Knickers

This blogger has been AWOL for a bit.  I’ve been concentrating on creative projects, indulging the summer sunshine, and generating more work.  By work, I mean paid work, as writers never stop writing any more than actor/singers stop preparing to perform.  My efforts seem to be paying off, for suddenly lots of stuff is coming in at once and I’m juggling.  That’s so typical, feast or famine, like buses and boyfriends.

As I prepare to gear up for a stimulating few months I’ve been rushing around getting odd jobs out of the way.  I’ve even caught up with my washing, which one must do when there are more clothes in the laundry-basket than hanging in the wardrobe.  Consequently I was standing in the courtyard adjacent to my apartment recently and my thoughts progressed through three related ideas.

First I heard the voice of my dear Mother, who, when doing my washing on occasion, will reliably say: “I don’t know how you wear these stupid things.  Aren’t they uncomfortable?”   She is referring to my G-strings which she believes are too skimpy.  For some silly reason Poms and Yanks call G-strings ‘thongs’ which causes confusion for Aussies when talking about the things on our feet… but I digress. 

My second thought: “I love having a real clothes-line.  Fabrics dry so much nicer in the sun.  I hate it when stuff is hanging around the house like a Laundromat, it’s claustrophobic.” 

Then finally: “OMG my knickers are a disgrace!”

This, ladies and gentlemen, is a sad and sorry result of an unusually long period of no income.  I won’t say ‘unemployment’ as strictly speaking artistes call it ‘resting’ which is ironic as often one spends more time, energy and angst trying to get a gig than when one actually has one.

The Degradation of Underwear is an undisclosed and traumatic side-effect of the global recession.  I don’t know why I haven’t heard about it on the BBC?

People who are unemployed - or under-employed which is just as common - manage all sorts of house-hold expenses with creativity and perseverance.  One doesn’t mind saying to one’s friends “please, can we go to a restaurant which is less pricey” or “no, I can’t afford to go sailing this summer” (damn it)… but as the weeks tick by one doesn’t notice how gradually one’s undergarments are deteriorating.  It’s a sinister reduction in one’s standards which clearly any self-respecting woman remains in denial about for as long as possible.  But when the THUD arrives it is a shock equal to walking into a nightclub bathroom to discover mascara half-way down your face and lettuce in your teeth.  

When a girl is stretching the pound (or dollar) she will go without food rather than go without face cream and a hairdresser.  But the loss of status in her nether regions insidiously progresses until such time as she’s standing at the clothes-line aghast:  “Seriously it’s just as well I don’t have a boyfriend at the moment... or have time to get one… for these knickers are not fit to be seen!”  I am embarrassed even to hang them on the line, though thankful at least the courtyard is not visible to the street which means only three apartments will learn this shameful fact about me. 

Of course I do have the emergency stash – a pair of bra and panties which are new and sexy.  I’ve been saving them for a special occasion.   But little did I know when I bought them months ago that: a) it’d be so long before I went sexy underwear shopping again; or b) they would lie neglected at the back of the drawer. 

At any rate, I’m not talking about special knickers for a hot date.  I’m talking about day-to-day standards of dress.  This is a serious confession but the exposure goes beyond embarrassing.  It is a frightening dimension of the international economic crisis and a matter of significant concern for those suffering the worst of its impact – the underemployed freelancer, the unemployed, and God knows probably the small business owner.  Hitherto, pottering along in ignorant bliss, I had not realized this collective scandal was being so comprehensively hushed up. 

I suppose the Degradation of Underwear is like mental illness – no-one knows what to do about it and it’s delicate to discuss.  While still at the clothesline I ponder on the cruelty of the rising cost of living when wages and benefits are effectively going down.  I don’t personally blame Prime Minister Cameron and his colleagues for the state of my underwear drawer, of course, though there might be some greedy bankers who are indirectly responsible.  I feel sympathetic to the people who do not have work on the horizon as I do, and genuinely alarmed to realize crowds of people across Europe and God-knows-where are walking around in atrociously poor undergarments. 

I mean, imagine?  Oh dear, maybe not!

Reverting to an academic rather than visual approach, I begin to wonder whether this phenomenon is taken into account by the clever numbers-people who work out indexes for comparative living-standards?   Economists and statisticians talk a lot about the affordability of utilities (rightly so in a cold climate) but even in a general ‘cost of clothing’ analysis are they making suitable provision for the important ingredients which round up all our bits and point them in the right direction?

In an instant I have decided that if I have to endure any future periods of unemployment I will simply go without.  I’d rather be an anarchist or a flasher than assault my self-esteem by going around with faded, loose, daggy, saggy bras and knickers a minute longer.  Good God, as if getting older weren’t bad enough.

Given I will soon have means to pay attention to my credit card, the next thing on my agenda is a shopping spree to M & S or  Victoria’s Secret or some other refined establishment which I’m sure to find on Google or the High Street.  I’ve talked in my blog before about a girl feeling so much more confident when she’s having a good hair day, but realize the state of my knickers has an equally strong impact on my sense of empowerment.

At any rate, my neighbours will see evidence of the increase in my good fortune.  That helps with the shame.

 

 

Not very grown up

I’m not really very grown up.  Opinions differ as to whether this is a good thing.

For example, I can barely spell the word superannuation.  Save for retirement?  I have a vivid imagination but what does it mean?  I can’t sit still for a day let alone an entire chapter of time. 

At Gatwick airport an ex once happened to comment “don’t worry, that will be covered by your travel insurance”.  “What travel insurance?” I replied.  I won’t bore you with the subsequent exchange but suffice it to say I should have known there and then the relationship would never work.  Not simply because he had travel insurance and I didn’t, but because he was so aghast I would travel without it the judgement which dripped off him was never going to work with a free-spirit. 

I didn’t care if he did or didn’t have travel insurance?  So why was I cast in the role of idiot?  He even said “well don’t expect me to sit by your hospital bed if something happens, as I won’t be covered to extend my journey”.  It was said as a joke, but…

FYI, so my mother doesn’t have a heart-attack, I do take travel insurance when snow-skiing or travelling to the United States.  I don’t want to bleed to death because appendicitis costs the price of a house.  I have some sense of risk.

Anyway it seems I’m not very grown up about stuff like keeping my belongings together.  As long as I can remember something I want is packed in a box elsewhere.  In New Zealand I was often looking for something left in London.  When living in Italy I always wanted a book or a piece of clothing left in Australia.  And now I’m back in London I want one of the many juicers I have in Australia and the Roland keyboard I’ve left in Italy because this damn Casio has stopped working and how can I rehearse without an instrument?  

Again my long-suffering mother has been patient in this regard, storing my ‘junk’, as she calls it, for extended periods over decades.  Rebecca, my sister, complains my piano in the family beach-house at Kiama obstructs the full thrust of her billiard cue (well good for her, because thrust as I might those damn little balls hardly ever go in anyway).   And who would know when the call will come from my patient Italian friends to say they are sick to death of storing my ‘junk’.

I’m not entirely grown up when it comes to dating either.  I regularly date men most consider too young for me.  I figure if they don’t mind why should I?  Makes sense.  And often it’s no problem.  However sometimes things unravel.  I brought my Italian boyfriend to London late 2009.  His only English, typically, consisted of song lyrics or international words like download, computer and internet.  All was going well until I tried to get him interested in going to see Churchill’s bunker on Whitehall.  I simply couldn’t get him to understand that the chief of the Allied forces had operated from there in WWII.  I couldn’t even get him to register knowledge of Winston Churchill.  And why was he talking about Garibaldi?  Was his grasp on history that confused or was my Italian worse than I thought?  I remember walking toward Trafalgar Square thinking “perhaps they don’t teach modern European history in school anymore”?  Then chastising myself with “it really isn’t PC to look down on someone for their lack of knowledge… I mean he doesn’t care that I am university educated”.  It was a great shame that chasm began to open between us, because the Italian Stallion was very well qualified in other respects. 

Generally speaking I’d rather be too “ungrown up” than too “overly grown up”.  I am in no hurry to worry about anything too much in the future.  There’s enough to worry about today.  Moreover if you think old, you dress old and act old. What’s the point of that?  Damn age is going to catch up with you sometime or other, so why rush it? 

Now that’s not to say I don’t like to plan.  It’s just that my planning is usually around creative or adventurous pursuits – getting my books published, getting back to New York and Italy, turning some notes into the play I’ve been wanting to write, getting focused again on my children’s stories, getting my hair done and going on a better date...    

It would seem, compared to others, I don’t focus on planning for practical things like investments, mortgages and business deals.   Well, not unless I’m in a management role and chasing a sponsor or partner for, again, something creative…

I am grown up though, or disciplined, when it comes to sitting down and doing the work.  I’m not a procrastinator.   This is a big help if you are a freelancer and often work from home.   I’m also disciplined with money – not in terms of saving particularly, or chasing the big dollar, but in terms of managing what I have and surviving, sometimes on a shoe-string.  And then I love it when the dollars start coming in again and I can splash it around, take some more adventures, enjoy it with friends…

So thinking that way imagine, from the same budget, how many more air-tickets I have bought over the years to go to interesting places compared to people who always buy travel insurance? 

Hmm, there’s smart and there’s smart.  And I guess it all depends on perspective.

Before moving outdoors to enjoy the glorious summer day that has arrived in London just in time for the Wimbledon final, I will just add that my ironing board is not very grown up.  It is a miniature which has to sit on a table and only really works to iron trousers.  It’s crap for ironing the lovely Laura-Ashleyesque sun-dress I have on today. 

So, when I next get a grown up job and some grown up money, I am going to reward myself with a grown up ironing-board. 

That’s nothing to do with age or maturity.  I just think it’s time.  

 

 

A bible, a book, a ball & a blubber

What a twenty-four hours!  I feel like I’ve been on a roller-coaster and am now slumped and beaten on the floor. Here are the eventful developments.

 

A bible

If you’ve read my blog before you’ll know I hold New Zealand and Kiwis in genuine affection.  I love how strongly they box above their weight.  By way of example, and as reported on Facebook:

“New Zealand just passed two new laws - gay marriage and legalized marijuana.  The fact that gay marriage and marijuana were legalized on the same day makes perfect biblical sense because Leviticus 20:13 says:

If a man lies with another man they should be stoned.

We just hadn't interpreted it correctly before!”

Well, you’ve got to laugh right?  Go New Zealand!

A book

My great friend Felice Arena releases yet another book in the Andy Roid series in Australia today.  Nothing stops this juggernaut of creativity from writing and imagining more terrific stories for children of all ages.  I’m so proud of him.  And your children, nephews and young friends will seriously think you are ‘bionic’ if you refer them to this interactive website: www.andyroidhq.com

This series by @fleech is available at Penguin: 

www.penguin.com.au/contributors/2942/felice-arena

And lots of other books at: www.felicearena.com   

 

A ball

London’s weather sucks.  There’s no point pretending it doesn’t.  But at least at this time of year we have Queens and Wimbledon, which for tennis fans is a treat. 

So despite waiting and waiting at Queens to see Lleyton Hewitt – play repeatedly delayed because of bad weather – I was thrilled this battler of all battlers made it to the semi-finals.  When it comes to fight-backs Lleyton is legendary and I never think of him or see him play without feeling inspired.

Writers seeking publication and actors fighting for auditions should remember how tough an injured sport’s star has to work to recover lost ground and we might not take our rejection so personally.  

Anyway, I’m just a big fan.  I enjoy all his games.  They are always so eventful and entertaining, with long rallies and clever shots.  His wife Bec is charming, sincere and down-to-earth (which I know first hand) and she wouldn’t have married him if he wasn’t a great guy.  So I have been totally pumped for this English summer of tennis.

Apparently to reward my enthusiasm, a free-entry Wimbledon ticket came my way.  How lucky is that without queuing?!   So into the sunshine I strolled yesterday only to discover I needed a different ticket to see Bernard Tomic on Court 3.  Drat and double drat.  I was all ready to join the Fanatics and cheer him on.  Oh well, I’ll just chat to this nice man on the gate and see what happens… and before I know it I am seated in an empty seat on Court 3 cheering as loud as the best of them.  I know – awesome luck and timing for merely a smile!

Anyway, forward and back goes the tricky little yellow ball... until Tomic takes the match from Sam Querrey after five hard sets. That makes my day.  Long awaited warm weather and sunshine, a Guinness later on Henman Hill, the brilliant atmosphere of Wimbledon, and I am truly in seventh-heaven. 

So I gear up today for another great match: Lleyton Hewitt and an unknown called Dustin Brown.  I am so excited about watching Lleyton take Round 2 and go on to Round 3 and the finals that I clear my diary and place a not insignificant bet on his likely victory.  (Irish heritage: I like the odd flutter.)

Well, if I’m not now left blubbering…

 

A blubber

Yes, more than a little blubber.  I’m gutted.  The Court 2 match was freakish to say the least – the tall Jamaican (a giant compared to Lleyton) stuck to his tactic of doing anything and everything possible to stop the Legend getting into a rhythm… and after four sets it worked.  Hewitt put up a good fight, just as you’d expect, but ultimately Brown took the match and in doing so has created a name for himself for having an unpredictable style and a brutal serve.

Good luck to him of course.  (I have to say that.) 

But here’s the thing: Lleyton is Lleyton so, though this loss will hurt, he will no doubt take from it all that is positive about his recent performance.  He will power on.  He is in good physical form – against all the odds and after numerous operations and long recovery periods.  He made the semis at Queens – against the odds – and he knocked out Wawrinka in the first round at Wimbledon when few predicted he would.   The odds on him at betting shops have dropped drastically since that win, so clearly even those with money to gain know he’s back in form and clearly someone to watch. 

Whatever happens, though, Lletyon Hewitt has added enormous quality and verve to the professional tennis circuit for more than a decade and he gives true resonance to the term ‘under dog’.  In everything he does… in every physical injury, pain or defeat he resists to go on and try and try again… win and win again… and in doing so he wins more and more respect from the people who share his love of the game, and millions around the world who appreciate his rare breed of talent, resilience and perseverance does him and the game great credit. 

I’ve been away a while so I’m not close to what’s happening in the politics of Canberra today, but Lleyton Hewitt (and lovely Bec) make me proud to stand in the audience of Wimbledon and cry:

Let’s Go Lleyton Let’s Go!

and

Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi!

And if it makes others cringe… providing it’s done in appropriate breaks of play… I don’t care.  ‘Cause if the world could bottle Lleyton’s spirit we’d all be a lot better off.

So with that I’ll stop blubbering, post this blog, and go back to the Tsonga-Gulbis match… which, after all, is what they mean by “focus on the next ball”.

Thanks for that lesson Lleyton.  May you go onward and ever upward!

 

 

The Cutting-Room Floor

Imagine life is a movie.  

I often do, so I’m told.  And it’s not hard if you let your imagination run.

Imagine that life, as in art, is filled with choices about what stays in and what goes out… what is first rate and what is second rate… which ideas, passions and actions get to see the light of day… get to blossom and absorb your energy… and which get abandoned on the cutting-room floor never to be thought of again.

(Well, except for the Bloopers which is another story…)

Imagine the freedom of leaving all mistakes behind…

Perhaps you saw the quote in my arts blog ‘The Permanent Present’: “Breathe in the rich blessings of each new day – forget all that lies behind you.”  I came upon it as part of my new year’s resolution to read something spiritual or inspirational every day, and I love it.

Imagine conducting the business of life through trial and error without present or post judgement…

 
Imagine letting the things of lesser quality go…

Imagine redoing things until you get the best take…

This theme occurred to me in a random moment (as most ideas for this blog do) when stepping out of the hairdresser's recently. 

My hairdresser, Toni, is a terrific woman – professionally and personally. When I step back into the world after a few hours of pampering in her salon, I am transformed.  I feel a million bucks.  And I look to all-the-world like the best version of myself…

To the salon I slouch.  Out of the salon I strut.  Heads turn… cars slow down to let me pass in front… I know I look good.  Height and confidence soar… such is the impact on a woman of a ‘good hair day’.

So I wondered, imagine if you could always feel the ‘best version of yourself’…

If even most of the time you could hang on to the best version of yourself...

Of course I mean the best version inside and out.  Integration is key.  So imagine if you fully understood which elements combine to help you be that ‘better person’… which elements or associations obstruct the formation of the ‘best version of yourself’…. and you pursued it the way a director pursues a good edit and a great film…

I have a question,Girls: do you always take your hair on an outing after you’ve had it done?  I never go straight home.  It gives me a ‘gotta be out there amongst it’ feeling.  And inevitably something fun or adventurous happens on those evenings, oftentimes unplanned. 

I guess I feel the lift more keenly when I’ve gone longer between treatments… when my hair is an absolute fright going in… so in my future life when I have a personal hairdresser on tap (yeah, yeah, I know, dream on) the high might not be as noticeable.  Yet there’s still something to be learned from this experience. 

On the one hand this concept is about growing and building character.  On the other it’s about attitude and perspective. It’s about positive attracting positive.

Rather than tell you naughty post-hairdressing stories… which in Italy, in particular, were memorable as Italian men seem to love red heads… I will jump from the (nearly) profane to the sacred, and share a meaningful reflection I found this week. 

It comes from a bookmark being circulated by the organizers of Spirit in the City.  Like Lleyton Hewitt and Andy Murray at Queens, they are fighting the dreadful weather to try and hold an event in London today… good luck to them! 

This bookmark contains some beautiful wisdom expressed by Mother Teresa, about leaving behind what’s on the cutting-room-floor and chasing the ‘best version of yourself’…

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self centred; forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; give the world the best you’ve got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God; it was never between you and them anyway!

 

And the clarity to come up with those words could only have come from a woman filled to the brim with love and forgiveness; a woman who saw goodness and value in everyone.  

She certainly became the best version of herself.  And she probably didn’t go near a hairdresser.

 

Recommendations: 

·   www.spiritinthecity.org 

·   For hairdressing email Toni at artoni22@hotmail.co.uk or phone 07810 454 389 (and mention this blog for a £5 discount).

 

London has no radishes

Sometimes wires get crossed.

In the days of manual switchboards, no doubt wires were crossed with comic and compromising consequences.  But for all our digital sophistication we are not immune from ad hoc communication muddle.

Take my dinner party the other night: Cristian was talking about the nature of London society.  When he came to a point he couldn’t express in English he spoke to me in Italian.  The longer I live outside Italy the more I forget, but feeling an obligation to translate rather than interpret, I pronounced enigmatically to the table: “London has no radishes”.   The rest of the party stared blankly.  “Radishes?” one guest finally asked.  “I think so” I said with diminishing confidence.  “Seriously, radishes?” another guest challenged.  Assessing collective bemusement, Cristian spoke to me further in Italian, fleshing out his idea.  “OH” I said as the penny dropped.  “He means ROOTS not radishes… he’s saying many people who live in London have moved from elsewhere and therefore don’t have roots in London”. 

When I told Cristian in Italian I’d mistaken radicio for radicchio, and then to further complicate matters had confused Italian chicory for ravanello (the correct translation for radish)… he laughed the loudest.  Just goes to show what a difference one little leaf or one little ‘ch’ can make!

Frankly that was double-crossed wires; the reason for which might have been troppo vino.

Clearly my brain is overloaded after recently completing an intensive course in the UK’s favoured Project Management methodology: Prince 2.   The day before this dinner party I spent almost entirely on the sofa – study, classes, and daily 6am bootcamps having caught up with me.  (Ok, yes, and one late night celebrating.)  So when my friend Kate rang to say she was approaching my house in the car and suggested picking me up to take me back to her house for dinner, then to a movie, after which she would drop me back home… it was the most tranquil Saturday-night-out I could imagine.  So I agreed to come down stairs and “await my chariot” while making no effort whatsoever to change clothes or spruce myself up.  Kate’s family greeted me warmly and it was a delightful evening with three-year-old Scarlett saying at regular intervals “I love you Julie”.   Can’t beat that for adorable.

After dinner Kate and I ventured to the cinema; door to door in a car, which after leaving various cars behind in Australia and Italy and travelling in London now on foot or public transport, was a luxury.  As we stood in a queue to collect the tickets Kate had pre-booked, she mentioned she didn’t remember much about Part 2.  I recounted the near-to-final scene when Robert Downey Jr is up on the Tower Bridge scaffolding talking to his nemesis and love-interest, the pretty actress, Rachel McAdams, who is glamorously dressed in period costume complete with bows and bustle etc.  Kate’s expression told me she was none the wiser and a teenage girl behind us in the queue squinted at me oddly.  Yet as the southern English often look at me strangely for doing things like chatting to strangers on trains, I thought nothing more about it. 

We grabbed the tickets quickly and moved into the cinema as the feature was about to start.  My first thought as we chose a seat was “why isn’t it full on a Saturday night when the series is so popular?”  Soon we’re into it anyway and Mr Downey is in usual good form.  He’s such a fabulous actor.  Sexy too.  After some minutes, though, it occurs to me he isn’t very English.  And where is Dr Watson I wonder?  Not to worry, he’ll turn up.  Then again, isn’t this out of period?  The costumes and setting appear modern, probably American.  And when did Gwyneth Paltrow join the cast?  About ten minutes into the film I’m thinking: “what the hell are those metal suits and robots all about?”  Only after these questions have pushed their way through my foggy, exhausted brain does it dawn on me that my wires are entirely crossed.  This is not Sherlock Holmes 3.  This is Iron Man 3.  Drrr. 

Between giggles and sighs of recognition I whisper to Kate: “I am a complete idiot (or words to that effect)… when I heard you say Robert Downey Jr and Part 3 my mind jumped to the series I know and I didn’t register another thing about it.  I’ve never seen Iron Man before. I thought we were coming to Sherlock Holmes and have been expecting Jude Law.”

Kate says she was surprised I’d been so keen to see a boy’s movie, when it hadn’t been what she’d have expected me to like… adding “that’s why you were talking about Tower Bridge and bustles…”.  Too funny.

This gave us both quite a laugh, of course, and as it turns out crossed wires are sometimes advantageous – a ‘don’t have to think’ movie exactly what the Dr ordered and I thoroughly enjoyed Iron Man 3.

(I only hope my concentration in the final exam last Friday was significantly more refined; for I have to wait some weeks to receive the results.)

Then today I jumped online to check out the stats for my blogs.  Being busy I hadn’t looked for a couple of weeks, so was interested to find lots of readers from new countries on www.blogjuliearts.com   “Very nice” I thought.  “Though how did people in Pakistan, Argentina, Brazil, Hungary, India and Romania find me all of a sudden?”   Readership had also gone up noticeably in Russia and Sweden.   

I was about to put it down to random luck and log off, when I saw traffic had been coming via something called ‘top blog stories’.   “How lovely… someone must have recommended or ‘liked’ my blog on another site”.  I felt chuffed.  So of course I clicked on the link to find out what they’d said about my writing.  Well, talk about crossed- wires… I found myself on a porn site. 

It wasn’t overly explicit but it was definitely dodgy.  “How the hell did that happen?”  I wondered.  So I exited and typed the URL again, checking to see if I’d made a mistake.  Sure enough, I found myself on another porn site.  Or at least the opening page had different images.

“What the &*^#?  What does it mean?”  

Suddenly fears about my blog or, worse, my laptop, being hacked… sent me scurrying quickly away.  I’ll have to seek answers from someone with superior IT knowledge, and until then leave it well alone.

Meanwhile it’s ironic my last post on ‘There’s Always a Story’ called Holiday of Obligation talked about Jesus.  For if people from those countries confused www.blogjuliearts.com  with another site then they too got more than they bargained for!

So maybe I’ll have the last laugh.  Time will tell.  I’m amused anyway about crossed wires and pondering the many scenarios (and movie scripts) which have and could be constructed around such confusion. 

All it takes to start is a radish.

 

 

Holiday of Obligation

It would seem I’m a hopeless evangelist. 

“Just as well” you might say.  Yet God (or the Bible) did tell us not to hide our light under a bushel.  I think, however, that I grew up believing ‘light’ equated with ‘talent’… so I’ve done my best to stand in a spotlight. 

Seriously, though, I had to laugh yesterday when one of my closest friends said “Mullins, what’s a Holiday of Obligation?”   I’d been referring to the Feast of the Ascension… you know, when Our Lord went back to Heaven…  and falling on May 9^th in 2013 it also happens to be my sister Alison’s birthday.  No doubt revealing the depth of my Irish heritage, I had said to my friend, Hayley, something like “I can’t come out drinking tomorrow until after Mass because it’s a Holy Day of Obligation”.  Actually I’m not sure if, strictly speaking, it is anymore as they keep changing the rules, but it seems an important day to go to church – celebrating Jesus and His job well done and all that.

Now apart from “what’s a Holiday of Obligation” giving me good reason to laugh, it got me thinking.  Is that perhaps what the church actually means?  Are we supposed to stop and have a holiday from our cares and woes and concentrate on more uplifting things?  Well, you can say what you like about Italian politics (there’s a lot to say) and the Vatican (ditto) but it’s hard to find a country with as many lovely, unexpected holidays as there are in Italy.  In the UK we hang out for the May Day holiday for six months of a long winter.  There is another public holiday coming up soon but then it’s ages before we get another.  It’s all work, work, work, for those in employment – the Goldilocks balance of “just right”… as in “just enough work”… hard to find. 

But in Italy – oh, it’s wonderful.  There’s a holiday and festival every week.  Think of any Saint you can name and they will be the Patron of some town in Italy for which there must be an annual holiday (at least in that location).  Add to that list the towns and Saints you’ve never heard of so the list goes on and on.  Then add regular ‘Holidays of Obligation’… which believers and non-believers seize as a natural right… special church calendar events like Corpus Christi… and ad-hoc celebrations like VE Day, commemoration of the unification of Italy under King Vittorio Emanuele in 1860, the Medici did this or that day, the victory of this or that battle, and self-styled holidays after a big football win… and it makes running a business in Italy fairly challenging.  Everyone else loves it; as unsurprisingly most fall in the nine warmest months of the year.  All that fabulous food and wine to taste in each little town… all those medieval festivals where people dress up and I can pretend I’m at the theatre… and sunshine and blue skies and the colours and smells of Italy which in Tuscany and Umbria are as rich as it gets… and you can see why I fell in love with it. 

Then when I made a good friend in Alessandro, he had a great appetite for country festivals so we’d go together which really enhanced the fun – sometimes even up hill and over dale on a motor bike, with me hanging on for dear life and squeezing him around the waist to slow down which really annoyed him (apparently annoys any Italian alpha male behind any kind of steering-wheel).

Lovely memories; things I definitely plan to do again and again if all goes to plan. 

Meanwhile, in whatever country you live, I think Holy Days and Holidays of Obligation are a fine thing.  They are both about relaxing, about getting down to the nuts and bolts, about remembering (and celebrating) what is important to you, what is important to the community and your place in it.  And those questions are important for the secular and the sacred.  They nourish us for the next stage.

Nevertheless it would appear I am a lousy evangelist if I haven’t told my great friend about the importance of Jesus’ Ascension.   She says I talk to God a lot… out loud apparently, something like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof… yes, sorry, there is always a theatrical reference… but I think that just means I’m eccentric (hopefully in a good way).  Maybe it means I’m crazy too but I don’t think it gives me brownie points for ‘not hiding my light under a bushel’. 

So to that end I’ll just say: I am Catholic.  But when it comes down to it I am far less attached to being Catholic or Protestant, Methodist or Evangelical, Roman or Orthodox than I am simply to being Christian.  At the Royal Opera House last night watching Verdi’s Don Carlo I was horrified at the antics (and blood-bath) the King of Spain got up to in the name of ‘Defender of the Faith’.  And don’t get me started on the Spanish Inquisition.  In Ireland recently I was as deeply moved by stories of persecution of Catholics as I was by tales of dreadful Protestant suffering.  Most of it was/is politics and has little to do with Jesus.  Indeed so often our claims to ‘God on our side’ are a dreadful distortion.  For if God is God isn’t He on everyone’s side – the ultimate fair judge?!

Anyway I think Jesus is the kind of guy, purely looked at in His own right, that anyone would be happy to know.  I happen to also believe He was the Son of God, that He loves us more than we can imagine, and that he came to earth to save us before ‘ascending’ to Heaven to get the party ready for when we return to Him. 

I just wish we wouldn’t fight about all the other stuff that goes on around Him.  He’s big enough to be shared – even bigger than the most charismatic, popular, wise and loving person you've ever met – it’s we mortals who get all hot and bothered about ‘who knows Him best’... ‘who understands His purpose best’.  

So: happy Feast of the Ascension Jesus!  I’m relying on that invitation to Heaven.  There are people I need to see, and as much as I like warm temperatures I’m not keen on saunas.  Have a wonderful Holiday of Obligation everyone.

 

 

 

The foie gras effect

When I visit the south of France I end up feeling like a goose destined for foie gras. 

This goose has been richly-fed; over-fed; polite can’t-say-no-fed; fed more than my weight or size require; fed later in the evening than my body can process; fed and fattened like a gluttonous last supper. 

Like the hapless goose, I can’t seem to avoid the situation.  My hosts don’t open my mouth and physically force the food down my gullet… but the moral pressure, the sense of courtesy, is so strong that to not partake heartily in the French feast generously prepared would be churlish.  Features of the feast have also been presented specially in my honour, so open my mouth I do… smile and swallow, smile and swallow… without the diversion of conversation because I speak little French.

If you struggle to believe the extent of these offerings, thinking multiple courses means small portions, then imagine the giant-purple-berry-girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory and you’ll get the idea.  She at least had the luxury of the Juicing Room for relief, whereas I am left on the verge of explosion… desperately needing to run… run like Forrest Gump… but know it’ll be days before I can sufficiently digest the excess of riches to manage exercise. 

This lavish banquet was not all bad of course.  The food was delicious – every morsel.   I started hungry, as aperitifs went on for ages, gobbling up the first course with relish.  My hosts had gone to such trouble to welcome me back to France, and their warm and eager “sava?”  “très bien?”, after the serving of each dish, was endearing.  I managed the first courses, no problem, it was after the fourth or fifth I started to flag.  And as we tend to eat quicker than food journeys to our stomach, I was well and truly over-fed before I realized the accumulative foie gras effect. 

Blogs are about sharing so I’ll give you the low-down on the menu. 

First Course: platters of cold and cured meats, bread and pate.  (There’s always bread.)  Don’t picture a modest meat platter.  Picture an extravagance of choice – twelve varieties, spicy and sweet, the biggest chunks of pate you’ve ever seen, sausages and salami as big as a weapon, prosciutto and ham so scrumptous you simply have to go back for seconds.

Second Course: Salads.  Two dishes sounds moderate but they weren’t average salads.  One was French radish and grilled liver (lambs fry), tossed in a sauce which convinced you sweet and extremely-savoury go well together.  The other salad was an unusual blend of wild asparagus, potato, egg, bacon, and again an interesting sauce and embellishments.  Was I drinking too much – you know, to wash it down – or was my brother telling me this was ‘asbergers salad’?  “Seriously?” I mocked, “asbergers?”  “Yeah” he replied.  “It grows in the fields, really tall, and you just snip off the top.  It’s savage asbergers”.  That made me laugh so hard I nearly spat it out.  “Don’t you mean wild” I asked.  “And ‘asbergers’ is a form of autism… I think you mean asparagus, wild asparagus”.  “That’s what I said” he replied, turning aside to rattle away in French to others; my chances for future translation blown. 

This kept me amused a while so I probably ate more salad (and bread) than necessary.  I sincerely respect my bro for so deeply adopting a foreign language and culture that he forgets his mother tongue, but I relish the chance to tell my other brother about it as he’s a merciless tease.

Third Course: it turns out my host has gone fishing just for me.  He has sat by a lake for hours that morning, freezing in wind and cold, determined to wait until he caught at least one fish.  He knew I liked fish and would appreciate it, so of course I did; deliciously and beautifully presented on the plate.  But having learnt my host had weathered the cold to catch this trout, I daren’t leave a bite.  I took the odd pause to digest more effectively, my stomach struggling with an excess of aspergers salad and cured meats, but these pauses were taken to signify reluctance (or NOT très bien) so I hurriedly smiled, nodded, swallowed, smiled, nodded, swallowed. 

Small woman that I am, I felt done.  Well and truly satisfied.  It was a whole fish.

Then came the Fourth Course: the smoothest mashed potato I’ve ever eaten… with large chunks of baked pork fillet… all wrapped together in a spectacular sauce.  The rest of the table had watched me eat my trout, so they were ready to dive in.  But my plate was passed back with a helping as large as the next persons… and still the bowls from which these luxuries had been removed appeared full, like the Loaves and Fishes.  Repeat helpings were proffered with enthusiasm and an expectation of acceptance, and again I became the goose destined for foie gras.

My brother was no help.  He knows these people well so he doesn’t feel the same pressure to oblige (if ever he did), and when he leaves the table to catch up on the football he doesn’t even notice what hasn’t been eaten.  I start to wonder if the female geese are more imposed upon than the male geese?  Though I guess it’s got more to do with the size of your stomach before it’s forcibly stretched.

Now you’d expect at this point something of an interval, right? A rest?  No. Out she comes again, though thankfully this fifth time with a bowl of fruit. 

Soon after it’s time for the Sixth Course, and she reappears with the largest selection of cheese you have seen outside a deli.  Seriously, there is as much choice and volume of cheese ‘after dinner’ as there was cured meat and pate ‘before dinner’.  How can anyone fit it in?  How can we do justice to this fabulous platter, with more bread, when I love cheese and ordinarily find it hard to resist?  

Back the boys come to the table and in they go again – bread sticks and chunks of cheese passed up and over heads like a rugby line-out.  Before I know it I’m again nodding and swallowing, nodding and swallowing… the perennial goose.  Then, after squeezing in a morsel of the last variety of cheese, I wipe my mouth and put down my napkin with satisfaction.  I’m bloated, uncomfortable, but I’ve managed.  Just.  Back goes the last of my wine in readiness to clean up. 

Well, if the SEVENTH COURSE didn’t then appear.  Seriously?  Dessert after all that cheese?  And the bowl is huge.  Some say no, but our host looks at me with such a big smile I suspect she’s made it especially for me… how can I refuse?  The small bowl I request is not small, and it is rich and full of custard, toffee and gooey stuff I can’t name.  I eat it.  It’s lovely.  But by now I’m envious of my brother who is away again from the table dozing in an armchair.  Of course I have to eat, someone has to show good manners!

As the French women clear up around me, struggling as I am to stand, I feel considerable empathy with geese.  Yet I can’t bear to think about the practicalities as it’s too distressing.  Instead I wonder if I might not have adopted the boarding school practice of sneaking food off my plate into my school satchel; the only way, as I found, to escape a battle of wills with the nuns supervising refectory.  Alas the difference is obvious.  Boarding school food was hideous.  In the south of France, where over-fed and force-fed are less clearly defined, you could literally die for the love of it.

And that’s the love-hate of gluttony. 

That’s the life of a foie gras goose. 

That’s a……... burp.