Sweet Surrender

In 2008 I left fiancé, job, career, home, community, friends, family and my adored Mum, to head to Italy.  I had no accommodation booked, no itinerary, and no idea where the adventure, the escape, would end.  Perhaps I still don’t know?

I wrote two books about this amazing journey – the most challenging and rewarding of my life – which are yet to be published.  But I live in hope.  In fact after I publish another book in the near future – watch this space – I will return to those manuscripts with renewed vigour. 

Anyway after a few weeks on the road, with what can only be described as disorientation, fear and loneliness, I found myself one sunny morning in a town on the Mediterranean called La Spezia.  I was about to explore on train and foot the immeasurably beautiful Cinque Terre; five towns clinging to the rock-face above Mar Luguria with belligerent resilience.  With few clothes and a small day-pack, I hiked and hiked, absorbing every smell, detail and sensation until I was utterly satiated and exhausted.  (FYI my rental car with additional clothes was safely parked until my blood-pressure settled and I was ready to drive on the right-hand-side of the road again without nearly killing myself.) 

The day I really began to ‘live the dream’... to walk again in my own skin... existing deeply in the moment... with renewed optimism and levity...  was the day I munched on the world's sweetest bag of cherry tomatoes and wandered with this song on my ipod:  

Lost and alone on some forgotten highway, traveled by many, remembered by few.
Looking for something that I can believe in,
looking for something that I'd like to do with my life.

There's nothing behind me and nothing that ties me to
something that might have been true yesterday.
Tomorrow is open and right now it seems to be more than enough
To just be here today... and I don't know what the future is holding in store,
I don't know where I'm going, I'm not sure where I've been.
There's a spirit that guides me, a light that shines for me,
my life is worth the living, I don't need to see the end.

Sweet, sweet surrender, live, live without care,
like a fish in the water, like a bird in the air.
Sweet, sweet surrender, live, live without care,
like a fish in the water, like a bird in the air.

I was already travelling to a theme by Robert Louis Stevenson... but here, unexpectedly, was my theme in song: written and sung by a man who has left a wealth of inspiration behind him... the sentimental but extremely sensitive, talented and loving, John Denver.   How many of us can say we have moved and inspired as many people as he did in his too short a lifetime?   And how many of us will leave a comforting legacy that continues long after our death?

If you’re over thirty, frankly, you are unlikely to see “sunshine on the water” without thinking of him!

Anyway, this anecdote came back to me today with immense clarity: when I was jogging on the waterfront between Port d’Alcudia and Port de Pollença in Mallorca.  It was a busy time of day, with cars and bikes everywhere, but the sun was shining and the sea was battering the coast. Watching windsurfers jump the waves I was pondering my life and where my next choices might lead me... as if one sea-side jog was going to deliver those answers succinctly... when on my ipod, again, came Mr Denver’s inimitable song.   

 

Sweet, sweet surrender... 

 

Wow.  We are all moved by music.  It’s the international language.  We are also transported in time by it.  And that’s as it was for me today – I was simultaneously in Spain and Italy.  I was immediately comforted and challenged to ‘surrender to the moment’... to not ask for ‘answers’... or even to ‘see the end’... to see the path... but simply to live... LIVE in the moment... without fear, judgement, pre-determination, or even a map.

And so I kept jogging, jogging faster, easier, my strides longer and lighter until, before I knew it, I’d done 10 kilometres and could have kept going had the coastline allowed.  (Instead I refuelled with water and eventually made for a G&T... but that’s another story.) 

It was, anyway, one of those FANTASTIC TO BE ALIVE MOMENTS: powerful and free. And I simply must thank God and John Denver for it!   

Sometimes it’s just the little things which make your day – to see, to hear, to run.  It’s more than many will ever enjoy and I’m deeply grateful and recharged by it. 

Go on.  Give it go.

Sweet, sweet surrender, live, live without care,
like a fish in the water, like a bird in the air...

 

 

   Highly recommended:

   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XZ2VkWBf0v8

   http://www.amazon.com/Sweet-Surrender-Digitally-Remastered/dp/B00136NJ5S

 

 

The illusion of love

 

“Mum, I know it’s quick.  But when you know, you know.”

I was so sure of my man in that moment years ago, so in love and happy that I didn’t notice whether or not my mother shared my confidence.  Like a smug Dalai Lama speaking to the uninitiated, I looked over the beach to a fierce and crashing ocean and smiled, cocky and carefree.  I was floating above the earth... at one with the elements... blind and deaf to any possibility of disappointment.

That’s how it is with love. 

When you’re in love everything around you is rose-coloured.  You walk with a spring in your step and a sparkle in your eye.  You feel loved, you feel alive, special and appreciated.  And it is utterly intoxicating and absorbing.

As he sees your beauty, so you see his.  As he values you, so you value yourself, and value him; your mutual stock rising with each endearment and promise of a happy future.   You may think he’s perfect, or you may know he’s not, but you feel everything about him is wonderful anyway – everything is right for you.  And not for a minute do you question: how could you when it feels so damn good.  You relish and treasure every element of being together, of being close, of sharing the world which is now more beautiful and irresistible than ever.   And that’s how it should be; how the elixir of love is designed.

Even allowing for the infamous potion or magic spell element of romantic love, I have always thought ‘falling in love’ was the wrong expression.  It seems to me more like ‘floating in love’ or ‘wrapped in love’.  Yet I suppose whoever invented the phrase meant ‘falling out of your senses’... or ‘falling into each other’.  For certainly the experience of falling in love is a process in which you lose yourself... where, for a while, you aren’t sure where you end and he begins.  You become fused emotionally, mentally and physically.

I suppose this fusion is not unlike the closeness between a child and parent.  I remember from undergrad studies there is a stage in Development Psychology when a child actually needs to learn that they are their own being, separate from the people around them who respond to their every need.  It’s the stage when a young child will throw a toy or food repeatedly, watching to see if you are going to return it to them.  They are exploring that sense of connectedness and separateness for the first time, and trying to work out the difference.  And, though necessary, the journey to shape one’s ego can be frightening.  By returning the ball (et al) you are showing a child they are safe and cared for... while still allowing them to experiment with their own will and independent sense of self. 

The same transition seems to take place for couples, after an initial period of ‘falling in love’ in which you can’t bear to be apart and hunger for one-another no differently than a toddler longs to be nurtured.  It’s a basic and ancient urge, a prime-evil response to sexual-romantic stimulus.  It is disarming and hypnotic.  And ultimately, the experience of overwhelming romantic love is a splendid and explosive mix of satisfaction and delight... but it’s not without its risks.  

So what happens after this immersive period of mutual obsession?  It can’t all be a bed of roses or there wouldn’t be so many sad love songs documenting pain and disappointment.

How does one navigate the divide from total in-love fusion to acceptable separateness?  This, counsellors will tell you, is the tricky time.   How do consenting adult couples bring that love, and the best of its intensity, into a relationship which is more balanced, which allows independence and togetherness, without losing the closeness or security we all want?  How do we move from ‘the illusion of love’ to ‘the real thing’?  And how do we know when we’ve done it?

I guess we know because we have stayed together.  If the reasons for your instinctive, in-love, trust proves in practise to be well founded, you will feel affirmed and confident.  If the character features you think you love about  one-another turn out to be realistic (more or less) and (just as important ) satisfying and comfortable over a longer period, then you’ll be moving across good terrain.  If you learn to let go a little only to gain more when you are reunited because you have more from the world to share, to feed you, then you’ll be embarking on something healthy and sustainable.   If you can say “I love you” without needing each other every minute of the day, but are also ready to ‘step up’ and support and forgive each other when talk of love needs to be replaced by generous deed and action, then your “I love you-s” will ring true and you will know you are building on good foundation. 

Of course none of those transitions happen overnight.   The exhilarating phase of rose-coloured glasses, where love is filled with stolen moments and an unending lust for intimacy, may go on for an extended period.  It’s gorgeous when it does.  Or it may be quite brief.  The tide of life may be so gentle for months that you aren’t actually challenged to ‘test’ or ‘review’ your wonderfully smug feelings of love and sensuality.  Or tough things may come at you quickly and you’ll learn a lot from how you each mount those hurdles, singly and collectively.   And it’s the context in which you find yourselves that ultimately shapes the speed and timing of this transition.  But nothing is surer than that a transition will come.

In the best case, ‘the illusion of love’ becomes something even more special – because it can be treasured with a more objective and conscious realisation that what you share is precious and worth protecting.  This love is more mature - the type of love you can build a partnership on, maybe a life.  If you dare to be passionate and spontaneous it may also be intense and thrilling.  In fact if the timing for each of you is good, your personal readiness strong, you may make the transition with great harmony and little consciousness of the shift.  That’s how we’d all like it to be. 

However if you get stuck in the first flush of love and do not move forward... if you find yourself floundering like a beached whale with ‘the illusion of love’ the only thing keeping the wheels turning... you may well get ship-wrecked... one or the other of you abandoning ship for a safer harbour or perhaps escape for escape sake.  And then you have to ask yourself: Did I really know him?  Did he really know me?  Did we value what was really important or were we kidding ourselves?  There’s nothing wrong, per say, in those truths, however disappointing the answers may be; providing you weren’t dishonest with each other. 

But there’s the other thing: people have different capacities for honesty, just as they have different capacities for love.  So a love match, a successful match, is ultimately not only about feeling or attachment... it’s about a balance between two people’s ability to be honest with themselves, as well as their partner, and the capacity they have for active, generous and unselfish love.   Not unselfish all day every day, of course, but still necessary for successful coupling is courage and a preparedness to give for the other person’s benefit even if it isn’t particularly convenient.   For a big difference between ‘real love’ and ‘the illusion of love’ is that it isn’t just about you. 

And until you hit the rocks and hurdles of life, or overcome them to sail off into the sunset (as it were)... it will be well-nigh impossible to tell the difference between one type of love and the other. 

That is the risk of love.  And, when you’re lucky, the reward.

 

Focus

Could the girl who has been variously nicknamed Bubbles and Typewriter suddenly be getting economical with words?

Unlikely. 

Still, it’s interesting my last two posts had one word titles.  It wasn’t planned.  Yet as it’s rather a good writing exercise to pick one word and weave a story around it, today I’m going to follow up Perky and Tempo, with Focus. 

The study of something’s opposite can be instructive.  For example, my diet and exercise regime has gone out the window since I completed my first half-marathon on the 5^th October – in a rather good time if I do say so myself - at 1 hour, 47 minutes and 19 seconds.   At first I had recovery as an excuse, then a friend’s wedding, then extremely occupied delivering multiple events per day at work.  My free time vanished, the weather deteriorated, and I couldn’t find the energy to get out of bed at 6am.  This is all true, I have been tired and busy.  But the real issue is a lack of focus.

I haven’t been singing.  I miss it dreadfully.  But why?  Lack of time?  Yes.  But no, lack of focus.  This is a dreadful thing for a professional to admit, and it’s no excuse that I have several strings to my bow and currently am working on the other side of the footlights, because if you don’t use your instrument it seizes up.  So does your repertoire and employability.  Professionals don’t make excuses, they deliver.  So, frankly, until I get focus back to singing regularly, get back to coaching and practise, buy a piano to replace the keyboard which died (and the other one still in Italy), then I really can’t call myself a singer.  I need to set a goal, get a gig booked, and get back on track.

And Heavens - don’t look at my desk and briefcase, or mountain of unread personal emails and bills, for my home admin is currently a disaster.  This isn’t always the case.  It’s the side-effect of giving full priority to the contract I am working on – which is crazy busy and because I care about doing a good job in the timeframe I find myself – so I’ve let lots of other things slide.  My focus has been work.  So it’s no surprise that is where my more recent achievements have been made.

Because if life, at the base level, is simply time... then how we spend our time, how we focus our thoughts and activity, is closely aligned to how we spend our life.

And the remarkable thing, is that when we focus – on whatever or whoever – time expands to accommodate that reach like a photographer’s lens.

Such was the case with my half-marathon training in the first two months of my current contract.  Focus kept me disciplined, discipline made best use of my time.  I managed to jog and work.  I got fitter.  Work was easier.

There’s a parallel in something which happened this week. 

I enter writing competitions now and again, but once the application has gone in I usually forget about it.  However I returned home on Monday night, utterly exhausted after a rough day, and after a bowl of carrot and coriander soup I fell on the sofa like a dead weight.  Opening my laptop there was a mountain of stuff I really needed to deal with - not least, giving authority to my sister to attend a Tribunal in Australia on my behalf, because some selfish and irresponsible people rented then trashed my house and would rather not pay me any compensation.  

Then one email jumped out at me.  I was immediately focused.  I was being told I had won a little competition with the Wandsworth Guardian to attend a Writer’s Masterclass at the University of Roehampton.  This is the university on my London doorstep, and funnily enough the one I seriously looked into attending for a Masters in Renaissance and Romantic Literature some years ago.   

(Don’t ask me why I did a Masters of Commerce instead, as sometimes I don’t know the answer to that question... but such is life, and “way leads onto way”.)

The thing about this email was that the Masterclass was the very next afternoon – with the hugely successful children’s author, Jacqueline Wilson, who is also the recently appointed Chancellor of the University of Roehampton. 

But... I hadn’t been thinking as a children’s author since I put the first three books of a (potential) series ‘on the shelf’ where it’s been gathering dust since I finished a writing-holiday in Greece in August 2013.   Nor have I been flexing my creative muscles enough generally - even my blogs dropping off due to lack of ‘time’.  So to be able to seize this opportunity I was really going to have to focus!

First I had to find my children’s manuscripts on any number of hard drives.  Then I had to read them, shake up the grey matter on that side of the brain.  (Somewhere in there I slept.)  Then I had to get into the office, delegate tasks, clear my diary, work out how to get from Kings Cross to Roehampton by 3.30pm, make sure my boss was happy with this new development (which happily she was), and then turn up at the Masterclass ready to write, read and discuss topics that are a million miles away from delivering a live event, overseeing a theatre, or analysing bar and box-office takings.   

Did I do it?  Of course I did.  And it was wonderful.  Wonderful to meet the inimitable Jacqueline Wilson, to hear her stories and be led through some fun writing exercises; wonderful to be in a room with enthusiastic writers, wearing a creative hat.  Was there much in the Masterclass I didn’t know before.  No.  Not for me, because I’ve been putting myself through a disciplined writer’s apprenticeship since 2008 (in a variety of genres) so I am well on my way.  But when I had my little children’s books published in the GirlzRock series in 2005 and 2006 I knew one day I’d get back to the place I started.  So was this session useful?  Absolutely.  It was a privilege to be invited.  Jacqueline Wilson is a legend, about to publish her 100^th children’s book.  The Masterclass was stimulating, a much needed personal ‘tune up’ and, above all, an opportunity to relax and focus.   

Moreover because of that focus I could refile a few little things in my head... seize upon an image, or collection of words, which Jacqueline used to describe something I hadn’t quite perceived that way... and this will broaden my palette and practice.

Most importantly it reminded me of my desire to finish this series; to do something with it.  And it gave me the kick I needed to believe again that I can do it, that my voice is alive and well even if it requires a little shake up. 

So, of course I had to write a blog this weekend.  Writers write.  Joggers jog. Singers sing. 

What are you going to do this week that is all about you and what you do?  

Because all you need is a little focus.    

RECOMMENDATIONS:

1.   http://www.roehampton.ac.uk/News/2014/October/Author-Jacqueline-Wilson--honoured--to-be-University-s-new-Chancellor/

2.   http://www.roehampton.ac.uk/postgraduate-courses/Creative-Writing/

3.   http://www.roehampton.ac.uk/undergraduate-courses/creative-writing/index.html

And because I currently work at Central Saint Martins I must also mention:

4.   http://www.arts.ac.uk/csm/courses/postgraduate/ma-dramatic-writing-drama-centre-london/ 

5.   http://www.arts.ac.uk/csm/courses/short-courses/media-arts/evening-and-weekend/scriptwriting-and-storyboarding/screenwriting---beginners-term-time/

 

Tempo

If you’re a singer fronting a band you have to count them in.  You set the tempo for each number; pulling the musicians together to conduct the ebb and flow of the songs and the set.  It’s one of the most important things you do, because if you don’t capture the right tempo, the right mood and attack, your rehearsed interpretations will not hit their mark.

There are many parallels: the captain of a yacht plays with the angle of his boat to ride or resist the speed of the wind; dancers glide through a waltz, kick through a cha-cha, and sass through a tango but without the right tempo it won’t be convincing. 

Rhythm is just as present in sport: rugby and tennis players change tempo to throw their opponents off guard, and when they find the opening they’ve been looking for, they hammer a beat relentlessly to get the ball over the line. 

Lovers also mix up the tempo of play.  Well, I hope they do! 

As to the music, when the tempo is perfect and a band is really hooked into one-another... musicians borrow from billiards to say it was “in the pocket” – meaning not only that they brought the track home but that it was comfortable, the music flowed how and where it should have. 

So often in life the harmony of tempo and place is what we’re looking for.  Yet so often it’s just a wee bit off, like a distorted radio station – or worse – a singer or violin slightly out of tune.  When things are flowing at the tempo in which they are organically meant to be (and that is different for everyone in a million different circumstances) there is usually a greater sense of peace, of being at home, or perhaps being on holiday.  Indeed it’s in those sweet moments of good alignment that we may not even notice tempos changing around us because, whatever the speed, we’re flowing in a comfortable groove.

Yet alignment and perfect tempo setting is harder to achieve in our modern world than it used to be.  Life is so often fast whether or not it’s reasonable or desired. We text and expect an immediate response.  We email and presume it’s been read.  We rarely ponder over a ‘real letter’, sending thoughts that have been carefully considered and matured.  We tease and procrastinate about where we’re going and what we’re doing, often leaving social engagements until the last minute so as to keep our options open.  Yet I remember a time when you said “I’ll meet you at Piccadilly Circus at 7pm Saturday week...” and that’s where you went because you’d promised that you would.  You didn’t have a mobile phone to change arrangements. 

One could argue that the world now has ‘fast’ as a default, and that is no better or worse than an old world where perhaps it was too often stuck on ‘slow’.  Perhaps. 

But for many reasons it makes me wonder about our ability to know which ‘play’ is the right one for the moment.  When is a ‘fast play’ or a ‘fast decision’ advisable?  When is the ‘long play’ likely to reveal a better result?   And if our big-city, global-world tempos are stuck on ‘fast’, with sub-titles screaming “I want it now”, are we losing our ability as a society (or a workplace, a family, a group of friends) to even notice when we’re getting it wrong?

Thoughts about tempo have come to me after attending an exceptionally good wedding last weekend in a country hotel in Surrey.  A dear friend was marching up the aisle (or rather, waiting for his bride to do so) and as their engagement was short many of us were still a little surprised to find ourselves gathered for such an occasion. Their engagement, if you like, was a fox-trot... their wedding celebration, by contrast, a slow and luxuriating rumba.

We arrived at the hotel between 10 and 11am, and by 11.30 corks began to pop.  The ceremony started at 12 (ish) followed by a splendidly languid period of champagne and conversation, music and photographs, both inside a comfortable room and outside on the luscious green lawn of a converted stately manor.  There was no rush or bustle, tension or over-fussing, we all sank into the joy of the day, renewing friendships and quickly making new ones.  At 14.30 we meandered down a corridor to greet the bride and groom at the doorway to their beautifully decorated reception room.  People introduced themselves, friends of friends mingled, families smiled.  There wasn’t a hint of anything other than sanguine waltz and leisure. 

Then my inner tempo changed.  I met someone.  I met someone to whom I was inexplicably but immediately drawn.  And it was mutual.  Our inner sound track, whatever it had been before, switched to swing... hell, a quick-step... and that was before we got near the dance floor. 

Of course we were cooler than that in our outward appearance, in our polite conversation, but within minutes we were (secretly) delighted to find ourselves seated on adjacent tables.  Some days you just get lucky! 

But back to the wedding: the ‘breakfast’ and speeches were chirpy yet serene, packed with good stories, great food and wine, and without any sense ‘time was getting away’.  Only at 5.30pm did we take an interval of sorts, to return to our rooms to rest a little and get changed for the evening festivities.  At 6.30pm it all started again – tables and chairs had been pushed aside, a large dance floor uncovered, and a row of DJs sat in a line preparing to work their magic.  This room of guests were all lovers of jive – because the groom has run his own dance company for many years – and so it is gross understatement to say the “bridal waltz” was spectacular... for it was a jive/tango like no “first dance” I’ve ever seen (well, outside Strictly!).   We oohed and aahed, and caught their wonderful energy like a thrown gauntlet.  The dance floor filled.  The style continued, the DJs worked magic, and underpinning our mood was a sultry, passionate beat, a collective delight that our friends had found one-another and taken ‘the big step’, and a hunger to not let the night escape before we had sampled all the good things life has to offer.  Weddings will do that to you.  

Of course our celebration of life was massively helped by the fact that the wonderful hotel didn’t close the bar. They stopped the music at an agreed time, but they left us to party as long and as wildly as we liked.  It was brilliant hospitality.  And only when 80% had gone to bed did the final 20% make their way up to various hotel rooms to laugh and carry-on and no doubt annoy their neighbours.  There was one major party room you could write a play about.  But there were others too, many rooms, many couples, where the tangos and delicious rumbas went on through the wee hours of the morning... where giggles and delight clung to our tired bodies until the sun tipped over the horizon and we could twinkle our toes not a second longer.  The band, in the end, has to stop.

When we met again the following morning, there was a full set of sunglasses and far less conversation.  We nodded and grinned at each other, but were hardly able to speak until we’d topped up our reserves with a good English Breakfast.   Then we moved (rather gingerly it must be said) to another town, another country pub, and did our best to keep the celebration going. 

I wouldn’t have missed that weekend for the world.  It was a most memorable wedding - for which we can thank the bride and groom for their immaculate choreography, their superior sense of tone and tempo, style and comfort, and their uncanny ability to conduct festivities for their friends even as they retired to the Honeymoon Suite. 

Sweet indeed.  And much to muse upon.

 

Perky

Perky.

Have you thought much about that word?

I hadn’t until recently.  But I’ve decided I like it very much.  It’s a flexible and evocative word.

 

It sounds... well... perky.  Try it: perky.  Say it with a smile: perky.  Say it with a skip: perky.   Imagine all the instances in which this sprightly and spirited word could be applied...

 

Personalities can be perky.  People and moods can be perky.  Responses to conversation can be perky.  Parts of the body can be perky.    

 

That’s how the word came to me recently, in a rather intimate and flattering context.  So of course that made me utterly predisposed to like it.  Still, I think my admiration for the word is well placed.  And as beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with the handsome man’s chosen application. I’ll enjoy the idea for what it is, just as I enjoyed his perky charm.

 

So now I’m back in London after my perky Irish holiday, and I’m on the lookout.  Generally Londoners are at their perky best at the moment, friendly on the tube, dressed in bright colours, because the weather is glorious and every other day there is some kind of summer event.  If they’re not watching an outdoor concert, play or opera, or rushing off to the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall, they are sure to be stripped down to their shorts and reclining in a park or holding a pint on the pavement outside one of London’s many fabulous pubs.  Ties and suit-jackets have been thrown aside, crowds of smiling people with rounds of lager that never tasted so good, under a sun which refuses to set, the ambience and camaraderie distinctly jovial, decidedly light, and unmistakeably perky. 

 

It’s true the Pommies droop more in hot weather than an Aussie or Kiwi would, but even when they talk about ‘heat waves’ that makes me feel a cheeky combination of proud and perky that I’m southern-hemisphere bred; or ‘Tonka Tough’ as we used to say, after the resilient toys.  “Drink some water” I advise my wilting friends in a perky (and perhaps provocative) way.  And they remind me then that “you aren’t half so perky when it’s a long cold winter...”.   But at the moment so long and thankful does the Summer seem, that I toss my long locks with a dismissive shake of my head and a perky laugh.

 

The thing about this word is that ‘perky is as perky does’.  Take that laugh, for instance: I might have said ‘cocky’.  Yet one can feign cockiness.  It can be full of sound and fury. Whereas ‘perky’ is inevitably sincere: you can’t fake it.  Good or bad, it is what it is.  It’s an honest word.  ‘Perky Polly’.  There’s no arguing with it. 

 

I saw one such little girl on the tube the other day.  She was so gorgeous I wanted to scoop her up and swing her around and around in my arms.  Sadly the tube – and probably her mother – wouldn’t have allowed it.  So I teased her instead.  She was on the other side of the Perspex at the end of the aisle, initially with her back to me.  Her little hat was white with swirls of colour and butterflies which looked poised to fly away. Her sleeveless little sundress had even more colour – awash comes to mind – in a pattern which recalled a free and hippy time, though there was less than a meter of fabric required from her shoulders to her knees.

 

When she turned in my direction she was singing.  It was a sweet song but I couldn’t quite place it, and I smiled at her light-hearted and innocent expression. Her eyes were as large and round as the little girl in Frozen, in an ancient dark brown that would have defied the creaminess of her skin had it not been tinged ever so slightly with a hint of olive.  Her hair was brown and shiny smooth, cut into a perfect bob which framed her perfect face.  Her lashes were as long as a camel’s, her nose and chin as cute as a pixie’s but rounded in such a soft and gentle way that it suggested a struggle between ebullience and shyness. 

 

Her song was as a Mermaid’s to a Sailor: I longed to hear more.  But she turned away again. And the tube was silent except for the metallic rock ‘n roll of a raw and groaning track.  I poked my finger through the gap in the partition and touched the top of her arm.  She didn’t respond.  I wondered, like the Sailor, had I really heard the music?  I tried again.  This time she turned those enormous brown dials toward me, and the sparkle in them told me she knew what I wanted, she knew I was under her spell – as surely hundreds of admirers have gone before.  “Please keep singing” I whispered. She imperceptibly shook her head; though she seemed to like that I’d asked.  “Please” I proffered again, hoping like many a performer that flattery would get me everywhere.  But she held firm.  She did, however, give me a smile that would melt iron.  And for the rest of the journey this perky little creation, spun away from me, and back, away and back, in an elaborate game of ‘peek-a-boo’ with a stranger who was mesmerized by her sheer unadulterated beauty and innocence. 

 

When she left the train, I was not only dead jealous of her mother, and reminded (as I so often am) of the love I have for my own nieces and nephews, I pondered how exquisite a phase in life it is, around about four or five years of age, when everything about you and within you is incontrovertibly perky.  Everything is bubbling, bouncy, curious, positive and pure. 

 

And now that sweet little brown-eyed girl wrapped in a rainbow of colour and a halo of pure light will remain for me a metaphor of all that is perky and good.

 

That’s not to say, of course, that perky can’t also be naughty... perky is as perky does... oh, a most evocative and energetic little word.

 

(P.S.  Thank you to my dear friend Jackie Manuel who, after discussing my activities in Ireland, challenged me to write a blog with the word perky in it.  I think she expected more moderation, but maybe not.)

 

Three marines and a sheila

If it’s true there’s always a story, then you can’t find a better reservoir than Ireland. 

The villages are packed with fodder – situational and character. And long may it be so.

I came back to Westport, County Mayo, for the Music and Food Festival last weekend.  It was a cracking success – blue skies and high spirits giving birth to many a yarn.

A few days later I’m in the pub made famous by Matt Malloy from the Chieftain’s, hatching a plan to sneak in the back door of a comedy gig that’s sold out.  I rustle up behind a young man who seems to be well-acquainted with the doorman, and without thinking I push up behind him whispering “hey, if I stay close to you we might both get in”. Of course I haven’t stopped to register my superior assets are pressing tightly against his back, so his reply quickly puts me in fits: “sure, but you could at least buy me dinner first”.

And that’s how the night begins.  With a witty Irishman called Kieran.  It’s always good craic at Matt Malloy’s.

Observing this play in the pub yard are three American marines.  Well, three military.  One is a fully-fledged, combat-strong marine with a Viking heritage.  (His friends think he’s bragging unnecessarily about this but, to be sure, he’s as broad-chested and serious-looking as you might imagine a Viking.)  Rob is now technically civilian, working for the military on deployment in Europe, but his service credentials are clear enough.  He even has the remains of a bullet in his jaw.  Really he does.  I touched it. 

His buddy, Mike, is former-navy, still in the thick of military management at a base in Bavaria.  And the third of the musketeers, Scott, is a NATO commander and pilot who must be very clever as he lands big planes on comparatively small ships.   

Of course, curious soul that I am, I need to know how you prepare for such a task.  I wonder if they go to Wellington, New Zealand, to make repeat attempts at her infamously short and windy runway?  But it seems they find a big field or desert and artificially light/partition the ground in the shape and length of a boat, to practise on dry ground hundreds of times before risking sea landings. It’s a relief to know they don’t get all Top Gun until they’re ready.  I wonder if they have similarly smart uniforms with shiny buttons, but after the boob-back-crush-affair I’m trying to be demure.   

Now this particular evening I happen to be wearing a new shirt, decorated with stars and stripes.  And it occurs to us I’m in it a day early – for tomorrow is the 4^th July.  When I ask the lads how they plan to celebrate American Independence Day they tell me they’re going to climb Croagh Patrick.  Then I really get interested.

Croagh Patrick is Ireland’s holiest mountain, on account of the legend that Saint Patrick fasted for forty days on the summit in 441AD – no mean feat, I can tell you, when the mountain is infamously exposed to changeable and dramatic weather.  I had been wanting to climb “the reek”, as it’s called, but lacked a companion; something necessary for safety as the rocky terrain is treacherous when it’s dry, let alone-wet.  By the end of a pint we’ve agreed to meet at their hotel at 9.30am the following morning, ready to walk; rain, hail or shine.  Famous last words.

I head off then to keep an appointment with a nice man – that’s another story – and it takes some doing for me to get to bed at 3am and still honour my pledge.  But a good Aussie sheila keeps her word, so at 9.30am I approach the hotel already sloshing through rain.  Unlike St Patrick, however, I have pockets filled with chocolate bars. I’m also wearing two pairs of socks, a fleece and water-proof jacket – which surprisingly, leaves me better equipped than the marines.  They must be really tough; only shoes and muscles betraying their background.     

When we park the car at the traditional pilgrim start, we can not only not see the 2,500 feet summit but, so thick is the fog, we can barely see six feet ahead of us.  Geraldine’s welcome in the visitor’s centre says it all: “so you’re going to chance it are ye?”  There are grumbles about the conditions but I am excited.  Surely I can’t be better protected?  I’m confident, anyway, they’ll form a solid wind-break.

So up we go.  We now each have walking sticks, recommended for the steepest incline and slippery descent. And though I usually don’t like the interruption to ambience of sticks going “click, click, click” on a path, water is gushing so keenly across ravaged stones I barely notice.  When we come to a sign which says “Do not proceed if windy or wet” we stare in silence.  This is the west of Ireland.  Rugged is a given.  Nevertheless when the rain’s trajectory pierces sideways into our ears the smart-talking kicks up a gear - the boys’ humour as voluminous as the clouds and relentless as the howling wind.  I enjoy the banter.  I ignore the naughtiest jokes.  I have the perfect excuse.  But that only encourages them to engage me further.  So I enjoy the attention.  It’s all good fun.  And a necessary distraction from the drudgery, the pressure to kick this mountain’s proverbial however challenging the conditions.  I start to understand why there’s good reason to relax a feminist-PC sensibility in the armed forces.  You need latitude with jokes when working under intense pressure.  Though occasionally the boys go quiet when reminded this is a holy mountain and St Patrick is listening.

The strangest thing is that we really have no idea where we are.  We can’t see.  We could be climbing to heaven as likely as the white chapel hidden by mist on the summit.  When Rob and I take the lead and look back about twenty metres to see how Mick and Scott are travelling, they are only the faintest of shadows.  In space no-one can hear you scream.  I move a bit closer to Rob, letting him carve out our path lunge by lunge. I’m tempted to ask him to carry me.  Instead I scurry in his slipstream.   When we get to a particular plateau the wind is so strong it threatens to throw me over the edge.  I feel like a munchkin in a tornado.  We huddle in a group and agree to persevere a little further before making a decision about the final ascent.  The wind drops a bit on the flattest part of the mountain and this is a welcome reprieve.  But it doesn’t last long.  At our next drink break the gale mocks our resolve.  If it were a ship we’d be under full sail travelling at thirty knots.

Mick, who’s climbed Croagh Patrick before, thinks it’s too dangerous to continue.  Scott agrees.  Rob teases them.  I can tell they’re thinking of me, particularly with respect to the descent from the summit – where stacks of small rocks (known as scree) threaten to move like popcorn on a sloping tray.  But we’re already drenched.  I don’t want to stop.  And the Viking offers to take me up and get me down safely if I want to continue.  We agree breaking into pairs is the only other option to four of us staying together.  So after some predictable banter and sledging, we say goodbye to Scott and Mike who find themselves on descent in the worst weather of the day.  They get more wet than us and it’ll be over an hour before they get to the safety of Campbell’s Pub – the ultimate watering-hole and reward for Croagh Patrick pilgrims.

It’s now just the two of us on the mountain.  Even the sheep have disappeared. If anyone else is climbing this morning we sure can’t see them.  Anon I have a word with St Patrick about the wind, pleading with him to drop it back a few knots, and to our mutual delight he does.  The back-side climb to the top of the infamous cone is doggedly steep, but the wind is less and this energises us.  The Viking is a good mentor, helping me to use my sticks more strategically, and when we’re fifteen metres from the summit and he says “look, there’s the white chapel”... I can’t see it for some seconds... so thick is the fog.  But after a few more twists and turns over the stones, pride in our achievement and the adrenalin of victory, rush at me at once.  We’re there!  There’s a sign to confirm it; which is just as well because there’s no view.  There’s just the outline of a foggy chapel and my marine.  And to thank him I push my superior assets into his huge torso as he wraps his protective biceps around me.  Brilliant.  I think we’re legends.

We don’t dally up there though.  There’s no pub.  And if this doesn’t deserve a Guinness I don’t know what does?

We take the descent slowly, carefully, not wanting to disrupt our joy with a silly injury.  But once we’re down the worst of it we up our pace.  Then the fog starts to lift.  The sun is coming out.  It’s hard to believe how far we’ve climbed, our journey having been cloaked so completely in white. When we start to see the path we are even more impressed with ourselves.  Well, I am.  He’s probably done many impressive feats of athleticism.  And in the second half of the descent we stop to encourage climbers who’ve, sensibly, waited for better weather.  The best part is that we can now see beautiful Clew Bay, miles and miles of green grass, interspersed with sparkling water.  But it’s still a long way down. 

As the sun really warms up even little children appear with their parents to climb.  One little girl is exquisitely cute – with black plaits and a perfect number of freckles across her milky-white turned up nose – and she wants to know “what are you doing with those sticks?”  I’m tempted to say I need them to beat my Viking when he misbehaves, because though our conversation has been delightfully various (affording an opportunity for me to learn all sorts of things about combat, training and weaponry), he is irascibly cheeky.  Instead I just giggle at her cute little nose and adorable Irish accent and explain that her knees are in better shape than ours.  She doesn’t understand this either, but clearly finds my accent silly and hides behind her Daddy’s leg. 

Over the last rocky terrain we practise our jibes ready to tease the two Musketeers who proved to be Girls Blouses.  Rob relishes the opportunity he’s been given to get on top in their relentless bouts of mutual mocking.  Then once the glorious warmth of our first hot toddy works its magic, and we follow it up with a Jameson’s Irish Whiskey and the first of several rounds of Guinness and Seafood Chowder, there’s not a joke or a jibe that’s one too far.  I surprise them, I think, with my ability to join the fray – later explaining I’ve been prepared for just such an occasion by my four brothers – and they declare me to be “an atomic sledger” and “an awesome sheila”. 

It is hard to say goodbye when the boys drop me back into Westport, to drive on down to Galway.  They invite me to join them, urge me even.  But I figure a night in a hotel with them might be more dangerous than our treacherous mountain climb.  Likely a lot of fun... but there’s only so many risks a girl can take in one day. 

Then after a long bath, when I’m just about to eat dinner and go to bed for an early night, they sweetly call me from Galway to tell me they are “missing me already”.  I like my three marines.  I’ve had a great 4^th July.  I might meet the Viking on another mountain in another land... wherever he goes next to conquer.  But even if I don’t, I doubt there’ll be another American-Irish 4^th of July experience like it!

 

 

Passivity in threes

I’m having a gorgeous time by the beach at the moment.  But a couple of weeks ago it was a disaster which came in threes.    

Reflecting on the blows I wasn’t sure why I wasn’t more stressed.  Was it the parallel joy of reconnecting with loved ones in Australia?  Was I in a particularly sanguine mood?  Or perhaps too shocked to react?

I’ve decided it was simply that I couldn’t get the milk back in the bottle.  The damage was done.  Beyond my control.   So the electrical circuits in my brain disengaged and watched from afar – waiting for the future to slowly reveal itself... rather than fighting or resisting the reality of the situation.  And it was this passivity, this instant resignation, which I found to be far less stressful than trying to affect change.

In some respects this can’t be a permanent state of affairs.  Apart from the fact that I’m probably the least passive person you could ever meet, there are practicalities which will eventually demand attention and action. But in the short term, it was an interesting experience in letting stuff wash over you.  And I’m inclined to think that lessons I’ve learnt from living in a big tough city like London, have been unexpectedly beneficial.

The three disasters:

1)    My house has been trashed.  There are holes in the walls.  Broken doors.  Incredibly stained carpet.  A pesky cat who is busily pulling out threads on the now wilting carpet. So much dirt, dust and clutter that who knows how many creepy-crawlies have found a home.  A collapsed retaining wall in the rear courtyard (which the Body Corporate were supposed to fix over two years ago).  And everything is breaking at once such that I have to quickly replace things like the oven, garage door motor, floor tiles etc.  This was quite a shock when only two and a half years ago the house was in perfect condition.  And the tenants smiled and told me they’d cleaned the place in anticipation of my inspection!  Hmm, none so queer as folk...

 

2)    I went to a new hairdresser to get a tiny bit of colour on the roots of my hair; just to tide me over until I get back to London.  And after decades of insisting on a natural look and only a subtle use of highlights... the new brand she used turned a T shape stripe across my head bright orange.  Seriously, Bozo the Clown orange – not at all complimentary to my former golden-copper tones.  Yes, aaaggghhh!  My hair is my thing.  So what could I do except let her try to fix it.  She added another colour, then my hair went purple.  Yes, mahogany purple.  The poor girl was as stunned as I was.  She called the Hairdresser’s Crisis Helpline (apparently there is such a thing) and they told her to give me a bleach shampoo.  Really?  On my very natural and never bleached hair?   Aaaggghhh again.  Then my scalp and forehead went bright red and started to sting.  She added more colour, something to take the brightness out, and a few highlights to aid the blend.  And six hours later I left the salon with patchy red skin on my face and still looking very much like a relative of Bozo or a raging Drag Queen.  I’ve washed my hair daily, my scalp has peeled off in disgusting clumps, and only in the last few days has it faded enough for me to not want to have a bag on my head.  But what could I do.  She didn’t mean it.  She didn’t charge me.  And she really tried to help...

 

3)    I received a letter from the publisher of my children’s books telling me with pride that the GirlzRock and BoyzRule series have been released as CDs.  An exciting development, after several years, to have these new readers going out anew to school libraries.  I open the accompanying package with enthusiasm and there is my name on the cover – spelt incorrectly!  I am immortalized as Julie Mullens right when I’m out there discussing publication of a long awaited new book as Julie Mullins.  Doh!

I was beginning to think I’d been jinxed, given these three incidents occurred on three consecutive days.  However as I sit on the plane on my way to Auckland, I can see the funny side.  And I wonder how many hours it will take my precious friend Hayley to ask: “what the hell happened to your hair Mullins?”  

She didn’t exactly say that, as we were distracted by her new baby and the toddler competing for attention.  But her honest friendship could be relied upon when, after about thirty hours, I blurted out the Major Hairdresser Malfunction story and she sighed “oh thank goodness you don’t think it looks good... I was getting worried”. 

So I did what you can do: I opened a bottle of wine and tried to forget about it.  There’s still time to sort out my house and tenants... she says optimistically... my lovely hairdresser, Toni, will rescue my locks the day I get off the plane again in London... and I guess children aged 5 to 7 years don’t really care about the names of authors on their books... so my ego will just have to get over it.

Meanwhile I’m at the beach in Kiama on the south coast of NSW, the sun is shining, the water is gloriously warm, and I’m having very valuable time with my dear Mum.  You’d be mad to worry about much else really.

Ah, passive.   Not usually me.  But nice to try it on.

 

Recommendation:

Toni Benjamin – my wonderful (regular) hairdresser - artoni22@hotmail.co.uk
(ph) +44 7810 454389