctgjeECdSbonJXCqWGrVWxYZn1emeAsHFU214NnXdDz_-YO3bWBJO9E1u0iJiBp9M62Wwkyv_30mUvAYl5cMnG7dMDb4/s1600/Unknown-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwirCPhpCaa1zu_NoiaoqjG7tJDw1RouxaIusCdN4o15vFhmwctgjeECdSbonJXCqWGrVWxYZn1emeAsHFU214NnXdDz_-YO3bWBJO9E1u0iJiBp9M62Wwkyv_30mUvAYl5cMnG7dMDb4/s320/Unknown-2.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The necklace is admonished for being significantly under weight.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">“No one
else buys nine karat” I lied, demonstrating my clearly superior bartering
instincts. He weighed the gold again, made a quick phone call, and we agreed on
the €70. I suspect my ex-boyfriend paid slightly more than this in H. Samuel, back in the day, but there
was no way in hell I was going home with the jewellery in my bag. I handed over
my ID and the gold guy tapped away at his computer. Meanwhile, I
asked mum to take some pictures with my phone. We snapped me in
front of the sign:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLyy7_8aEK33Q5yyxCMtxcJGg2ykURWVZbRSBxzBUq0RECEDbuJM2mSR__3NKILW4R3sO71Rizd4nmqB88raqdAd-vlDGsnFJ2z-Wsal7wQW5B9REs61Tb7RUOuZaaIWJAsgtr8j0qkk/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDLyy7_8aEK33Q5yyxCMtxcJGg2ykURWVZbRSBxzBUq0RECEDbuJM2mSR__3NKILW4R3sO71Rizd4nmqB88raqdAd-vlDGsnFJ2z-Wsal7wQW5B9REs61Tb7RUOuZaaIWJAsgtr8j0qkk/s640/Unknown.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apparently these people buy gold. Who´d have thought it?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkBqDWwH6BD6OTFHP_Zv9eJa_cSkdYtLWhGT7uirk4naUEPW8_v-VvPlfDqHmfaN7RK3HFT33TSPd4L2o5xk7Wnd08F2LsC4KCn4SY-LABgV5MUlM-ArRAmQHg3ylRmkB1Df_yXSfhHFg/s1600/Unknown-5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkBqDWwH6BD6OTFHP_Zv9eJa_cSkdYtLWhGT7uirk4naUEPW8_v-VvPlfDqHmfaN7RK3HFT33TSPd4L2o5xk7Wnd08F2LsC4KCn4SY-LABgV5MUlM-ArRAmQHg3ylRmkB1Df_yXSfhHFg/s320/Unknown-5.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Signed, sealed, delivered.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">We snapped the tools, and the jewellery sitting on the
scales. When we snapped me signing the contract, the guy couldn't help himself.
“You two really do like to keep memories of everything, don't you?” “Oh yes”
we agreed, “now just hold still and smile whilst you hand over the cash.” I
think he'll remember us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt
lighter when I left, and not just because I wasn´t carrying the necklace, which
I think we have established didn't weigh very much. I suppose <i>part</i> of me wishes
someone else could have found pleasure in wearing it, but there's also some
magic in the idea of it being melted down and made into something new.
Hopefully it will meet some other white gold and will be able to get over its
complex about being so flimsy. It is probably too much to hope that it ever
knows the glory of being greater than nine karats, but I certainly hope that
its next incarnation is worn or enjoyed, and that it doesn't find its way back
to a drawer too soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqq0abqpn5bzZZpr88CqiQfk6MIFayUEDePU2JYy1Sh_O4UOLDmEPkEBHzvZfKdflVL0EhVts0PO_6yMoPUkyciKijBh6CDSq-h_9KbS8jZ49A_1HMw5L5aG9exiadcvtELQKOwa5RQI/s1600/Unknown-6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqq0abqpn5bzZZpr88CqiQfk6MIFayUEDePU2JYy1Sh_O4UOLDmEPkEBHzvZfKdflVL0EhVts0PO_6yMoPUkyciKijBh6CDSq-h_9KbS8jZ49A_1HMw5L5aG9exiadcvtELQKOwa5RQI/s400/Unknown-6.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The gold guy gamely poses for a pic.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">As for me,
I have €70 sitting in my wallet and just dying to be spent on something that
I'll really enjoy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmqvF6ESdINdDBU2Qbg8EYhJLxh5PxRC62f5MgTvToQ80XFFLHq7vMmnKLnR7GNuHvhFrlEeojQEVpBQ02f9p_9ahihGojEeQFfqzOSGCawrbITkJHrHGnSCjuB6S_kxlDCXkNWj83AA/s1600/Unknown-8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtmqvF6ESdINdDBU2Qbg8EYhJLxh5PxRC62f5MgTvToQ80XFFLHq7vMmnKLnR7GNuHvhFrlEeojQEVpBQ02f9p_9ahihGojEeQFfqzOSGCawrbITkJHrHGnSCjuB6S_kxlDCXkNWj83AA/s400/Unknown-8.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">And, should the need ever arise, I now know that I have the
killer instincts required to sell off the silver candlesticks for a tremendous
profit. Or maybe not.</span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;">Sixteen
down, fourteen to go…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-64595397894713402092012-12-19T18:36:00.004-08:002012-12-19T18:39:03.810-08:00All by myself.<br />
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<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It is somehow apt that this post should mark the halfway point of
the Thirty@30 experience. Challenge number fifteen is not one that I have
chosen. It is not one that anyone has suggested. It is not, perhaps, an unusual
challenge; millions of people all around the world do it every day. But for me,
it is completely new. For the first time in my life, I am living on my own.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRJxsiI0EhqZIH985ipX14QGmwNx3e0PoLwwDxOTGpnEstGUGkBVdsZwUuMBpo_EeW4ldDLIA5UUxqWUl43UUGvkx-4Knsd-iI9eiyW29aIQFrxuXTPn4xpNZ2dAL8qHRng-qT7ITjik/s1600/bridget-wine-copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinRJxsiI0EhqZIH985ipX14QGmwNx3e0PoLwwDxOTGpnEstGUGkBVdsZwUuMBpo_EeW4ldDLIA5UUxqWUl43UUGvkx-4Knsd-iI9eiyW29aIQFrxuXTPn4xpNZ2dAL8qHRng-qT7ITjik/s400/bridget-wine-copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aside from the fact that I neither drink nor own pyjamas, this is basically me...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I have had a few different living arrangements in my life. Home
was mum and me, just the two of us for nigh-on eighteen years. Then university, where I had a small room in a beehive full of
people my own age. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After university, I worked two ski seasons in the French Alps, with
trips to my mum and dad - respectively in Spain and London - in between. In
France it was three girls to a room; the first time I had ever shared my
sleeping space with anyone else for an extended period of time. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">When I moved back to London I took a room in the house of a
friend. Then I moved in with my boyfriend. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I suppose, technically, that I lived on
my own when that relationship broke down, but I was already in love with
Justin, and spent most of my time at his home. I never felt alone. Until, after nearly five years together, Justin
moved out two weeks ago. This isn't the place for an evaluation of my relationship, but I need to state that this isn't Justin's fault. Or mine. It's just one of those stupid, inexplicable little disasters that happen along the way.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkpRlT9z9m_2NMYHhTcc7DnuiRP68q4moz0HjXuwz1Hd84Qn4hxARqUq4Gu2aryWCS1gB_mVeeylc6y8u5I54Ht8HNU8wtdPvECTCNFFKc1_2lJu71q21g5evokCveKmYGEDwt5xXDTE/s1600/trackback-spam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBkpRlT9z9m_2NMYHhTcc7DnuiRP68q4moz0HjXuwz1Hd84Qn4hxARqUq4Gu2aryWCS1gB_mVeeylc6y8u5I54Ht8HNU8wtdPvECTCNFFKc1_2lJu71q21g5evokCveKmYGEDwt5xXDTE/s200/trackback-spam.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This is not a post about heartbreak, though right now my heart is
broken. It has been broken before, and I suspect will break again, if I am
granted life beyond the forthcoming end of the world, due in approximately
twenty-four hours. I am writing this on December 20th, 2012. The Mayan calendar
comes to an abrupt halt on the 21st, and there are people out there who are in possession of enough Spam and bottled water to survive the inevitable apocalypse.
Personally, I have just purchased a box of FORTY TWO Ferrero Rocher, which I
think will effectively serve the same purpose, as well as tasting considerably
nicer than Spam. I<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>have</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>just eaten seven of them, but I'll
slow down now. Honest. I will.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CXsjdd_B7wNCS2OUDC0D8ZiyaYdlI42_TyFRLV_pPQDYeVR6r9ProJDketmSrnoLp1OxOKLX4bIcVk2d8hpiqDlfxs3C8O49IZRFgDL8i8agg4G8ytKrAmuKHEpURHZrjoqYupNvs2k/s1600/DSC_0396.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-CXsjdd_B7wNCS2OUDC0D8ZiyaYdlI42_TyFRLV_pPQDYeVR6r9ProJDketmSrnoLp1OxOKLX4bIcVk2d8hpiqDlfxs3C8O49IZRFgDL8i8agg4G8ytKrAmuKHEpURHZrjoqYupNvs2k/s400/DSC_0396.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oops.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So, here I am, thirty years old, living all on my own for the very
first time. For the record, my ability to inhale Ferrero Rocher is not a direct
consequence of this alteration in my co-habitation status. It is a power I have
always possessed, and of which I am inordinately proud. I can do the same thing
with satsumas. Anyway, I'm rambling. This is the first time in a while that
I've written anything other than an email or a to-do list.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaLSsosnmfaVgBHW1t8dDgN4cnxHjr0cyxejmwq8g1XIGg-YOQRhxl-6Yv67jGiJKC5pTnPx2XbH1KqWww-9TDXMSFrfFrw4coZ5IOjEM85OPZ6KcyOfEHR_rpzhyeHCkUPn9_fuovRA/s1600/DSC_0401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKaLSsosnmfaVgBHW1t8dDgN4cnxHjr0cyxejmwq8g1XIGg-YOQRhxl-6Yv67jGiJKC5pTnPx2XbH1KqWww-9TDXMSFrfFrw4coZ5IOjEM85OPZ6KcyOfEHR_rpzhyeHCkUPn9_fuovRA/s640/DSC_0401.JPG" width="424" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I'm taking one day at a time. For the first week, I didn't look at
my flat. I came in from work and kept my head down. I put the telly on and
stared stupidly at it until it was time to go to bed. I cried a lot. I tried
not to see the vacant picture hooks, coat hooks or shelves. I very definitely
did not look in the wardrobe that I knew was empty. After a week, I finally got
out the hoover and redistributed the books, and life stopped being quite such a
blur. I started to notice the odd details of this life for one, which are, in no particular
order:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">Stuff lasts longer. Especially toilet paper.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">I can choose whatever I want to watch on the telly. There's never anything good on.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">When there <i>is</i> something good on, it’s kind of cruddy not to have someone to share it with.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">I worry a lot about locking myself out of the house. Getting keys cut is unexpectedly expensive.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">The laundry basket has become magically bottomless.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">Late at night, when you’re half asleep, it’s difficult to remember that you’re alone in the bed.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">I can make the bed beautifully without even pulling the duvet off. Score.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">I can go a long time without talking to anyone, but most days will talk to myself at least once (OK, more than that.)</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">I am, however, doing a good job at not being scared of k</span></span><span style="font-size: 18px;">nife-wielding psychopaths hiding in the empty wardrobe.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">A hot water bottle is a magical thing.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">Christmas is not a great time for the newly single. Bah Humbug. I went Christmas shopping today and came back with a four-pack of wrapping paper and the aforementioned mega-box of Ferrero. No presents. Not a one.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">It’s grand to have whatever you want for supper, but things don’t taste quite as good if you don’t have someone else to appreciate your cooking.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: 18px; text-indent: -24px;">Being home alone is survivable. Arriving to an empty house feels, some days, like the Mayan end of the world.</span></span></li>
</ul>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtu6fb0bXQFjbD4SY6B9rhsC7KYDm8-ZRshyphenhyphenSdQ9p2ORrrf0a-4yjXw1R-r_VYDdblMaDk41iZpnEvNdE4t6xhCrx_MTSMGKWF5bBOjWRqjFn_odZI7MwxSySVC1mMfscqGFm0t8xzO0/s1600/MAYAN_CALENDAR_large.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtu6fb0bXQFjbD4SY6B9rhsC7KYDm8-ZRshyphenhyphenSdQ9p2ORrrf0a-4yjXw1R-r_VYDdblMaDk41iZpnEvNdE4t6xhCrx_MTSMGKWF5bBOjWRqjFn_odZI7MwxSySVC1mMfscqGFm0t8xzO0/s320/MAYAN_CALENDAR_large.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I’ve just realised that this post kind of <i>is</i> about heartbreak. Sorry about that. I’m still in the very first
phases of this solo living, and my observations probably bear no resemblance to
the experiences of someone who has lived alone for a long time, or lives alone
by choice. Maybe that is part of the point of writing this all down. For myself.
For posterity. Every experience we have in this life is, at the end of the day,
ours alone, even if we live with a family, a partner, a parent or a friend.
Everyone sees and feels things differently. Which is why it’s so enriching to
try new things for oneself. Even scary ones, Even lonely ones.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Who knows how long this particular challenge will last? Only time will tell,
but possibly only another twenty hours and thirty-five Ferrero Rochers, if the Mayans
have any say in it. If not, I’ll be back soon, probably significantly fatter, slightly crazier, and still without ever having eaten so much as a mouthful of Spam. And no, you can forget that idea right now. I draw the line at Spam. I'd prefer the apocalypse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Fifteen down, fifteen to go…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-3312433909974913122012-12-10T14:03:00.002-08:002012-12-10T22:27:56.674-08:00Get to the chopper! Montserrat by helicopter.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5K495IrIMny1U8SBVEmdLyGbevl21TBb-n6RQjWCgH0USqxj19qXjbKoQryDLQRzQItSZLT2gyGJKbr816axCgg0ETCsaOGqjc-zkxACMGiH1RVgFFL_QHJHesF1IGPAmrMWBHdlspHY/s1600/DSC_0297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5K495IrIMny1U8SBVEmdLyGbevl21TBb-n6RQjWCgH0USqxj19qXjbKoQryDLQRzQItSZLT2gyGJKbr816axCgg0ETCsaOGqjc-zkxACMGiH1RVgFFL_QHJHesF1IGPAmrMWBHdlspHY/s400/DSC_0297.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The helipad at Caribbean Helicopters, St John's Fort Road, Antigua.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I developed a fear of flying
after 9/11. My vivid imagination told me exactly how it must have felt for
those people to be on board a plane they knew was going to crash. To know that
their lives were over. That they would never see the people they loved again.
These images and feelings wiggled into my brain and ate away at me. I never <i>didn’t</i> fly when I had to, but I spent
the majority of each journey in a fit of terror, clenching my hands, sweating
and crying. It was worse if I was with someone. If there was someone whose knee
I could grip, and whose loving concern for me could feed my fear. Booking
holidays became a mental and emotional battle, and I would spend weeks
beforehand building up my anxiety.</div>
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<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have my indomitable mother to
thank for finally shaking me out of this fear. After many years of not
travelling together, we found ourselves in each other's company on a flight across Spain. She hadn’t seen my
near-hysterical take-off behaviour before, and she looked at me like I was
sprouting scales before her very eyes. She gently distracted me, and when I had
calmed down and the plane was cruising, she said, simply: “Don’t be one of
those people.” With those words, I saw what my fear was doing to me, and how I
was allowing it to exert control over my life. I decided, in that very moment,
not to be one of those people. I’m not saying I love flying, and bumpy
take-offs or patches of turbulence still make my palms sweat and my pulse
accelerate. But I have learned to look into the faces of the cabin crew, and take
comfort from their absolute nonchalance. If they’re not showing any signs of
alarm, there’s probably nothing to worry about. Besides which, anxiety never
stopped a plane from crashing…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you enjoyed that brief
interlude into my psyche, plus my example of the power of tough love. I have
many such examples, including “no, you absolutely cannot have a Cadbury’s Flake
until you have learned to tell the time” – my mum is one darn smart cookie. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAe26ymQk4VTP4pI-HMCavhDnoQtp6-Mu-aC7z8UFqxS-W74CyNduWC6yETUqiZzufIxTZaCtvL_IOC0GVSjHUoE-7A9kR-8cXJrPV261oDFLb5L9usJLei-sHtznhNt6Ly8Q2J3v9Qs/s1600/Tough+love+jpeg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAe26ymQk4VTP4pI-HMCavhDnoQtp6-Mu-aC7z8UFqxS-W74CyNduWC6yETUqiZzufIxTZaCtvL_IOC0GVSjHUoE-7A9kR-8cXJrPV261oDFLb5L9usJLei-sHtznhNt6Ly8Q2J3v9Qs/s640/Tough+love+jpeg.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I digress. I
should probably get on with telling you about my latest challenge, which
was to take a ride in a helicopter. The more observant readers among you may have guessed this from the title of the blog post. And the picture of me at the helipad. I may need to work on my suspense-building...<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Anyway, let’s start by saying that just
because I have attained a level of Zen when it comes to 747s, I am not suddenly
of a mind to spend my life in flight. My happiest moments are still when the
plane touches safely down, and the idea of a helicopter has always had an added
level of terror attached to it. Something about the noise, and the strange manoeuvrability,
I think. Below you see my very first excursion in a helicopter. You can just glimpse my hands, gripping the rudder like grim death. What you can't see, thanks to the chopper's windscreen, is that I am absolutely bawling my eyes out. I bawled my eyes out the whole time. I remember it vividly. There's that maternal tough love again, merrily taking pictures...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpRUipI1Oi4XfOh4RPFDC1GGj0UyCy95UNAnHJhfkcCTNoikcJF1dLnVa9QhsS5do_STGZP78oonMzZfS7Zk87m7sWvsLGZVmuF5mXBQKezN9BnI4kKfrhrnX66kaMGd4VSd0oJClFG8/s1600/Photo+on+10-+12-12+at+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilpRUipI1Oi4XfOh4RPFDC1GGj0UyCy95UNAnHJhfkcCTNoikcJF1dLnVa9QhsS5do_STGZP78oonMzZfS7Zk87m7sWvsLGZVmuF5mXBQKezN9BnI4kKfrhrnX66kaMGd4VSd0oJClFG8/s640/Photo+on+10-+12-12+at+4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So began a lifelong aversion to helicopters. And fairground rides.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apart from the early trauma, also in the helicopter cons column was the
fact that part of my mission for this blog was that the challenges shouldn’t be
too expensive. Helicopter rides do <i>not</i>
come cheap. In this case, $250 for a 45 minute flight. Ouch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But putting all that to one side, how many times in my
life am I going to have the opportunity to ride a helicopter around an active
volcano? Not that many, I’m guessing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Montserrat">Montserrat</a> is a small island
in the Leeward isles. It was virtually decimated by the eruption of the <span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Soufrière Hills Volcano in
1995. The latest eruption, in 2010, wiped out the 19 Montserratians who had
staunchly, doggedly refused to leave their homes. Most of the island is now an
official exclusion zone, though a small settlement is springing up in the
northwest corner. </span><a href="http://www.caribbeanhelicopters.com/"><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Caribbean Helicopters</span></a><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> only has permission to fly
over Montserrat because it dedicates at least one day per week to taking a team
of scientists to the island to study the volcano. All things considered, and
since I’d already braved the flight from London to Antigua for some winter sun, it would have been
churlish not to cough up the cash, don a headset and fasten my seatbelt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjIaWgG2-MLde0E3WahCR6bnszjMHxkLNXVpenj5qcxwgywWrYzBvtLibsMG5WePXHGF_qHoDk97jFIrjA6RY4_MWAEcIvXrb1DNumG9MJ1MLzXFjlTg_pxOcNJjk9iy2DCOug3HE7Kk/s1600/DSC_0285.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLjIaWgG2-MLde0E3WahCR6bnszjMHxkLNXVpenj5qcxwgywWrYzBvtLibsMG5WePXHGF_qHoDk97jFIrjA6RY4_MWAEcIvXrb1DNumG9MJ1MLzXFjlTg_pxOcNJjk9iy2DCOug3HE7Kk/s400/DSC_0285.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking sexy with my lifejacket.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoJ9g57eO6fuwfVshfoqXRgjVJXeTFefkLpEa8lrkfGrPoWD5RhPDIx0Liw7OcmlAdCSnY8Fh8MxSNQl1WaehOTe54L2ugMV3dOMYmLqsUMgbZ1FdMwRhcLruhGktQcGTtcRvIxbG-dw/s1600/DSC_0299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMoJ9g57eO6fuwfVshfoqXRgjVJXeTFefkLpEa8lrkfGrPoWD5RhPDIx0Liw7OcmlAdCSnY8Fh8MxSNQl1WaehOTe54L2ugMV3dOMYmLqsUMgbZ1FdMwRhcLruhGktQcGTtcRvIxbG-dw/s400/DSC_0299.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Facing backwards. Motion sickness GUARANTEED.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It’s a real shame helicopter rides are so expensive,
because I am going to tell you now that despite falling victim to the worst case
of motion sickness I have experienced since 2008, I absolutely LOVED travelling
by chopper. Firstly, the take-off is a total breeze. There’s none of this
horrible run-up business required by aeroplanes. The thing simply floats up
into the sky. It’s magic. And then, instead of disappearing beyond the clouds,
you stay close enough to the ground to become completely absorbed by the view.
Of course, the Caribbean Sea and the white sandy beaches of Antigua make for a
pretty stunning view, but I honestly think that seeing almost anything from a
helicopter would be enormously exhilarating. Minutes in and we were surrounded
by a double rainbow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1In8k337YE6GLhc7sr02oUosbp1PkXC05q1xmMhZSf4tXgETR9PjhfzvatGU7T_I27mGZMc0bi02tfdwwYtrfsj9FGWBUe4IDyRgSfszhqKr2Py2bZFxq3YQo3A8jJebg7_u8fzG0zc/s1600/DSC_0315.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL1In8k337YE6GLhc7sr02oUosbp1PkXC05q1xmMhZSf4tXgETR9PjhfzvatGU7T_I27mGZMc0bi02tfdwwYtrfsj9FGWBUe4IDyRgSfszhqKr2Py2bZFxq3YQo3A8jJebg7_u8fzG0zc/s400/DSC_0315.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You don't see one of those every day.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNxIG8dF35FYwM4BApJmqIsuK_kFZj6WX7ilWl9kaeU40-Nav1BFSMEXMibLkcC-qM2YvtTW5DUJBDQHmrDgozUuqbESTzJQIZT5eZsHhwDEi-ap3zQADATmjJUy_E-Lienkv6giK0gw/s1600/DSC_0310.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNxIG8dF35FYwM4BApJmqIsuK_kFZj6WX7ilWl9kaeU40-Nav1BFSMEXMibLkcC-qM2YvtTW5DUJBDQHmrDgozUuqbESTzJQIZT5eZsHhwDEi-ap3zQADATmjJUy_E-Lienkv6giK0gw/s640/DSC_0310.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beautiful Antigua.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKvZK-y7QUo6Vos5u9c8_tBAWyFSdjNgj8kA_AndSUiT4NX4hyNc8Yr532ZdZNHvS5L6OmgQYHxSCK7kIe6SuIwzbs_qWZs6m7-aKxRgxXbmsyLGpz4wyX2zEx85r_4CpYZE93b-HmT0/s1600/DSC_0314.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizKvZK-y7QUo6Vos5u9c8_tBAWyFSdjNgj8kA_AndSUiT4NX4hyNc8Yr532ZdZNHvS5L6OmgQYHxSCK7kIe6SuIwzbs_qWZs6m7-aKxRgxXbmsyLGpz4wyX2zEx85r_4CpYZE93b-HmT0/s400/DSC_0314.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5mn4lPpYvhkEbHnCg5Waj4AMXkNv-s_9w70Y-rPUnlxIluOSMfw-Li3EmHxbN8rr7NEKqCwyeIBVttcRLvMlJZ66LMjmNDouWF_ZSsE_Ve35Ie-lsvi0DqQ0MnwVa4G27YwUM0xW5fI/s1600/DSC_0356.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5mn4lPpYvhkEbHnCg5Waj4AMXkNv-s_9w70Y-rPUnlxIluOSMfw-Li3EmHxbN8rr7NEKqCwyeIBVttcRLvMlJZ66LMjmNDouWF_ZSsE_Ve35Ie-lsvi0DqQ0MnwVa4G27YwUM0xW5fI/s320/DSC_0356.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And then, Montserrat. The jagged cliffs, streaked with
ash. The houses whose roofs have clean melted off, revealing rooms once loved
and lived in. The five storey building, only three of whose storeys show above the mud.
The W.H. Bramble Airport, now nothing but a spread of lonesome grey. Not a trace of its runways, terminal buildings or control tower remain. The
churches, the schools, the home of the governor, the hotels, all of them lifeless. It is the perfect ghost town, its roads untrodden. It is disturbed only by the shadow of the helicopter passing
overhead. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVbf3W92aSOEf-ivJYMPltkfqY73euBqwsPqah91vjVxwIoDnTdOfrJeq_bO8ZbYsSgKN89wX51VbBokVQU28GM8ctIOsiZF3S9lJZrn4M-qCXlworNG7K_7-EqePHsAFd7trSJyIyoI/s1600/DSC_0443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVbf3W92aSOEf-ivJYMPltkfqY73euBqwsPqah91vjVxwIoDnTdOfrJeq_bO8ZbYsSgKN89wX51VbBokVQU28GM8ctIOsiZF3S9lJZrn4M-qCXlworNG7K_7-EqePHsAFd7trSJyIyoI/s640/DSC_0443.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The five storey building...</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_0aqCEkV3wLylsf_H7dB_0WPgTGM8GXONZ124-cSWtWEIAdA6jHX_9qu4wfvLO9Fec4Kttjrk84BLFsumWVLhWFCWvv6gOXSLpCo9SqbC0mE7XwuULAD3ylr-JeyN3aPhyphenhyphenNfW3W77y8/s1600/DSC_0444.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_0aqCEkV3wLylsf_H7dB_0WPgTGM8GXONZ124-cSWtWEIAdA6jHX_9qu4wfvLO9Fec4Kttjrk84BLFsumWVLhWFCWvv6gOXSLpCo9SqbC0mE7XwuULAD3ylr-JeyN3aPhyphenhyphenNfW3W77y8/s640/DSC_0444.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">And then the volcano. The fumaroles and the stink of sulphur. The
great gash of a scar from the 2010 eruption, ripping through the rock. The ash
and the boulders, crumbling and exploding from the force of the gases still
trapped inside. The pilot revved the engine and raced close to the ground, to
let us feel the speed at which lava travels as it spills and bubbles and
destroys all in its path. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODNQKMas7K-5jnbKQMlX6FmZcIL9jNZSbVbhihsMN4gNjTLeeDTMHDK-DxDDldTtKyLaAebWGqLmqJVj4Ls2cuFL7rvv1k47bIxPBENpeQUhzfRcaTqxwHqrsLUYGy9u34W7gan53Is4/s1600/DSC_0417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhODNQKMas7K-5jnbKQMlX6FmZcIL9jNZSbVbhihsMN4gNjTLeeDTMHDK-DxDDldTtKyLaAebWGqLmqJVj4Ls2cuFL7rvv1k47bIxPBENpeQUhzfRcaTqxwHqrsLUYGy9u34W7gan53Is4/s400/DSC_0417.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fumaroles.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ55SJOJR3BdcPFDvsk_9WaJHJ4XoFqvPw4MsxZ5wKAbUHn39iCiUMOEiF_NY2G-XK8LKnmN3geTMM7nXKJMCDKNdX-TtF8Qd9KfpflLPrJq-1BER8nVvAhI9sg4zHwDv4e9dj9Rd9F94/s1600/DSC_0402.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ55SJOJR3BdcPFDvsk_9WaJHJ4XoFqvPw4MsxZ5wKAbUHn39iCiUMOEiF_NY2G-XK8LKnmN3geTMM7nXKJMCDKNdX-TtF8Qd9KfpflLPrJq-1BER8nVvAhI9sg4zHwDv4e9dj9Rd9F94/s400/DSC_0402.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The scar in the earth,</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVu08zKmpXqLiDAIPSUP-KC4nxg90LmZaDsrpuCx_7m30E6Ar8QCzRV2nyObnGAry1Oglx7FO2XIa5k4fD7eKsu0PnhMpQ7U2DDTbcHgZqVjdoRCTgT298WUq3ZtJ0NVDEUTN1Ejko3Y/s1600/DSC_0334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsVu08zKmpXqLiDAIPSUP-KC4nxg90LmZaDsrpuCx_7m30E6Ar8QCzRV2nyObnGAry1Oglx7FO2XIa5k4fD7eKsu0PnhMpQ7U2DDTbcHgZqVjdoRCTgT298WUq3ZtJ0NVDEUTN1Ejko3Y/s400/DSC_0334.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jurassic Park.</td></tr>
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Yet there is also the lush, emerald green of the
vegetation which has grown back. The tenacity of life, clinging to the sides of
the burning hill. I gazed from the window, eyes straining for a glimpse of
the dinosaurs I was sure were being cloned by mad scientists and left to roam
this primal place. I felt sick as a dog, but awed, reverent, thankful to have
been granted the privilege of such a sight.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Of the three tours we did whilst on holiday in Antigua,
this was the most expensive by far, and yet the only one that I feel was worth
every last cent. The helicopter itself was a blast, and I certainly wouldn’t
hesitate to ride in one again, should a passing pilot/rock star/random multi-billionaire ever offer me a lift. That early phobia is well and truly done with (though my fear of fairground rides definitely isn't. That's another story). But
what will really stay with me from this challenge is the volcano, and the haunted houses prostrate
at its feet. Those memories aren’t going anywhere in a hurry.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQToqdrwyrI5V60tBnbk7DgTJ3NccLtiQamRVE27sP5bUcogWgCXJW2ZjbXkEvHgAIe_NlCHeS8A4KpxEl9OqU76YT0oZqlC1hpr9hDLmFG8ewNq6KyOH_1cQnumHoZRGQLXCsRxI9gs/s1600/DSC_0552.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfQToqdrwyrI5V60tBnbk7DgTJ3NccLtiQamRVE27sP5bUcogWgCXJW2ZjbXkEvHgAIe_NlCHeS8A4KpxEl9OqU76YT0oZqlC1hpr9hDLmFG8ewNq6KyOH_1cQnumHoZRGQLXCsRxI9gs/s640/DSC_0552.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks to Justin for this great picture, and for coming flying with me, even if you did get the front seat, you lucky sod.</td></tr>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: white;">Fourteen down, sixteen to go…</span></div>
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<!--EndFragment--><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-23526659100248333462012-12-07T01:35:00.001-08:002012-12-07T08:54:20.610-08:00Flying Fantastic: An evening of Aerial Silks.<!--[if !mso]>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Every now and again my blog does something a
little bit magical. A few of weeks ago, it was retweeted by </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/hearts-on-string-evening-with-amanda.html"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 13.5pt;">Amanda Palmer</span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">. Previously to that,
I had been contacted by a total stranger telling me that it had inspired her to
start her own Fifty@50 challenge. And, somewhere in between these two events,
just after I posted my piece on <a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/hup-hup-and-away.html" target="_blank">trapezing,</a></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> a
company called </span><a href="http://www.flyingfantastic.co.uk/"><span style="color: blue; font-size: 13.5pt;">Flying Fantastic</span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> dropped
me a line and offered me the chance to try out an aerial silks class. This is
one of the reasons I love not having a pre-defined list to adhere to. Sure,
it's scary not to have a plan. Sure, there's a good chance I'll reach May 9th
2013 and realise that I have two days to complete ten challenges. But I love
the fact that things can just pop unexpectedly into my life and steer me off
course. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJCQvJs1nUC0Zfvj4ObUeSwdQdOK6n9Huh1V6f92R-KkmEDGL13gcPA48yJAw5jSy8XQu-noRBojhR6tjMUvm_0-v5cUXUDbYenn6fwybm4DCjN7hhBaBrdFdUkbcx1xMVhYSca27ZAw/s1600/flying+fantastic.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggJCQvJs1nUC0Zfvj4ObUeSwdQdOK6n9Huh1V6f92R-KkmEDGL13gcPA48yJAw5jSy8XQu-noRBojhR6tjMUvm_0-v5cUXUDbYenn6fwybm4DCjN7hhBaBrdFdUkbcx1xMVhYSca27ZAw/s1600/flying+fantastic.png" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The first time I saw aerial silks was on a <u><span style="color: blue;">BBC ident</span></u>. Since then I've seen them
on TV and on stage several times, most memorably and creatively in a Hindi version
of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, which was incidentally one of the
most moving pieces of theatre I have ever seen in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9f_LpKpt-rVcmN2gEqz35dv0EwbCfY-PK2IEGXsKV1Etlz-_YSZsk7yy4b06PumdD0_K32VUA0xB8gUnjW2tbYCSz_7GoucK6KS8XD4PzB3RN0Gw4AQEu363qwdeP9_b8wW_6cDcrl8/s1600/Tristram+Kenton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9f_LpKpt-rVcmN2gEqz35dv0EwbCfY-PK2IEGXsKV1Etlz-_YSZsk7yy4b06PumdD0_K32VUA0xB8gUnjW2tbYCSz_7GoucK6KS8XD4PzB3RN0Gw4AQEu363qwdeP9_b8wW_6cDcrl8/s320/Tristram+Kenton.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The first part of my aerial silks adventure
involved hauling my backside to Battersea. Once upon a time I was a Battersea
regular, and I thought nothing of a ninety minute journey from North London to
deepest, darkest South West. The things we do when we're young and in love...
But it's been a long time since I ventured into such alien territory without
the protection of my car, and Justin gallantly agreed to come with me to snap
some photos. We meet at Queenstown Road station after work and snaked our way
through a series of council estates until we found the <u><span style="color: blue;">Wilditch Community Centre</span></u>. There
aren't <i>that</i> many places in London where you can learn aerial
silks, because you need a seriously high, seriously strong ceiling. The
Wilditch Centre ticks both boxes and the hall was decked out with eight sets of
silks hanging down to the ground, each set with a large crash mat beneath it. I
was nervous but excited, and ready to get climbing, yes yes yes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">No no no. Before anyone goes anywhere near a
silk, there is a warm up to contend with. Sometimes, running in Hampstead
Heath, Julia and I see the crazy people doing the crazy military fitness. Well,
this warm up was definitely the equal of the military madness. I was seeing
spots by the fifth plank, and the instructor kept throwing press ups in between
the other exercises, as if they were merely an aside rather than a method of
torture in their own right. The less said about my pitiful performance at
the warm up the better. If trapezing and silking have taught me anything
at all, it is that circus skills require extreme fitness. If I ever decide that
the time has come to acquire a washboard stomach and biceps that would
embarrass Madonna, I know exactly how to do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">There were four people in the absolute beginners
group, and we were looked after by Claire, one of the head trainers for Flying
Fantastic. She quickly explained the theory of climbing the silks. It requires
a certain level of strength, but the key is in achieving the correct grip with
your feet. If you can hold the silk firmly and effectively between the outer
ankle of one food and the ball of the other, you should be able to move
yourself up the silk with minimal physical effort. That's the theory, anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxQoKgtgjiOXuEiO0lelABxA_0PH0Cih7x_PYfKoFr58zCT1IH-UYQeGjtnC683mqTa-edBb7HoqZbC1AqRrDyvu-bGA_Hd8cKgSe-rWLwg6bI5lTblSU1y5ltA-nIAV1CjWrOQx46pw/s1600/DSC_0020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZxQoKgtgjiOXuEiO0lelABxA_0PH0Cih7x_PYfKoFr58zCT1IH-UYQeGjtnC683mqTa-edBb7HoqZbC1AqRrDyvu-bGA_Hd8cKgSe-rWLwg6bI5lTblSU1y5ltA-nIAV1CjWrOQx46pw/s320/DSC_0020.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beginners group learns how to wrap the silk and angle the feet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The theory made a lot of sense. but in practice, when your feet don't know the
drill, getting up the silk is a lot harder than the non-beginners made it look.
A combination of wobbly technique and sheer determination got me up there,
though not without considerable effort. Please note, many of the photos that
follow contain very silly faces. These include such gems as: </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">This is
difficult; Serious concentration required; Holy crap this is significantly
higher than I thought; I might be about to fall over; I am a bit smug because I
am up a silk; </i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">and </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Ow this hurts</i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">. Feel free to collect all
six. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Crouch<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6i_Sm5KMtIgSoYln42EZ5FTEtYG_ODCQfjrFI6Bu5nftnKTkq740WtJxLBp1I6knCLLZePB_v5IBGwStDaEmwAJT7phyqDFi3-i64JTQl_v5hoZJmomH38fO6-aS4yVLfk1BoSBg4TSE/s1600/DSC_0038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6i_Sm5KMtIgSoYln42EZ5FTEtYG_ODCQfjrFI6Bu5nftnKTkq740WtJxLBp1I6knCLLZePB_v5IBGwStDaEmwAJT7phyqDFi3-i64JTQl_v5hoZJmomH38fO6-aS4yVLfk1BoSBg4TSE/s320/DSC_0038.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heave!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzyIaaixYdFZw8ktj9oEwBVInCMzQtwXGapSJHZQb_Uy7XD1xCFvYRUVveQ7OgN7h9pGHqowRtW_NCgsRFfLEnWLEII2BUvteKbcNkN5HocryC_00b7uVQhin3i0_5LDGSDGxDF9IMdo/s1600/DSC_0130.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPzyIaaixYdFZw8ktj9oEwBVInCMzQtwXGapSJHZQb_Uy7XD1xCFvYRUVveQ7OgN7h9pGHqowRtW_NCgsRFfLEnWLEII2BUvteKbcNkN5HocryC_00b7uVQhin3i0_5LDGSDGxDF9IMdo/s320/DSC_0130.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look mum, one hand!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div align="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable"><tbody>
<tr><td style="padding: 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-size: 10pt;"></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding: 3.0pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div align="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable"><tbody>
<tr><td style="padding: 3.0pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmcWZJJjwOs0VOY3YGjzZztT_RQkIsa6ufJ299lIZmMkvpva9F0t3iCtmox2aUJke9ndyqx415nxBieU2g_bVcXNsvYZ7BYC0B9QSUjOTcIFnRsKLL1d26SK6RF2JwG0TRsYyxBLh4zM/s1600/DSC_0069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYmcWZJJjwOs0VOY3YGjzZztT_RQkIsa6ufJ299lIZmMkvpva9F0t3iCtmox2aUJke9ndyqx415nxBieU2g_bVcXNsvYZ7BYC0B9QSUjOTcIFnRsKLL1d26SK6RF2JwG0TRsYyxBLh4zM/s320/DSC_0069.jpg" width="174" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I really have no idea what this face is all about.</td></tr>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div align="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="padding: 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"></td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding: 3.0pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">After (sort of) mastering the initial climb, we
had to test out the strength of our arms. For ten seconds. Cue some more
interesting faces.</span> </div>
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</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB8faJ6uhzK9zM3sbRYxGMPm92wXpfV4fX5GYK25sMtPpo7Sg5NDecP73WGV0LI5Qcs-kp2wDENxH40W650AQ_97D56A19yHpxk2tzvsuoadGLzjPfS7MZKmf-wgoW6MxC7bi0tysxdo/s1600/DSC_0116.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB8faJ6uhzK9zM3sbRYxGMPm92wXpfV4fX5GYK25sMtPpo7Sg5NDecP73WGV0LI5Qcs-kp2wDENxH40W650AQ_97D56A19yHpxk2tzvsuoadGLzjPfS7MZKmf-wgoW6MxC7bi0tysxdo/s320/DSC_0116.jpg" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Putting your tongue aids strength and concentration. Fact.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYuLCS7KFIPKnFGHWJZBBMHz1A-TQcwLLTqBAALH5_gwfNXvoXEPChZiKB9KT0BOZKF3wRREZxB5MflK_PMmDXzi8DAGYkzpXKAsQ_0F_WVbvYvTPtDXQhKsZDxhGys_0ANQaO7ppR3o/s1600/DSC_0117.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYuLCS7KFIPKnFGHWJZBBMHz1A-TQcwLLTqBAALH5_gwfNXvoXEPChZiKB9KT0BOZKF3wRREZxB5MflK_PMmDXzi8DAGYkzpXKAsQ_0F_WVbvYvTPtDXQhKsZDxhGys_0ANQaO7ppR3o/s320/DSC_0117.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think I can, I think I can...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkIsT4INtLpLigTGnNGg9-2EKwO72fz0coH7SOLLPx1HTPHy7yHkOiR7B1lxbD-UZiIeCierPM1uJUgV6wYh8OaPhLx_5WcoMq6NC3jDkmwjPiSLCzQCIK92ku7Z-rBUhsjsFoElktAw/s1600/DSC_0119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkIsT4INtLpLigTGnNGg9-2EKwO72fz0coH7SOLLPx1HTPHy7yHkOiR7B1lxbD-UZiIeCierPM1uJUgV6wYh8OaPhLx_5WcoMq6NC3jDkmwjPiSLCzQCIK92ku7Z-rBUhsjsFoElktAw/s320/DSC_0119.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ow.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="padding: 3pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Next to learn was a foot lock. This entailed wrapping the silks around the foot in such a way that it anchored itself. If you've seen the professionals, you'll know that they do some incredible drops, unravelling with death-defying speed and then miraculously stopping, sometimes inches from the ground. This is achieved by wrapping the silks in all sorts of intricate ways, far too complicated for someone who never even managed to knot a half decent friendship bracelet in her youth... The foot look was pretty basic though, so I </span><i style="font-size: 13.5pt;">almost</i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> managed to do it without pulling a silly face. Almost.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyd_FVfc8GvMjzBxPYGBPTavty51eLfPi4_Dw3pLVpE_-MsEasfTmlAk5hu7pWCflDWn-54D2B8MmJ8szthbwnGr-ms6YoF-bytVcjWE4tgY7c-YpElQCuksfn6DzCRUFIzf89Q0bB1o/s1600/DSC_0132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuyd_FVfc8GvMjzBxPYGBPTavty51eLfPi4_Dw3pLVpE_-MsEasfTmlAk5hu7pWCflDWn-54D2B8MmJ8szthbwnGr-ms6YoF-bytVcjWE4tgY7c-YpElQCuksfn6DzCRUFIzf89Q0bB1o/s320/DSC_0132.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqQLwJtJTqdGXR9I-bPGRdQP11CCcAhg-Jrv7Xmk7eP1HlI6EaxCnm_pI_ve1Wv1ZCamPh8Np69FSaQTZA4nhR9BDd4H74LtlrUpSEZZYyQEH5SSuXCK62eOPiiyupP2cvJzYKWUMIm8/s1600/DSC_0134.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBqQLwJtJTqdGXR9I-bPGRdQP11CCcAhg-Jrv7Xmk7eP1HlI6EaxCnm_pI_ve1Wv1ZCamPh8Np69FSaQTZA4nhR9BDd4H74LtlrUpSEZZYyQEH5SSuXCK62eOPiiyupP2cvJzYKWUMIm8/s400/DSC_0134.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep. There's the face.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoNormalTable"><tbody>
<tr><td style="padding: 3.0pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12pt; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Then it was time to throw some shapes within the
frame created by the two silks. Lots and lots of fun. Plenty of smug happy
faces.</span></div>
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</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJ0qvvOIiHoTSHhP7ILgPuo4uM84lXzsh5_EZ0OXSHeGtVPaXax6N7hqy9_M4r2wNWkA1B9Czk5NV0sZRECb8zcXKs-tz3PPY2NkoG7Rn7jx0iLgsI_H8mnZZA-bGXxbaXNDNx4iIZzA/s1600/image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJ0qvvOIiHoTSHhP7ILgPuo4uM84lXzsh5_EZ0OXSHeGtVPaXax6N7hqy9_M4r2wNWkA1B9Czk5NV0sZRECb8zcXKs-tz3PPY2NkoG7Rn7jx0iLgsI_H8mnZZA-bGXxbaXNDNx4iIZzA/s400/image.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<td style="padding: 3.0pt 4.5pt 4.5pt 4.5pt;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Figurehead-tastic! Thanks to fellow beginner Leanne Parker for this pic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncSi5TRQ-gvgACef6CZorW98kQlHELrWRwCcPNnNUXRSWLW9oLIie5uD4EorxdRUFU5jh2Cuv01sIFw4myw7J6nMUAJENhaj5afJvqQBYqtI9FQj50rGiXyQoREiyxhb0rODf0bUtaGw/s1600/DSC_0145.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncSi5TRQ-gvgACef6CZorW98kQlHELrWRwCcPNnNUXRSWLW9oLIie5uD4EorxdRUFU5jh2Cuv01sIFw4myw7J6nMUAJENhaj5afJvqQBYqtI9FQj50rGiXyQoREiyxhb0rODf0bUtaGw/s320/DSC_0145.jpg" width="212" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATd1NDuuLO2SSxzJ6H9zsP0Eq6k4cGQdsRh6eGyAD7GlA_qnWAAcZJiUzAHoB2twvQBwsaAB4cz_tjJSYq2O7K6n2TQclCUQ4eYK74lMGL2cokGhrhutqQVq0MMWEOnuISJGbbpzSvG8/s1600/DSC_0157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiATd1NDuuLO2SSxzJ6H9zsP0Eq6k4cGQdsRh6eGyAD7GlA_qnWAAcZJiUzAHoB2twvQBwsaAB4cz_tjJSYq2O7K6n2TQclCUQ4eYK74lMGL2cokGhrhutqQVq0MMWEOnuISJGbbpzSvG8/s320/DSC_0157.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKBdSY6dXE1Lxe6_ZnHXbVbU98h9_-ZB3jvUX4y_4u2co1xVXAApYLBoD5HbHZuUUKQUfprf16lyKwuHN3YjxSpCRIg5zoX6C0SMxzkL6Qrvzw8txKSZXeWr0T1U8k7cBxJFVqazWcz3o/s1600/image+(8).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKBdSY6dXE1Lxe6_ZnHXbVbU98h9_-ZB3jvUX4y_4u2co1xVXAApYLBoD5HbHZuUUKQUfprf16lyKwuHN3YjxSpCRIg5zoX6C0SMxzkL6Qrvzw8txKSZXeWr0T1U8k7cBxJFVqazWcz3o/s400/image+(8).jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another pic from Leanne Parker.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Yeah, this was pretty entertaining.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The class lasted an hour and a half, and (apart from the plank and the press ups, upon which we don't need to
dwell) the time absolutely flew. I want to take this opportunity to thank
the team at Flying Fantastic, and especially Claire. We ended with a quick and
very necessary stretch, safe in the knowledge that the next day would
undoubtedly dawn complete with significant muscle pain. In order to mitigate
this, I decided to have a very hot bath before bed. Which is when I noticed my
foot. Look away now if you're not keen on feet.*<br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">No pain, no gain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">*As a completely random aside, I once knew a
girl who had a serious foot phobia. Now, I'm mildly OCD and have some damn odd
habits, so I don't judge, but she had to slap her cheek several times, hard and
fast, whenever she saw a foot. Or a picture of a foot. Or a foot on screen. She
slapped her cheek for a good fifteen seconds in the cinema once. There's nowt
so queer as folk. Anyway, that's neither here nor there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">So, that was my aerial silks experience. Looking
over the photographs now has reminded me of how much fun it was. Why do so many
fun things have to hurt? (And while we're on the subject, why hasn't someone
designed a calorie-free brownie and ice cream sundae?) I was, unsurprisingly,
pretty stiff the next day, and it ached every time I coughed, which I took as
an excellent sign that my abs had shown up to the aerial party.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Between the trapeze and the silks, I'm fairly
sure that my future lies in escape to the circus. I shall have to toughen up some,
and clearly have to work on my face control, but otherwise I'm all set. Roll up
roll up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Thirteen down, seventeen to go...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-60630734092038656992012-12-03T04:56:00.001-08:002012-12-03T06:59:02.549-08:00My guest post for Strictly Writing: The pleasures and pains of blogging...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuTJ5bTGjebNoBh73N6O8rkKUvSAEpScgyhJ_Kf1lyzPGSruUC4_fyfEPLV_LB-ocQ0hD1DSnZho-0FEIACDytImH1UYIT89DxFhYDAFvuB4cefJb1knfo1_dkfvy5kbtm0dbI_ddv64/s1600/writing+banner2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="65" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuTJ5bTGjebNoBh73N6O8rkKUvSAEpScgyhJ_Kf1lyzPGSruUC4_fyfEPLV_LB-ocQ0hD1DSnZho-0FEIACDytImH1UYIT89DxFhYDAFvuB4cefJb1knfo1_dkfvy5kbtm0dbI_ddv64/s400/writing+banner2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: x-small;">I was recently asked to write a guest post for the wonderful Strictly Writing blog, which does exactly what it says on the tin: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span> <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px;">"We are a varied group of writers - published and aspiring; poets, short-story creators and novelists - with one thing in common: an enduring love for the craft of writing."</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.818181991577148px; line-height: 16px;"><br />
</span></span> <span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 11.818181991577148px; line-height: 16px;">Needless to say, I was chuffed to be asked, and found it very interesting to have a mid-challenge pick over the role that blogging is playing in my writerly life. The desire to write is probably the greatest fuel to my Thirty@30 fire. Here's my guest post. And if you're a writer, or interested in writing, I strongly advocate popping over to <a href="http://strictlywriting.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Strictly Writing</a> to enjoy the thoughts and tips on offer...</span></span><br />
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Neucha; font-size: 24px; margin: 0.75em 0px 0px; position: relative;"><a href="http://strictlywriting.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/joanna-thomas-pleasures-and-pains-of.html" target="_blank">Joanna Thomas: the pleasures and pains of blogging</a></h3><div class="post-header" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 1.6; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em;"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-8906921120329459528" itemprop="description articleBody" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; line-height: 1.4; position: relative; width: 560px;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I started blogging just after my 30</span><sup style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">th</span></sup><span style="font-size: x-small;"> birthday, as part of a bucket-list style challenge to try out 30 brand new experiences before turning 31. Number one on the list was to </span></span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/getting-off-my-backside-30-at-thirty.html" style="color: #2288bb; font-size: 13px; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">start a blog</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 13px;">, and the blog was to be about my journey through the challenges. You see what I did there? Wiped one challenge off the list with little more than half an hour’s worth of fiddling about with Blogger. Easy-peasy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Except, blogging about my experiences has turned-out to be as important, challenging and rewarding as each of the other </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Thirty@30</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> experiences themselves. Writing the perfect piece takes me hours. I agonise over every word just as I agonise over the words in my novel. I pour my heart and soul into each blog, and worry as I send it, defenceless, into the world. I Facebook and Tweet my posts with the same anxious pride that others reserve for pictures of their babies. I hope that people are going to read, like and share them, and am hurt when some of my dearest, closest friends seem to ignore them. Conversely, I am elated when people share their own stories, and give me inspiration for new challenges. I am overwhelmed by the support of people I don’t even know, and, of course, many that I do. Putting your writing out into the world makes you vulnerable, but I’ve found that even </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/hup-hup-and-away.html" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">swinging on a trapeze</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> doesn’t match the exhilaration of hearing that people are moved, touched, or interested by my words. A particular highlight was being re-tweeted by the wondrous and bonkers </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/hearts-on-string-evening-with-amanda.html" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Amanda Palmer</span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. That piece received 600 page views in 24 hours, a huge deal for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My writing process for the blogs is completely different to my efforts at fiction. I have discovered a liberating sense of urgency around penning my posts, because I can’t wait to get them online. I’ll stay up until 3am tapping away at my keyboard, knowing that there’s going to be some fairly instant gratification once I’m done. The same can definitely not be said for my novel, which I have been working on for five years and which I fear has become stale. I keep worrying at it, prodding old wounds, burying my head in my hands at the exhausting hopelessness of it. For all that I agonise over my blogs, I rarely start writing one without finishing it, which I think and hope keeps them fresh. If only I could do that with my novel! Sometimes, of course, the blogs are too raw, and I have to go back and make tiny tweaks when I think no one’s looking. It’s worth it for the breathless excitement of typing straight into Blogger and hitting the ‘Publish’ button.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 1px 1px 5px; border: 1px solid rgb(238, 238, 238); box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 1px 1px 5px; color: #222222; font-size: 13px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 5px; position: relative; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguzDMwoQejOYcATiU8PrGCgbqMF8PAsaM5FD_flY9xXwI-GeVoTYX9GFJ28Vszn2Dl_-RheRE1Is17v3mYX73aBi-IvfgKS0o_JhpC-XVxzB2ZkXDPaZf31icmf-HCc-zRqjYLfx-VyEY/s1600/Joanna+Thomas+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="color: #2288bb; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-decoration: initial;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguzDMwoQejOYcATiU8PrGCgbqMF8PAsaM5FD_flY9xXwI-GeVoTYX9GFJ28Vszn2Dl_-RheRE1Is17v3mYX73aBi-IvfgKS0o_JhpC-XVxzB2ZkXDPaZf31icmf-HCc-zRqjYLfx-VyEY/s320/Joanna+Thomas+pic.jpg" style="-webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; border: none; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.0980392) 0px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative;" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 11px;">Blogger and writer Joanna Thomas</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For all the differences in the process, blogging has taught me that good non-fiction, just like good fiction, is all about storytelling. If you give readers a story arc and a healthy dose of dramatic tension, humour and emotion, they’ll go with you, and forgive the raw moments or rough patches. Fortunately that’s something I find relatively easy to do when writing about my challenges, since each one implies a mini-journey for our hapless but bloody-minded heroine, aka me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I write these words I’m seven months into a twelve month challenge, and still have lots more Thirty@30 experiences waiting to be discovered, enjoyed (or not!) and written about. And whatever happens once the challenge ends, I know that blogging will forevermore be a part of how I express myself through words. Now, back to that pesky plot hole in chapter four…</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Visit my blog: </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Thirty@30</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Follow me on Twitter: </span><a href="https://twitter.com/Joannajosefina" style="color: #2288bb; text-decoration: initial;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">@JoannaJosefina</span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 13px; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span>Joanna Thomas is a London-based writer with a day-job as managing editor of a legal publishing company. She blogs, writes poetry, and is editing (and re-editing) her first novel. She is also a freelance fiction editor.</span></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-89654812023511506332012-11-14T10:31:00.003-08:002012-11-21T07:45:16.060-08:00A Little Flutter.<br />
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A few weeks ago I travelled to the beautiful Swiss city of
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucerne" target="_blank">Lucerne</a> to give a talk on legal marketing to the members of a legal network.
Wait! Where are you going? Seriously, this is more interesting than it sounds…<o:p></o:p></div>
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I should probably explain that when I’m not busy being a Thirty@30 superhero, I’m a (not so) mild-mannered managing editor at a
well-known legal publishing company. This is a role I stumbled into some years
ago after replying to a <a href="http://jobs.guardian.co.uk/" target="_blank">Guardian </a>advert for “good writers”. <i>Hey!</i> says I. <i>I’m one of those.</i> Little did I know that this foolish conceit was
going to plunge me headlong into the murky world of legal publishing. I started
out as a writer/researcher and ended up as managing editor, which is one answer
to the excellent question: <a href="http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/avenueq/whatdoyoudowithabainenglish.htm" target="_blank">“What do you do with a BA in English?”</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, enough with the back-story. The fact is that I am
now occasionally invited to visit law firms or gatherings of legal networks, to
demystify the dark art of legal directories. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I didn't know what to expect from this particular gathering,
but was pretty smug to find myself in Lucerne. A quick look at the view from my
hotel balcony will probably tell you why. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hello, Lake Lucerne!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Misty boats on the lake.</td></tr>
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It may not surprise you to know that not all of my many encounters
with lawyers and law firms have been a pleasure.<i><gasp> </i>I have been shouted at, patronised and hung-up on. I
have been verbally pinned to a table and upbraided for over an hour. I have
been left purple with rage at the sight of yet another rude email from THAT
ABOMINABLE WOMAN. (Colleagues, former and present, will probably know to whom I
am referring.) In fact, the headline of an article in the Spanish legal press was (roughly translated) 'Law firms need to show more humility', an interview with Joanna Thomas. Oops! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tb0t4nRO5OBEyDgKeLtXR6ng9SD3pLdS_295uRBAPF5IlWX19nj9SrN16TDS9jdVsMoKJtiusrwl97_zPvZM4PkEYmOlVrQNHqTGwSWwBI0xii62uvNPk2ijfBCCvWVA3S3hwClgjpo/s1600/Despachos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9tb0t4nRO5OBEyDgKeLtXR6ng9SD3pLdS_295uRBAPF5IlWX19nj9SrN16TDS9jdVsMoKJtiusrwl97_zPvZM4PkEYmOlVrQNHqTGwSWwBI0xii62uvNPk2ijfBCCvWVA3S3hwClgjpo/s640/Despachos.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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But I have also made a LOT of friends in this industry, and a
few hours into my trip to Lucerne, I suspected that I was about to make a few
more. I always know I’m on to a good thing when, within about two minutes of
meeting, me and my neighbour at the dinner table are comfortably but
mercilessly taking the mick out of each other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, I somehow found myself being adopted by a small pack of
charismatic US lawyers wearing red trousers. Yes, there WAS a reason they were
all wearing red trousers, but I've decided to up the blog’s mystery quotient by
not telling you what it was. I’m not entirely sure why they adopted me. I like
to think it’s because I’m just so quirky and fun, but have a strong suspicion
that it was because they were entertained by my accent. Anyway, here’s me with the Red Trouser
Brigade, about to drink my first <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manhattan_(cocktail)" target="_blank">Manhattan cocktail</a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOk57dnX2hZ1YOXEqBQNmpOxy53UiFI20IHVvMkzE0lJolCc_87toIc3Rs3vKGf-SvC_JU9hrueP6kptOEKvPiHjrbZT1X3lwtj19IZwE_uw3dphye-5uTg3lB9rLsom7XSyalCbQBJrc/s1600/photo-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOk57dnX2hZ1YOXEqBQNmpOxy53UiFI20IHVvMkzE0lJolCc_87toIc3Rs3vKGf-SvC_JU9hrueP6kptOEKvPiHjrbZT1X3lwtj19IZwE_uw3dphye-5uTg3lB9rLsom7XSyalCbQBJrc/s400/photo-1.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Red Trouser Brigade. From left to right: John Kanan, me, Glenn Cunningham and John Koenigsknecht.</td></tr>
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I would like to point out here that the gentlemen personally supervised the mixing of the Manhattans, to be sure that my first one was up to scratch. These guys take their cocktails as seriously as they take their trousers. One of them even keeps jars of top quality <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maraschino_cherry" target="_blank">Maraschino cherries</a> in his underground bar... Who can say if it was the Manhattan, or the 30@Thirty spirit
that led me to be swept along when the Red Trouser Brigade announced that we
were going to the casino. Given the fact that I don’t generally drink alcohol, I
suspect it was the heady mix of bourbon and vermouth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Previous to this, my one and only casino experience was in
Las Vegas. Well, if you are going to do it, you may as well do it properly… I
went to Las Vegas aged 20, the only member of my group under 21, which is the
legal gambling and drinking age in Nevada. Being my usual goody-two-shoes self,
I refused to get a fake ID. I had images of a cramped prison cell, a vicious
interrogation, and eventual transfer to Death Row. This fear - and lack of false
documentation - consigned me to the role of total wet blanket on that particular
trip. I hadn't been to a casino since.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On with the story. Bear in mind, just for a second, that the
Red Trouser Brigade are a crime-fighting team of wealthy individuals who like
to live in style. They have visited, without a doubt, the finest casinos in the
world, and lost between them several times my annual salary. Their enthusiasm for a game of craps was
spilling over, and they whipped me up into a pre-gambling frenzy. Off we went,
ready to be swept up by the shining lights and dizzied by the spin and click of
the roulette wheel. We could already feel the dice burning in our hands. We were
ready to check, ready to fold, ready to go all-in. All of us were spoiling for
some serious casino action.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J8R8Qdie4UJgssGObTI9vjvHhlte77P599YRhl7YIdUkOUQ-EWSQ5clxFms5BBvZnw0Jy9EKJJdDMogH4b8uIczkyAgVK2jZlB0D8eqNgAgtLmiNrERpN08p4a9AR-ALBotVG_ud6LQ/s1600/gwendolen-harleth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6J8R8Qdie4UJgssGObTI9vjvHhlte77P599YRhl7YIdUkOUQ-EWSQ5clxFms5BBvZnw0Jy9EKJJdDMogH4b8uIczkyAgVK2jZlB0D8eqNgAgtLmiNrERpN08p4a9AR-ALBotVG_ud6LQ/s400/gwendolen-harleth.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Luck be a lady tonight!<br /><span style="color: #888888;">Photo credit: Published by The Jenson Society, NY, 1910 / </span></span><a href="http://foter.com/" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">Foter</a><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"> / </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/public_domain" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">Public domain</a></td></tr>
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Unfortunately, casinos don’t take kindly to you taking
pictures inside, so I’m going to have to do my best to paint this picture with
words. Let me start by saying that in our enthusiasm we had forgotten that we
were not in Las Vegas. We were, instead, in a small Swiss lake-side city. On a
Wednesday evening. The charge to enter the Casino was ten Swiss Francs. “What?”
said the guys. “What casino charges you to get inside?” We soon worked out the
answer, and I here share our hard-earned wisdom with you: If a casino charges
you to get in, it’s because they know you’re probably not going to lose a great
deal of money inside.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcEbj1Hgsl7yKkPtR5U_tYiVD_WkVZvYldb4nwmtgS0IAg6_FXSspW9qBH9ZFswuGuFQQABM8d2iLp94AgGaZkOLAzcO3nOOVeAEbIqZAsSNl8kmTsXniwm2SeSmUTubA4CALWjeDhPU/s1600/bedazzled-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcEbj1Hgsl7yKkPtR5U_tYiVD_WkVZvYldb4nwmtgS0IAg6_FXSspW9qBH9ZFswuGuFQQABM8d2iLp94AgGaZkOLAzcO3nOOVeAEbIqZAsSNl8kmTsXniwm2SeSmUTubA4CALWjeDhPU/s400/bedazzled-1.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Photo credit: </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/unrelaxeddad/3023317342/" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">MichaelEClarke</a><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"> / </span><a href="http://foter.com/" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">Foter</a><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"> / </span><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">CC BY-NC-SA</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Even I, in my enormous naivety, could tell that this place
was a dump. It felt like the games lounge at an airport, with fruit machines
from wall to wall, most of them empty. Every so often a chair was taken up by a
suspicious-looking local with long greasy hair and eyes shining with reflected,
multi-coloured despair. I put my hand into a glass bowl of what I assumed were
business cards, only to discover that they were, in fact, Grand Casino Lucerne
branded condoms. Classy. There were about ten actual games tables, only
three or four of which were manned. We asked a croupier after the craps table,
but were told that Europeans aren't really into craps, and that the table had
been decommissioned a few years ago. The Red Trouser Brigade were dismayed,
though Glenn sat gamely down to Texas Hold’em, cigar clenched
between his teeth, ready to lose his chips.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had one chip, the five Franc disc we were all given when
we paid to come in, and I was thinking seriously about keeping it as a
souvenir. But as we decided to leave, the Thirty@30 spirit grasped me firmly by
the neck and told me not to be so silly. I was passing up an opportunity for a
new experience. So John, John and I stopped at a roulette table, and down went all the five Franc
chips. <i>Whizz</i> went the wheel. <i>Clickety clack </i>went the ball. <i>Swish</i> went the
croupier’s stick as it collected in our chips. Except, it didn't collect mine.
It left mine right where it was, and put whole bunch more on top of it. I couldn't tell you if the ball landed on red or black, or what number it was. I
only know that wherever I’d laid my chip, I was a winner! I’d won an earth
shattering 40 Francs, and I can tell you that I was jolly pleased with myself.
I collected my winnings, let my five Franc chip ride, and promptly lost it.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9FCggRxe2T6inAblsUaX4Q7bd_skfXoqq8lNE9c7d8jwwvC3sQnGQAGmggcA5CpsoiTBpHA7D7rQW5hqpDV3yVkekPE7kvXcMmE6X1BxfDkFRBPYEhwHCeLmJ5Qw_BxvTNlIPVWN8Bro/s1600/roulette-detail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9FCggRxe2T6inAblsUaX4Q7bd_skfXoqq8lNE9c7d8jwwvC3sQnGQAGmggcA5CpsoiTBpHA7D7rQW5hqpDV3yVkekPE7kvXcMmE6X1BxfDkFRBPYEhwHCeLmJ5Qw_BxvTNlIPVWN8Bro/s320/roulette-detail.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Photo credit: </span><a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/37855887@N00" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">Conor Ogle</a><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"> / </span><a href="http://foter.com/" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">Foter</a><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; color: #888888; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"> / </span><a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none; background-color: white; border-bottom-style: dotted; border-width: 0px 0px 1px; color: #434240; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: initial; vertical-align: baseline;">CC BY</a></td></tr>
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Now, I suppose that a true adventuress would then have
snapped her fingers for a martini and proceeded to lose all her winnings in
style. But that’s not really me, not deep down. I love games, but I’m too
profoundly, ploddingly sensible to gamble with any meaningful amount of money. This may be one of the
several reasons that I will never be a millionaire. I’d had my flutter, and my
little thrill of pleasure, so I left in profit. The house always wins, but
the house didn't beat me. Smug mode: On.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12ytAQStKE_5jISYptwsHd4Q8_gLK12k_JVP59-ebwOEIMjqdgykSOZgC0h6UDKd0YY0XJWDS6IVs_MswnNG_t3RgXXLSVaqbjrvVv3Pt1cyQUrwBx9HARCuEwaoELgiCFWYei3bdAoE/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi12ytAQStKE_5jISYptwsHd4Q8_gLK12k_JVP59-ebwOEIMjqdgykSOZgC0h6UDKd0YY0XJWDS6IVs_MswnNG_t3RgXXLSVaqbjrvVv3Pt1cyQUrwBx9HARCuEwaoELgiCFWYei3bdAoE/s640/photo.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh so pleased with my winnings. I took a complimentary Grand Casino Lucerne fan, but left the condoms for the locals. Not that any of the locals were getting lucky..</td></tr>
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The Red Trouser Brigade were all suitably congratulatory, whilst
simultaneously being completely baffled and highly amused by my delight over 40 Francs. I imagined them chatting over the next few days of the conference: "What was the deal with that crazy British girl who won 40 Francs? She sure was strange."<br />
<br />
What they didn't factor in was how much Swiss chocolate I could buy for 40
Francs. Did you know that chocolate is always calorie-free if you pay for it with
ill-gotten-gains? Or so I've heard, anyway.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
And so what if gambling isn't really my thing? What I will remember about my little flutter is that it would never have happened if I hadn't been living my life with a <i>'say yes more' </i>attitude these days. And if it had never happened, I wouldn't have made three new friends in red trousers.</div>
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Twelve down, eighteen to go…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-59954179062193732862012-10-26T13:00:00.001-07:002012-11-13T04:15:44.073-08:00Hearts on a String: An evening with Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-dhLwIuP28TI_cgyI_tlFdlPsJaZfHwlKN3BvNeYOI4VqFG89m7n5R3mI38qtoOaSnhM6V-yh93R-lcJzQZllkN8RqZlTS-V38OIW0JKL8W54CznISNzrJcFg_1BceABQRbtPPpe1PbQ/s1600/DSC_0281.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-dhLwIuP28TI_cgyI_tlFdlPsJaZfHwlKN3BvNeYOI4VqFG89m7n5R3mI38qtoOaSnhM6V-yh93R-lcJzQZllkN8RqZlTS-V38OIW0JKL8W54CznISNzrJcFg_1BceABQRbtPPpe1PbQ/s400/DSC_0281.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Joanna Thomas</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Picture the scene. It is a damp Tuesday evening in late October. I cycle home from a cruddy day at the office, already running late. As I pedal against the wind I think seriously about getting back to the flat and pretending that Justin and I DON’T have tickets to a gig tonight. But we’re meeting another friend at the venue and it doesn't seem right to bail. I get in and try on four different black tops before deciding on the one that I feel most comfortable with. Question: Do I maybe wear too much black?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2SQxzvp4_F-z9yCgLff_JUNBaoowbzwYJCaYk3ECyw8DfZzzQEgplzMug72Z8heD_Z378iLET5z67QtzY_O6_5lDhENKxTsMGzeB5ofW0OuhhFCiH5br1hcP3U1WiaG2ARsyKELSWdc/s1600/in+black+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim2SQxzvp4_F-z9yCgLff_JUNBaoowbzwYJCaYk3ECyw8DfZzzQEgplzMug72Z8heD_Z378iLET5z67QtzY_O6_5lDhENKxTsMGzeB5ofW0OuhhFCiH5br1hcP3U1WiaG2ARsyKELSWdc/s200/in+black+5.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZAwRBDdtj5ClE05Mo_NP0gWJbUNEjHXZOqovUYriB0pOxFLlayzQfmnH-4RE2hCbu7xrxyPlWYm6GWsq4Ue0-00v2tfYOK3RfTurNGbT__xhbSeaRSrjhzWPiK51TWgk7kSiIc45j1k/s1600/In+black+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUZAwRBDdtj5ClE05Mo_NP0gWJbUNEjHXZOqovUYriB0pOxFLlayzQfmnH-4RE2hCbu7xrxyPlWYm6GWsq4Ue0-00v2tfYOK3RfTurNGbT__xhbSeaRSrjhzWPiK51TWgk7kSiIc45j1k/s200/In+black+1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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Student-style, we inhale salami sandwiches standing up in the kitchen before venturing back into the night. In the queue at <a href="http://www.koko.uk.com/" target="_blank">KOKO</a> in Camden, I am forced to laugh at my black-top indecision. As if it makes any difference among all the fabulous costumes on display. Sparkly sequined dresses, tutus, top hats, studs in ears, noses, cheeks and tongues. Chokers and corsets and slick black lipstick. It is a strange and beautiful display.<br />
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Inside is scarlet and faded gold. Small boxes jammed with photographers climb the walls. The room is noisy but poised for each twitch on the stage, each lull in the music. Everyone is waiting for the magic. We are all waiting for <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amanda_Palmer" target="_blank">Amanda Fucking Palmer</a>.<br />
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©Hannah Daisy<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />
We drink expensive cokes in plastic pint glasses and settle near a pillar, just below the balcony. Tuesday still hovers. Work in the morning. Dark autumn skies. My feet are tired, my back aches. The people in front are too tall and I cannot see the stage. Someone else’s ponytail flicks in my face. I am jostled and tired.<br />
<br />
She comes on stage in her hat and dressing gown. Everyone screams. She proffers her supporting acts like gifts; a four minute bass solo, a young woman with wild hair and an extraordinary, haunting, wailing voice. Things are being laid before us, strange sounds and breaking hearts. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Supporting act Mali Sastri. © Alex Moore</td></tr>
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When Amanda Palmer at last takes the stage it is to a deafening roar. Like or love her lyrics, the girl can sing. She can fill shouts or whispers with pure emotion. She is lively and funny and bonkers and talented. She strips to her bra a song or two in and no one bats an eyelid. Mid-song, she and the band dash about swapping instruments. The stage is in beautiful, glorious chaos. She sings perhaps my favourite of her songs, which I love for this simple, perfectly expressed sentiment:<br />
<br />
<i>It doesn't matter if you want it back. You've given it away. You've given it away.</i><br />
<br />
We all sing along to the chorus, belting it out, jumping up and down, celebrating our past mistakes.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Falling © Alex Moore</td></tr>
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A few songs later, Amanda Palmer spreads her arms wide, closes her eyes and falls into the crowd. As she rides a sea of hands an enormous, diaphanous wave spreads out behind her in the form of an expanse of sheer blue fabric. Fingers strain and stretch beneath it. She never misses a beat.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAS9Ajr0aOqyJ3_tY1FSZaq5UINGtkXxWj1d5qn5j7QTDMKk6pGxQcVt5JDyieEoRVIr1zMzOb-cOhoiTJn53t1ddJfbMBUxPVZDXevnmIAIsenjS-scr4f2ewz1OUTTBl2zfaGph4q2Q/s1600/roxy2012+016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAS9Ajr0aOqyJ3_tY1FSZaq5UINGtkXxWj1d5qn5j7QTDMKk6pGxQcVt5JDyieEoRVIr1zMzOb-cOhoiTJn53t1ddJfbMBUxPVZDXevnmIAIsenjS-scr4f2ewz1OUTTBl2zfaGph4q2Q/s320/roxy2012+016.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flying © Alex Moore</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then she sings a sad one I do not know. I cannot see her at the piano, so I bow my head and let the room swim in and out of view.<br />
<br />
<i>Don’t know how long we've been lying here in fear</i><br />
<i>Too afraid to even feel</i><br />
<i>I find my glasses and you turn the light out</i><br />
<i>Roll off on your side like you've rolled away for years</i><br />
<i>Holding back those king-sized tears</i><br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>Amanda Palmer – The Bed Song</i></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyAfllXsn5cb-1xr7vys8Fp-USaoS_i9LhO7z8kiCqgvynLKUJYmO_UbMcEbvN3V3LU7vuD-6oJ9J_uabhCWcDIWwxNPrWL2mzq8EF4CzUkIch0q1RgoBjLkjZcPm2W6uFRFOuEzPs-c/s1600/roxy2012+022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwyAfllXsn5cb-1xr7vys8Fp-USaoS_i9LhO7z8kiCqgvynLKUJYmO_UbMcEbvN3V3LU7vuD-6oJ9J_uabhCWcDIWwxNPrWL2mzq8EF4CzUkIch0q1RgoBjLkjZcPm2W6uFRFOuEzPs-c/s400/roxy2012+022.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Alex Moore</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
At some point during the song I look up to a box on the right of the stage. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Gaiman" target="_blank">Neil Gaiman</a> is leaning against the wall and watching his wife perform. He is unobtrusive, enraptured along with the rest of us. I nudge Justin and we smile. There are one or two people in this room who have come only in the hopes of getting a glimpse of this man, of being near him. But this is a private moment, and lasts less than a minute.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcM6ed1QsQaa64uhHDsnEEfdTT2N2GeTIdLs90Jn4OFys9jb-z0VMoEokNYeIjrhC0V3_Ib19dX1Ea-_bjCA_ngJVprOTRDzEvTVnnAdrzKzz0ug28tzX6G80zwxTheFRQq2was_udqs/s1600/roxy2012+018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcM6ed1QsQaa64uhHDsnEEfdTT2N2GeTIdLs90Jn4OFys9jb-z0VMoEokNYeIjrhC0V3_Ib19dX1Ea-_bjCA_ngJVprOTRDzEvTVnnAdrzKzz0ug28tzX6G80zwxTheFRQq2was_udqs/s400/roxy2012+018.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Alex Moore</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We are in the middle of a whirlwind. Amanda introduces <a href="http://scroobiuspip.co.uk/" target="_blank">Scroobius Pip</a>, who performs his<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AvEiL-Lzol0" target="_blank"> Letter from God to Man</a> with the improvised backing of The Grand Theft Orchestra. He wins hundreds of new fans. His lyrics are clever and cutting and funny and thoughtful. The dystopian tune rises behind him as the song reaches its climax. With his enormous beard and immense charisma, Scroobius Pip becomes the evening’s prophet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwsNsKHNp8Wi7ZKmqcRjoXsQqXv1I58VReeVKhwZxgCgMaIFTfpdUqpsEyO94f-A4Qf13AXV8-iRfKDr8KWhBhqoFFIkzFcTBCUQs-I_Mgz0Noz4I0FLEC2sw2BAd-yhMQ2ZEb252Vo4/s1600/scroobius.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwsNsKHNp8Wi7ZKmqcRjoXsQqXv1I58VReeVKhwZxgCgMaIFTfpdUqpsEyO94f-A4Qf13AXV8-iRfKDr8KWhBhqoFFIkzFcTBCUQs-I_Mgz0Noz4I0FLEC2sw2BAd-yhMQ2ZEb252Vo4/s400/scroobius.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Hannah Daisy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<i>You see, I wasn't really the creator, I was just the curator of nature</i><br />
<div>
<i>I want to get something straight with homosexuals right now: I don't hate ya</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<i>Scroobius Pip - Letter from God to Man</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
I should not love Neil Gaiman. Every idea I have ever wanted to write has already been written by him, better than I could hope to write it. But I <i>do</i> love him, because no envy can conquer the pleasure of sinking into the dark, delicious worlds he creates. And what joy, what pleasure, could surpass that of seeing Neil Gaiman take the stage with a clown-attired sawchestra?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7p4cXon-fXbG_e2yOWAuXdQLhOzzV8idqHlUwhjvU9hglmMZtpl_cTxahHX-mxdKqMzWKbq5cgoaqojsNL6EwHXvFatZqX40Vm7ak6LUBbcHZjrmT0AM-pkl80EOkq_2vSE4r129gLCw/s1600/neil.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7p4cXon-fXbG_e2yOWAuXdQLhOzzV8idqHlUwhjvU9hglmMZtpl_cTxahHX-mxdKqMzWKbq5cgoaqojsNL6EwHXvFatZqX40Vm7ak6LUBbcHZjrmT0AM-pkl80EOkq_2vSE4r129gLCw/s400/neil.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Hannah Daisy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHFNf10Fo-rkfZ4CVkGBs5HYdGGCnYuiRbNqQwOFiLkF-GI1AV7ITt-nnferiNFRHR3ZYHGpbJuW8G-_apUhQKPq-60pUgNE8PZME_ZjvCHJdAiaARf0mbVJhvkDD7ldQKVXl91vLTHo/s1600/roxy2012+024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBHFNf10Fo-rkfZ4CVkGBs5HYdGGCnYuiRbNqQwOFiLkF-GI1AV7ITt-nnferiNFRHR3ZYHGpbJuW8G-_apUhQKPq-60pUgNE8PZME_ZjvCHJdAiaARf0mbVJhvkDD7ldQKVXl91vLTHo/s400/roxy2012+024.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>“Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly.”</i><br />
― Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 6: Fables and Reflections<br />
© Alex Moore<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Gaiman and the clown saw musicians perform ‘<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r56Mqzp6d58" target="_blank">Psycho</a>’ by Leon Payne. Obviously, it’s brilliant. Surely there's nothing that could top it? Amanda Palmer herself tell us there's probably only one thing in the world that could be better...<br />
<br />
There are some things that should not happen. We are years too late, surely, to see the legendary <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_O'Brien" target="_blank">Richard O'Brien</a> perform the <a href="http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=6827163268088648679" target="_blank">Time Warp</a> live on stage? Such a thing cannot happen to us. Such a thing is the stuff of strange and unattainable dreams. And yet…<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AjhveG8_47SlDCWRvRZLsFf7nLa4amrw-RxSpyW1ouPl7TtaoDM17cOWDD9I0OESVFebITqU-nRtHY0b6D0EttvISPOm1GmQSrHHTC4DtWWZuCtMTJp6vU0sGUDRV0O61jZYgcwGvbI/s1600/roxy2012+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9AjhveG8_47SlDCWRvRZLsFf7nLa4amrw-RxSpyW1ouPl7TtaoDM17cOWDD9I0OESVFebITqU-nRtHY0b6D0EttvISPOm1GmQSrHHTC4DtWWZuCtMTJp6vU0sGUDRV0O61jZYgcwGvbI/s400/roxy2012+025.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I didn't know how much I needed to see this until I saw it. ©Alex Moore<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2Uq0Ke7lcri9Ek-va9nzHqg5IglyLKR7QyiudEyfGX0GqH0T1b77xFGj8yAilAzuhMcrF-uiDPNphZ_RqjrCJNOQMLOKizuEkarN_enIrFrqjDte2dcGIZWdndh1XkswNoK5d9cSdy8/s1600/Richard+and+AFP.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ2Uq0Ke7lcri9Ek-va9nzHqg5IglyLKR7QyiudEyfGX0GqH0T1b77xFGj8yAilAzuhMcrF-uiDPNphZ_RqjrCJNOQMLOKizuEkarN_enIrFrqjDte2dcGIZWdndh1XkswNoK5d9cSdy8/s400/Richard+and+AFP.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
© Hannah Daisy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I do not think there are words to describe the joy and delirium of those three minutes. We jump to our left, we step to our right. But, without a shadow of a doubt, it is the pelvic thrusts that will really drive you insane. Our delight is enhanced by our utter surprise. A thousand people dance the Time Warp again. We are in the midst of true magic. The spell cast on us could not be more complete or more perfect.<br />
<br />
And, finally, after endless thundering applause, Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra re-appear in one of the tiny boxes. They have two guitars and a megaphone. They reprise <i>Want it Back,</i> all of us stamping and clapping and singing at the top of our lungs. This finale makes us once again part of the performance. We are all part of the magic, and it couldn't have been created without us.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSxI92wPYuIoOQ_Ruivd9fmyYY4eT0u7EmJi53SvPDO0ol-yJJbHEUTsN8t7oMQUriuZ7ZjbRzrIY9dWP7ljCdwbI1Mbp94LfREX7yl1z7zErCG45VwtXqoPBtsT3nRyizmsCl1KrIWo/s1600/balcony.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRSxI92wPYuIoOQ_Ruivd9fmyYY4eT0u7EmJi53SvPDO0ol-yJJbHEUTsN8t7oMQUriuZ7ZjbRzrIY9dWP7ljCdwbI1Mbp94LfREX7yl1z7zErCG45VwtXqoPBtsT3nRyizmsCl1KrIWo/s320/balcony.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Hannah Daisy</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I've been to gigs before. I've even been out on a school night before. I’m struggling to justify making this an official part of my 30@Thirty. But when I look back over this memorable year I know that my night in the crowd with Amanda Palmer and The Grand Theft Orchestra will be as special to me as all the other extraordinary experiences. So, in the spirit of creative anarchy…<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcM6ed1QsQaa64uhHDsnEEfdTT2N2GeTIdLs90Jn4OFys9jb-z0VMoEokNYeIjrhC0V3_Ib19dX1Ea-_bjCA_ngJVprOTRDzEvTVnnAdrzKzz0ug28tzX6G80zwxTheFRQq2was_udqs/s1600/roxy2012+018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjcM6ed1QsQaa64uhHDsnEEfdTT2N2GeTIdLs90Jn4OFys9jb-z0VMoEokNYeIjrhC0V3_Ib19dX1Ea-_bjCA_ngJVprOTRDzEvTVnnAdrzKzz0ug28tzX6G80zwxTheFRQq2was_udqs/s320/roxy2012+018.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© Alex Moore</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Eleven down, nineteen to go…<br />
<br />
*Any actually good pictures are courtesy of Alex Moore and Hannah Daisy, who kindly responded to my Twitter appeal for snaps. Check out Alex’s awesome drawings <a href="http://www.alexmooreillustration.co.uk/" target="_blank">here</a>, and Hannah's fabulous photographs <a href="http://www.hannahdaisy.com/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5582420136530503331.post-71822180753040196782012-10-18T14:29:00.001-07:002012-11-13T04:13:07.847-08:00On Yer Bike, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Lycra.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This
blog, this whole experiment, was never supposed to be all about
physical endurance. But I suppose it's natural that a lot of the
challenges presenting themselves to me are physical. It's also
relatively natural that I should feel the need to apply myself to
these physical feats, and to conquer them at all costs. This stems in
large part from my sheer bloody-mindedness, but also from an
experience I had in 2011, when I was well and truly trounced by a
physical challenge. Despite every effort of will and body I did not,
could not, make it to the very top of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Kilimanjaro" target="_blank">Mount Kilimanjaro</a>. I wanted to. I wanted to so badly that I was basically depressed for a
good few months after my failure. I made it to Gilman's Point, 5681m
above mean sea level, but just could not go a step further, despite
being only 300m short of the peak at Uhuru. I felt 100 years old,
weaker than I had ever felt in my whole life, and completely
defeated. At one point during the agonising climb upwards, I looked
down into the deep, soft volcanic ash and thought seriously about
lying down, closing my eyes, and letting it all fade away forever. It
took me a long time to even come close to accepting that I had been
badly affected by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Altitude_sickness" target="_blank">altitude sickness</a>, and that there was nothing I
could have done to change things that day. Altitude sickness can hit
you no matter how young, strong and fit you are – well, that's my
story and I'm sticking to it!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkBMRKXw3qYn3QfO2Kko94IV_b352m9EU3aFbLubL-vy1CkKSMYcKtxxYRbrBTpib8j0yqWhbjKpB4BiCsfs2TKILTeoNJfXqKkIjgmGGaJrbvzq0UZgQX3TKOaRwvBwkL3QXHj8UV2c/s1600/At+Gilman's+Point.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRkBMRKXw3qYn3QfO2Kko94IV_b352m9EU3aFbLubL-vy1CkKSMYcKtxxYRbrBTpib8j0yqWhbjKpB4BiCsfs2TKILTeoNJfXqKkIjgmGGaJrbvzq0UZgQX3TKOaRwvBwkL3QXHj8UV2c/s400/At+Gilman's+Point.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Sad but smiling at Gilman's Point.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But
the bare, painful fact remains that I did not make it to the top. I
doubt I will ever go back to Kilimanjaro, which means that on the
eternal tally of woman vs. mountain, it is Kili: one, Jojo: nil. This
does not sit very well with me. There are few things I have
undertaken in my life that I have not been able to get through via
sheer force of will. I may not do them with style, I may not do them
with elegance, but I'll usually do them. So I think that I
have, ever since, been trying to even the score in my head. A </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/06/trying-on-westuits-at-cycle-surgery.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">sprint triathlon</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> is not Kilimanjaro. Throwing myself off a </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/hup-hup-and-away.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">trapeze</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> is not
Kilimanjaro. A </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/run-forrest-run.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">half marathon</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> is not Kilimanjaro. BUT, if I keep
totting things up, perhaps I can start to feel a renewed sense of
that old Jojo, the one who always finished what she started.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This
is a rather long-winded way of saying that today's blog post is, once
again, about a physical challenge.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ostensibly,
the <a href="http://www.princes-trust.org.uk/support_us/events/palace_to_palace.aspx" target="_blank">Palace to Palace</a> challenge was this: Cycle 45 miles, from <a href="http://www.royal.gov.uk/theroyalresidences/buckinghampalace/buckinghampalace.aspx" target="_blank">Bucking Palace</a> to
<a href="http://www.windsor.gov.uk/things-to-do/windsor-castle-p43983" target="_blank">Windsor Castle</a>, in aid of <a href="http://www.princes-trust.org.uk/" target="_blank">The Prince's Trust</a>. Boom. Not that
difficult. I have a sexy bike. (It is purple, which naturally means
that it is both speedy and elegant.) I also have some lovely
cycly-type friends, including my challenge-buddy Julia and her
wonderful husband Tom, the manager of a </span><a href="http://www.cyclesurgery.com/" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;" target="_blank">Cycle Surgery</a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. This basically
means that I have </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">constant access to energy gels and revolting electrolyte drinks, and </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">my own personal bike mechanic should
anything go wrong. </span><u style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">BUT,</u><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I <i>had</i> cycled nearly 45 miles before.
I was only just short of it during my last ride. So I was clearly
cheating. This wasn't going to be nearly difficult enough. Right?</span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Wrong.
You see, the thing about signing up to charity cycle rides with
people like Julia and Tom is, that if the cycle ride finishes in
Windsor, i.e a long long way from the sofa upon which you wish to
end, they will invariably insist on cycling back again. Suddenly 45
miles becomes 87. EIGHTY SEVEN MILES. I'm sorry, but that is a long
darn way, even for ole' thunder thighs here. Of course, I was
magnanimously given the option of getting the coach back from Windsor
to Hammersmith, but that bloody-minded bit of me that is still
niggling away at the Kilimanjaro wound made me
accidentally-on-purpose forget to book a place until it was too late.
If Julia was cycling back, so was I.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So,
the physical challenge element had just become considerably more,
erm, considerable. But wait! There is more.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In
addition to cycling this great distance, there was also the issue of
the correct outfit. </span><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A
few years ago I went cycling with Julia and our friend Nuria around
London's Regent's Park. I met them outside London Zoo and, I confess,
a little shiver of embarrassment passed over my skin when I clocked
their outfits. All of us were, at the time, riding fairly
bog-standard hybrid commuter bikes, nothing fancy. But </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">they</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
were both wearing cycling shorts. CYCLING SHORTS. Who in their right
mind wears cycling shorts? They look ridiculous. They show off every
bump and lump. They are inappropriately tight. They are, basically,
obscene. </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> was wearing some loose pedal pushers. The clue is
in the name, girls. I was clearly more aptly dressed. I would never,
never, never allow myself to be seen in public in a pair of cycling
shorts. Those days ended when I stopped going to infant
gymnastics classes at the YMCA. OVER.</span><br />
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So
there I was, at 8am on Sunday October 14</span><sup style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">th, </sup><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2012, rocking the padded cycling shorts. And what is more, I was going
commando. Here, word for word, is Julia's text
to me from the evening before the ride:</span><br />
<b style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></b>
<b style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">NO
underwear – seriously – it can cause rashes, and lumps forming on
your bottom. I am serious. And it will get wet from sweat. All bad.</span></b><br />
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well,
far be it from me to court the emergence of lumps on my bottom...</span><br />
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So
there I was, commando, in a pair of shorts that made me look, and
feel, like I was wearing a shiny black nappy. I was even wearing
those lethal clippy shoes that attach you bodily to your pedals. Oh
how the mighty are fallen. And what is more, I was freezing,
FREEZING. Because I hadn't really accounted for the fact that whilst
your upper body generally warms up when cycling enormous distances,
your legs don't. It was a cold (though mercifully dry) day, and
within half a mile of Buckingham Palace my legs could accurately be
compared to frozen pork chops.</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCnZmDKy-jDczwXEQkOdSzAm2WJTBvK90xW5dexJr8-NVF-psQe_PUiZX3fd4nhgtP2tUs5Y00ODqME2FqsASp2P2eWwwAoEES_LBRzoCTJ7oY86l1jTp2-RkcVNUp9hHBsaUZUXpXP0/s1600/8369303-frozen-pork-chops-on-a-white-background.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCnZmDKy-jDczwXEQkOdSzAm2WJTBvK90xW5dexJr8-NVF-psQe_PUiZX3fd4nhgtP2tUs5Y00ODqME2FqsASp2P2eWwwAoEES_LBRzoCTJ7oY86l1jTp2-RkcVNUp9hHBsaUZUXpXP0/s320/8369303-frozen-pork-chops-on-a-white-background.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">A picture of my legs, doing an excellent impression of some frozen pork chops.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
first small stretch of the ride took us through roads full of traffic
lights and traffic. We wound our way to Richmond Park, and then through it. Instead
of sweeping views and picturesque stags, we saw mist, fog, and then
some more mist. I don't want to know what the temperature </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">actually</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
was, but I would say somewhere in the region of </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">ruddy freaking
cold</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. We paused at a rest station within the park and wedged our
hands up our tops or down our pants. I won't say who did what,
because it would be inelegant of me to tell you that the usually
ladylike Julia publicly shoved her hands down her shorts in order to
defrost them. After all, she reminded me, the crotch is one of the
warmest areas of the body... Tom spent the first half of the journey,
and all of Richmond Park, cycling with both hands in his pockets.
Show off.</span></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For
a little while after we left Richmond Park, my memory is somewhat
blank. We settled into a fairly steady pace, didn't have to stop too
often for traffic, and mostly managed to keep more or less together.
We were all cold, but the atmosphere was jolly. We powered up hills,
glad of our light steeds as we passed intrepid cyclists on Boris
Bikes. Tip of the helmet to anyone who made it all the way to Windsor
on one of those. </span></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7YWrUwD75JkgAcyrG9e9n6lborWjoSsZ3TlJr0DWI34GSNkPTOoxFgUCr4nF3wXyzY85vwKb3yhuPUutxoR7e68JBadT6Pxi_tkDtdCvReM2UCauYTlpwRN1dAWj7gSwATMrisYzluI/s1600/boris-bike29-415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga7YWrUwD75JkgAcyrG9e9n6lborWjoSsZ3TlJr0DWI34GSNkPTOoxFgUCr4nF3wXyzY85vwKb3yhuPUutxoR7e68JBadT6Pxi_tkDtdCvReM2UCauYTlpwRN1dAWj7gSwATMrisYzluI/s320/boris-bike29-415.jpg" width="202" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The ubiquitous London 'Boris Bike', ridden by the man himself. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I was concentrating mostly on avoiding large bumps
in the road, and getting my shoes out of the pedal clips well in
advance of any potential stops. I was having a bit of trouble on that
front and really didn't want to fail and fall over. Apparently it
happens to all novices to the clippy shoe, but I was trying very hard
for it not to happen to me.</span></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then,
at some stage, I became aware of where I was. It was a gradual
realisation, and one that tied a little elastic band around my heart.
I kept hoping we were going to turn off and go a different way, but
we spent over an hour haunting lanes and highways crawling with old,
bitter-sweet memories. I'd never looked at the route, you see? I
wasn't prepared to be passing within seconds of the childhood home of
the person who bought me my first grown-up bicycle, and whose heart I
broke a few years ago. I wasn't prepared to ride down pathways we had
ridden, to pass by shops we had shopped at, pubs we had pubbed at and
parks we had pic-nicked at. I wasn't primed for the rush of
memories, so happy at the time, so tinged with sadness and sorrow
now. </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I never meant to hurt you</i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">, I wanted to say. </span><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It just
wasn't right. I'm sorry. I hope you're happy. </i><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I cycled on with my
thoughts, trying to tell myself that this was cathartic, whilst
knowing that it wasn't, not really. </span><br />
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYPFZx3W-RyOQvm4k1o1Dut8WzBnvFREZs7CMOFPUYROTQDsZbX5pta3WVSHB0USxhw7YKHJAxKRpjGgn9CjzkntmlRJb8dx2ybaZFrYY3Nqc2ZKsn-OKprAUlF8Ap_gyfEhGTXfM8Ug/s1600/mem_lane.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijYPFZx3W-RyOQvm4k1o1Dut8WzBnvFREZs7CMOFPUYROTQDsZbX5pta3WVSHB0USxhw7YKHJAxKRpjGgn9CjzkntmlRJb8dx2ybaZFrYY3Nqc2ZKsn-OKprAUlF8Ap_gyfEhGTXfM8Ug/s1600/mem_lane.png" /></span></a></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, I started reciting poems
in my head, a sure-fire way of emptying my mind of woes and
worries. I cycled e.e.cummings, Thom Gunn and William Blake round in
my mind, until their beautiful and masterful words took the place of
everything else. I looked up at last and found I had left those
haunted lanes behind. We were cycling down a beautiful leafy avenue
somewhere near Chobham, and I was back on unfamiliar territory. Then
a stunning vintage Rolls Royce sailed past and distracted me so
thoroughly that I went the wrong way. </span></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1UQFzDrvzkV3FNl8H3PkVIaxNfPKCfL4TflBMdppybptERkA4ANE9HEELmq0aCIQnUdI4yhiaXzd8nNYkW4wKj2RIG4Q5Q7QVQ5zN4NIDAsrSlXKDs9YvR2yZVyq27UN6FzJjVADrWs/s1600/AX148-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1UQFzDrvzkV3FNl8H3PkVIaxNfPKCfL4TflBMdppybptERkA4ANE9HEELmq0aCIQnUdI4yhiaXzd8nNYkW4wKj2RIG4Q5Q7QVQ5zN4NIDAsrSlXKDs9YvR2yZVyq27UN6FzJjVADrWs/s320/AX148-4.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Four wheels good, two wheels baaaaaaaad.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">By the time Tom caught up with
me I had descended a rather long hill and was just starting to wonder
why I was the only bike on the road. Back up the hill we went. I
apologised profusely to Tom, but suspect that the little burn suited
him well, given that his usual average speed and distance far
exceeded the pace of the ride. The little elastic band around my
heart was gone, and I was back to the job at hand, and </span><span style="color: #222222;">pedaling</span><span style="color: #222222;"> hard
for the finish line.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Windsor
Castle loomed in to view, and then loomed quickly out of view again,
much to my dismay. It turned out that the ride actually ended at
Windsor racecourse, which is not nearly so spectacular. Perhaps Her
Majesty wasn't up to the sight of all the Lycra, and who can blame
her?</span></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6d0BrX_4JIGTTUl3MnCgXqfD8lWmu8oFXZ5KNQ9kQuuIjHK12KiqeDv0ehmWrQWv829iaEzmkS7-CSv-nJ94mB47yxzC2sBr_ChnxSaM9Cba2vxbOR8t7AJkOBiDSEYAzMzVtncLk4A/s1600/Queen-Elizabeth-cycles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV6d0BrX_4JIGTTUl3MnCgXqfD8lWmu8oFXZ5KNQ9kQuuIjHK12KiqeDv0ehmWrQWv829iaEzmkS7-CSv-nJ94mB47yxzC2sBr_ChnxSaM9Cba2vxbOR8t7AJkOBiDSEYAzMzVtncLk4A/s320/Queen-Elizabeth-cycles.jpg" width="202" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Queen Elizabeth, wearing my kind of cycling attire.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Down at the racecourse we
accepted our medals and goody bags, took a few snaps, and devoured an
indeterminate number of complimentary sandwiches. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3W5I9wUx5Il0meJ7j52uJH3ySgfMKFyHcKA_FDMuE0daB9VCXsatXOlG2gYAg-zxRehPDNDO3Tosd3xQZ9g0tbyI-n8CA9ThDJNZdVw_3idu8saJqQN-wWpZFh9olVLvD8LPJ91wl58c/s1600/photo+3+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3W5I9wUx5Il0meJ7j52uJH3ySgfMKFyHcKA_FDMuE0daB9VCXsatXOlG2gYAg-zxRehPDNDO3Tosd3xQZ9g0tbyI-n8CA9ThDJNZdVw_3idu8saJqQN-wWpZFh9olVLvD8LPJ91wl58c/s400/photo+3+(1).JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Julia, Jojo, Dalia. Notice how I endeavour to make sure my helmet is off in every photo...</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Eventually, Julia and I
narrowed our eyes at each other. Tom hadn't broken a sweat. The sun
was shining. Neither of our bicycles had broken. We'd made good time
to Windsor. All of this was pointing in one direction. The stiff
shoulders and pork chop legs weren't going to be accepted as viable
excuses. We were definitely cycling back.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5ZZ1-vJU9xw0540jxDZqFRkP67fmqJjCIgWokThOGDvwJC0vZ5M6nuJOd-B2oPHyu1TGfk2SR2yXiCKQKuA6IMnLn0GV9UzTFjh_J-m7CwDP-l7KYgN8rwc7dQkKtgJPDejfSe7eDHA/s1600/image.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5ZZ1-vJU9xw0540jxDZqFRkP67fmqJjCIgWokThOGDvwJC0vZ5M6nuJOd-B2oPHyu1TGfk2SR2yXiCKQKuA6IMnLn0GV9UzTFjh_J-m7CwDP-l7KYgN8rwc7dQkKtgJPDejfSe7eDHA/s400/image.jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">No helmet here...</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnrRoLNdPvHYjNfhcelnSVLu4Ru6795TeIsiP1wzdBlRSz08wvRUHbBIwmfd3_RiPGRgnU2IRDkVdI-Lu3D11Zn6u0kNG7uzhzetPt6h0a2KVXZwdHP-K86QhGhM6XTb3_90ojAtvHNE/s1600/photo+1+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWnrRoLNdPvHYjNfhcelnSVLu4Ru6795TeIsiP1wzdBlRSz08wvRUHbBIwmfd3_RiPGRgnU2IRDkVdI-Lu3D11Zn6u0kNG7uzhzetPt6h0a2KVXZwdHP-K86QhGhM6XTb3_90ojAtvHNE/s400/photo+1+(4).JPG" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Ninja helmet removal strikes again.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So,
well, we did. We cycled to the castle, so that I could get my much
coveted snap and demonstrate that I hadn't just ridden aimlessly
around London all day. We had a hot coffee and a brownie from a small
independent café, and then we pointed our bicycles in the direction
of home.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDCM9i6POt2aMG3MmCqbf4krIakUQdxWQFRN8ep_VRFxRSnYHuGCmyWDqQ4AYCKgWlBdlC1mmDY3ycQ5GrsGYyqDuS0uPuQlWidMRyjHq884Ous7Yv8lPciofAkFWCKgu4aij5B2ejYI/s1600/image+(4).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuDCM9i6POt2aMG3MmCqbf4krIakUQdxWQFRN8ep_VRFxRSnYHuGCmyWDqQ4AYCKgWlBdlC1mmDY3ycQ5GrsGYyqDuS0uPuQlWidMRyjHq884Ous7Yv8lPciofAkFWCKgu4aij5B2ejYI/s640/image+(4).jpeg" width="480" /></span></a></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Hello Windsor! Hello Lycra! (Note helmet hanging discreetly from left handlebar.)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Going
back through Shepperton, we passed a house I'd lived in, back in the
day. I waved gaily at the ivy creeping over its walls and windows,
and wondered if this experience might, perhaps, prove cathartic after
all. Somewhere in that vicinity Tom stopped to check the map and I
had a heart-in-mouth moment. Pulling gently into a sloping driveway
I tried again and again to release my left shoe from the pedal. I
jerked and twisted as I got closer and closer to Julia and Tom's
bikes. I clocked the raggedy gravel and, with a sudden dreadful
realisation, hollered “SH*T, I'M STUCK!!” I caught a glimpse of
the alarmed whites of Julia's eyes in the semi-second before I
started falling sideways. Then, both feet came free at once, and I
touched the ground not a moment too soon. Disaster averted. They'll
get me one day, those pesky pedals, but not today. Not today.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We
rode on, past trees and rivers. Under bridges and down bus lanes. Two
or so hours after we set off from Windsor, we arrived in Hammersmith,
where the Palace to Palace coach service would have dropped us had we
taken that option. I was knackered, but glad at heart that I was
still on my bike, pushing myself, climbing that mountain in my head.</span><br />
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB2LylHTHJqbXW6zXhu0owI4EXdKV1-UpLU6ECovXdFjP2VP7N3CR133iiYX7GFpQ1zqJhQBpCXWEa4_Ak7DkrkwuF1QwmUZBAQaerizHsB-9S5dv4eR01ItbsmeSgYZWLUqkD5RCOJo/s1600/image+(6).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOB2LylHTHJqbXW6zXhu0owI4EXdKV1-UpLU6ECovXdFjP2VP7N3CR133iiYX7GFpQ1zqJhQBpCXWEa4_Ak7DkrkwuF1QwmUZBAQaerizHsB-9S5dv4eR01ItbsmeSgYZWLUqkD5RCOJo/s400/image+(6).jpeg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Going back through Richmond Park. Dammit Snapped with the helmet on. Goofy Photo Fail.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;">The
final few miles were difficult. We were hungry and cold, and the
traffic was heavy and unforgiving. Every turn felt so close to home,
and yet so far. Somewhere near St Mary's Hospital on the Edgware Road
(where I was </span><a href="http://meetthe30challenge.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/under-knife-over-moon.html" target="_blank">birthing partner</a><span style="color: #222222;"> to my wonderful friend Lisha) we
stopped to consume the last of our energy bars and sugary gels. We
soldiered on, despite sore seat bones and stiff shoulders. The heels
of my hands were bruised and tender, and my face was thick with
polluted grime. But I was happy. I was gonna make it home with a
smile on my face.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The
final tally was 140 kilometres, or 87 miles, door-to-door. Here's the
proof:</span></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaV_suG3ziRrRLf6EwQ3O4J4-cL6Prpy6lR_Fp2UWMqzegvOVVoP1NJADnvLnopdOlmCIDsN_DK8NSQ6C0kPgvaVs09ntyFgco8dkP3QRi_K4_XFDXz2My3qTWJfWpFDIG-cMvdWKM0zI/s1600/image+(7).jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaV_suG3ziRrRLf6EwQ3O4J4-cL6Prpy6lR_Fp2UWMqzegvOVVoP1NJADnvLnopdOlmCIDsN_DK8NSQ6C0kPgvaVs09ntyFgco8dkP3QRi_K4_XFDXz2My3qTWJfWpFDIG-cMvdWKM0zI/s320/image+(7).jpeg" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But
the tally was also:</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lycra:
1, Lumps on the Bottom: nil. BOOM.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="western" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Ten
down, twenty to go...</span></div>
<div class="western">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16090639513788406257noreply@blogger.com6