the longest blink in history

Less boredom, more life knock back resulting in mild depressive episode has left an even longer gap between posting. Strangely apt was a recent visit to the cinema to watch 'The Diving Bell & the Butterfly', which I could've assumed I'd been taken to see with the unspoken message of "Pull your socks up life could be a damn site worse". The extraordinary writing by the once upon a time editor of French Elle who suffered a severe stroke called "Locked in Syndrome", Jean-Dominique Bauby authored his depiction by literally blinking one eye to his interperator. It is moving, and inspiring and made me think of this blog and why I had neglected it. An accurate reflection being of how I can be so into something one moment to the point of obsession, and then abandon it the next - which is often precipitated by sweeping mood dips. Manic? Possibly - Osessive? Possibly - Ordinary? definitely, but labels never interested me anyway.

Back to the film, the female actors were beautiful in that no make-up, raw, real woman French style. The film would never have worked if it had been American produced since the viewer witnesses the film through Bauby's eye, close-up macros of the actors faces, wrinkles and imperfections on full view. It would have been crass to make everyone else synthetically perfect whilst the appearance of the beholder was tragic and heart rendering.

Lots has been going on, and change is as ever, consistent, however the weather as usual has forgotten to admit that it is a season behind humanity and is persistently mimicking winter bitterness instead of the joys of Spring.

And we still have not exchanged on our house 7 months after our offer.

latest crush: Marion Cotillard

Bravo to her for carrying this outfit off so well. When she, this - unbeknown to me prior to the Baftas - actress appreared on stage to collect her award I sat mesmerised . It is sooo refreshing to see an attractive woman without the usual glossy perfect make-up or the sleek and predictable slinky red carpet dress, she looks fresh and individual - beautiful. I get it that this outift (Chanel) is open to ridicule, it crosses the line into Bjork territory but, I feel Cotillard makes it cool - it also helps that she didn't act like an arse during her speech, ie: beefing Gwyneth Paltrow. I'd choose this look for a fashion shoot, especially if Corinne Day were my photographer du jour. Great legs too Marion.

slovenly

So the other day, the relatives popped round and in conversation my Aunt mentioned an article she had recently read about this amazing diet of a particular type of Monk. She couldn't quite remember the monastry or it's geography, and I suggested perhaps Tibetan, or even Japanese since the Japanese diet is heralded for it's life lengthening benefits. During the quiz and banter regarding people in robes my Stepfather spontaneously piped up, " They're all layabouts anyway - never done a day's work in their lives!". Nobody outwardly disagreed with him, but the prospect of opening up the whole can of worms of Spirituality with a man who flatly rejects anything beyond the realms of teletext or grey large format news print is clearly doomed. It would be more rewarding to stick needles in my eyes.

The comment has thus proved to be a great source of amusement and when he spat out the words "They're all layabouts anyway!" - I checked out of the conversation, and inwardly amused myslef with conjured images of the Dali Lama slothing about with a crack pipe and demanding hoes. My hub and I have had great time measuring up all likely candidates for the description: Ghandi, Mother Theresa, Buddha: layabouts the lot of em!

the manifesto of the idle parent :

By Tom Hodgkinson via the Telegraph

We reject the idea that parenting requires hard work
We pledge to leave our children alone
That should mean that they leave us alone, too
We reject the rampant consumerism that invades children from the moment they are born
We read them poetry and fantastic stories without morals
We drink alcohol without guilt
We reject the inner Puritan
We fill the house with music and laughter
We don't waste money on family days out and holidays
We lie in bed for as long as possible
We try not to interfere
We push them into the garden and shut the door so that we can clean the house
We both work as little as possible, particularly when the kids are small
Time is more important than money
Happy mess is better than miserable tidiness
Down with school
We fill the house with music and merriment

Well, this almost lets me off the hook, however, I still cannot completely justify a guilty conscience of hours spent glued to a 13" screen tapping away "working" whilst I encourage my son to amuse himself. This then must constitute as "ignoring them", which is heralded by Tom Hodgkinson. I consider though that it beats a routine dominated with pernicious lolling on a bare mattress with a crack hangover, and hope that my escapist tendencies are inocuous enough so that in maturity he is psychologically unscathed and will emerge healthy of mind and victorious in spirit. Being an inherent member of 'The Idle Parenting Club' ( if there is such ) should then result in my child discovering a hearty zest for creating his own vivid amusement and a developed sense of self reliance by the age of ooh at least six years young.

Meanwhile we are working like dogs at getting up later and later, so far we are at 9am......

it's all about the walls

This morning we visited the architect who is masterminding the renovations we have been designing for our new house and discovered to my glee that it is in fact a 'Brutalist' style building. Brazenly, she sits in line with ten brick siblings amongst a row of Victorian terraced houses. We brought back a rollerdex thingy with sample ply veneers and coloured formica to help decide what colour to have in the mini ground floor loo ~ it's my shot at Grand Designs. Actually this is a rehearsal for our dream Hoff Haus complete with personal lake. My aesthetic eye is currently swayed toward interiors rather than exterior adornments such as shoes, bags (oversized: v. this season) and perfume (one can never have enough it seems).

The inspiration radar led to Todd Oldham's site which effected that heady mix of major creative envy, and total awe, read: love, love, love. I have to just have to have this book and will most certainly be having some Charlie Harper prints in our new abode.

Our Brutalist house faces the park and I can hardly wait to watch the summer sun rising and setting from our bedroom window.

the law of attraction

In summary - January has been a mixed month. My 4.5 yr old son, since starting school has developed into a stroppy teenager overnight and reports back on daily activities such as being threatened death via a gun in pocket by some revolting older kid. I'm now considering covert ways on how to get him into the school of my choice. The one foisted upon us is already giving us sleepless nights - and we're only three weeks in.

The life I've carefully cultivated for myself during week days, unless I'm working or with child, are spacious and mellow. With the whole shopping bonanza and busyness, Xmas makes me claustrophobic. Although well into the new year, the hangover is still abound, apparently reflected by constant arguing and mug throwing fights. On the whole I find domesticity to be mind numbingly boring and I am fascinated by those anal housewives that keep everything absolutely spotless and still have time to apply pan-stick and pearly pink lips. Admittedly, I go to great lengths to avoid these responsibilities. The spouse - ironically - places a huge amount of importance on tidyness, which we all know is supremely challenged by toddler-dom. On a morning I can't wait until everyone leaves the house so I can just...well...dunno...breathe? I sound immature.

During a convalescing time where my body has hinted strongly to "Lay down, lay down," I've found my mind wandering into ideas on how to create some good happenings. A few million quid, a new car each, several exotic holidays and myriad other spiritual bestowals. I discovered a couple of books which nudged me into practicing some visualization and The Law of Attraction. It gets a mixed response from the critics and cynics, but somehow it works for me and in the past I've manifested most of what I've focused on. I just forget to make a habit of it otherwise I'd be extraordinarily successful or levitating by now. 

AND NOT TO GET EXCITED ABOUT

I am in a very bad mood. Somehow my job as personal stylist has affected me with the illusion that I am entitled to my own part ownership of stores and malls around the world. Therefore Christmas shopping followed by the January sales feels like a hostile assault on my existence. I feel like an extra in Night Of The Living Dead shuffling around with hoards of insatiable spenders (of which I can't deny - I am one). Whereas during the other ten months of the year (excluding the tri-annual school holiday buggy invasion) I have mastered the savvy art of managing the least stressful route to mass purchasing on a tight deadline and a set budget.

What brought me to the edge of reason today was the responsibility of having to buy new school shoes and uniform trousers for my super excited new schooler. It could so easily have been a happy event. However, John Lewis have apparently forgotten that they are a DEPARTMENT STORE which promotes a school and shoe department. Obviously someone ate all of the black shoes in size 11f, and here's a tip ~ if you're looking for trad lace-ups, they no longer exist. Therefore, I have already broken one of the school's uniform rules as I was forced to get the velcro type which come with a label, " Your kid will never learn to tie his own laces because we don't want him too."

Then there's the trousers which John Lewis only provide for giant children. I was told I could order them. " ORDER THEM! " ~ "DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM !! " Yes that's me ~ one of many fools who assumed there would be plenty of choice in a massive store two days before school starts in January.

envy

I'm a once a month blogger. When bored, I blog - in a vain attempt at rekindling some commitment to my creativity, which sadly gets usurped by shopping, children, work and the predictable myriad of mundanity.

Being Christmas, being significantly bah humbug, I am sitting and hoping this time will move swiftly on to the next chapter, so I can "get on with it". Strangely, it is getting on with it that keeps me from doing what I truly thrive on. Here now, I waftishly flick around my bookmarked blogs and see this and it awe inspires me whilst simultaneously provoking a desire to drown myself. The delicate nature of Lena Corwin's work fascinates me, and makes my life's aesthetic feel crude, clonky and hurried in comparison. I imagine her life being a constant of pretty fabrics and ceramics, slow time captured in light filled snaps processed quietly against a backdrop of angelic music, without distraction. So so jealous.

But then I wouldn't swap my mad mad life which is dominated by my infant tornado, who makes it damn near impossible to live amongst tidily arranged trinkets. I would like to focus on one thing next year though, and make some good of it.

Does your bloke do this?

When mine loses something, such as (amongst a variety of other inanimate objects ) his house keys or his electric shaver - it is sub-consciously assumed my fault. I find myself patting my pockets as though I'd inadvertently hidden them, that in my sleep or in some parallel existence void of activity, I wander around moving things just to make his life more complicated. I experience guilt as though I had done something bad, something v-e-r-y baaaaad which is triggered by his stomping a la Basil Fawlty and seething frustration. Just don't mention the Germans.

And then the shaver is found - in his very own wash bag where HE packed it, and the keys fallen out on the sofa where HE dropped them.

And the apology for casting blame on me (albeit silently) - pah! , nowhere to be found.

swimming in lake me

When I awoke this morning with the usual plan to go out into the world with a list of 'To Do' - I got the call to avoid doing at all costs. I gave myself the day off . It's rare. I'm not guilty.

I set the intention that any necessary doing must be completely devoid of rushing or having to be somewhere at the end of any particular activity. Which meant that I could take a morning nap without having to get up afterwards and get dressed to go 'somewhere'. As I didn't have somewhere to go I could switch on drab morning tv and catch up on some t'net action. I made a cup of coffee and sipped it slowly. I registered how tired my body feels and how the incessant doing-ness of daily life takes the attention away from actually feeling anything of any relevance. I had a long warm bath, a home facial and applied my make-up slowly and methodically. It was nice to enjoy a slow ritual and to relish some of the lovely luxuries that litter our bathroom cabinet. I took my time dressing and tidied up the piles of clothes in the bedroom. I took a walk, lounged in the local cafe and read a magazine without watching the clock and darting off somewhere to wrestle with the traffic and city hostility. I observed the trees and how much I adore the changing colours of Autumn and wished I had my camera - but that would be 'doing' something. Later I met my only welcome appointment and collected my son from nursery. As usual he climbed the railings on the way to the car, but today I didn't have the urge to rush him. I drove us home slowly and went about his night routine with an air of quiet.

I got off the bus just for a day and pondered my life and drank up the opportunity to experience the things I have that decorate it. The hamster wheel action of doing perpetuates the drive for attainment yet becomes so fast and habitual it's easy to miss the point of it all.

Press: PAUSE.

Media baby

On reflection I have of late had the great good fortune of being exposed to some fab TV and cinema entertainment.

Going out to see a movie twice in one month feels very close to becoming a familiar ritual once more. When our boy was teeny tiny I really thought those days were gone forever. A few weeks ago we saw Antonement, a love story lavished with smoulderingly sumptous eye candy. The exquisite cinematography is the perfect compliment for Keira Knightley's wardrobe. We also saw the lovely George Clooney in Michael Clayton, a cool political thriller perfectly complimented with a bucket of Chunky Monkey.


Then to the television, we make good use of Sky+ in our house. On our schedule of recorded programmes we bank up episodes of The Sopranos, House, Grey's Anatomy and more recently Brothers and Sisters. This makes up for the forced reduction in movie outings. Occasionally we get our arses off the couch to make a meal or take a shower.

The other night we watched the first episode of Californication and immediately hit the series record button - after collecting the pieces of ourselves up off the floor from laughing so much. David Duchovny is suprisingly well cast and brilliant in his move on from the X-files. The bit where during climax his seductress punches him repeatedly round his jaw, I found particularly hilarious. Its tempting to try this at home. (Note: must avoid if prim and prudish).

With so much on the box we may never need leave the house again.

Fall

My witnessing self is presently pondering the dichotomous nature of things.

Last time I came here was over a month ago, which has two sides, one being that my life is evidently rich enough that I don't have the time to write about meaningless nonsense every day, you know like - "Today I ate a bun." (include pretty picture to illustrate chi chi pastime), or yabbering on about oh so fabulous new fringe, or whatever - you get the drift. On the flipside I realise how time flits by so quickly these days, compared to how the same time passing is experienced as an eternity via my four year old. Whilst scurrying frantically on the hamster wheel of life, my hair is turning grey at an alarmingly rapid rate - and I'm still not famous.

Seasonal change brings with it an air of disconcertion , the familiar anxiety present in change and the unknown - cosily partnered with the annual ritual of folding away unworn summer garb. In preparation for the colder climate I make space for newly invested fine knits and cosy clothing coloured in earthy tones - hats and scarves and lots of obligatory black. The leaves are gradually changing colour and I realise its time to change my seasonal photo already. That question has been sounded "What are you doing for Christmas this year" - the supermarkets have already begun the gratuitous consumer bashing. Surely there should be some law against selling this shit so soon after August.

And in the whole time its taken to write this, Orange customer services still have me on hold as I wait to find out how to switch my answerphone on.

Yelp

My advice, if you ever feel the blues, listen to Shania Twain's "Man, I feel like a woman." Especially the yelping bit. I jest.

I think that's the title, but Radio 2 this morning (another landmark on the road of getting old) had me flicking my head and yelping along like a Yorkshire Terrier. The other thing that had me wetting myself whilst driving through the city was Terry Wogan remarking that he hadn't realised that Jeremy Clarkson was now in a band called the Klaxons and had won a Mercury music prize last night. I'm not sure which one he means, but it did make me laugh. My partner hates Terry Wogan, and we have a Radio 4 vs 2 war in the house. He likes to stick the iPal next to his ear listening to middle class debate and I like to twiddle the setting to R2 just to annoy him. 

Currently recovering from the school summer holidays and the challenge of creating daily amusement. I'm back from a visit to the Grandparents for his pleasure, read: my torture. Now back in nursery, I can press the 'resume' key, and hopefully get back into some semblance of normality.

Breathe.

bloody great britain

Ok I'm going to try and not talk about the weather, but I must say it is thoroughly depressing waking up to torrential rainstorms in mid August when we are supposed to be obsessing about hose pipe bans and UV exposure. Someone flick a switch would'ya.

Returning to third gear, the speed I prefer to live life at, I am acclimatising to 'normal' mode after the recent work epic. Apparently, personal stress levels can be measured against how irritated you may get whilst dodging crowd shufflers in Oxford Street. Like when you are intently pacing along and narrowly avoid being catapulted ten feet in the air over the person who stops dead in front of you to tie their laces. Drivers who insist on slowing down whilst approaching a green light also makes me psychotic. My stress curve hit about ten yesterday during zombie dodgems, when I felt the urge to annihilate a sea of insatiable shoppers. All that consumerism suddenly felt toxic and as a result I was forced, yes, bludgeoned into making a purchase.

Since it is SUMMER, it dawned on me yesterday that I was shivering and that I must 'need' coats. Plural, yes - a stylist you see can never have one of something. I decided ages ago, a black trench would be a staple this Autumn. Black black black will dominate our wardobes this coming season, so easy and always flattering except during bouts of anaemia. So I got a couple which are difficult to tell apart from APC's and a snip of the price from Uniqlo. The classic Burberryish one has all the buttons and flaps in the right places and is lined too, unable to decide on one, I also got the navy hooded dbl-button down, which is really cute with a tie bottom.

Harbouring a 'summer' head cold and sneezing, I will venture up North tomorrow to greet my now estranged son who has been kidnapped by the Grandparents.

drinking copiously from the goblet of stillness

My feet haven't touched the ground in the last fourteen days. On the Monday I woke up with no definite plans, and went to sleep the same day with a fun packed diary of two weeks worth of commissions. Being freelance has its good points - shopping on a Monday morning less crowds of snail paced chavsters is a bonus, and having mid week days off to spend with my son are a 'boon'. The flipside is that when work descends on my doorstep it feels like an unwelcome and demanding guest has arrived to reek unrelenting havoc on my life and challenge my existence to the core. Fortunately I get paid for the chaos ensued, which is good because someone needs to pay my therapist.

Child away at Nana's, lay in this morning, cafe breakfast with husbandish, gliding through the streets in car gazing at sleeping cats on window ledges - nothing to do 'cept go to the gym and mellow out after the latest work marathon. Trying to enjoy it whilst missing my son beyond comprehension.

Cinema ce soir.

Yawn. Stretch. Breathe. Go.

Summer it seems has finally decided to shine down on us, and yesterday we spent a good few hours strolling through the local park and SCREAMING at our child to, "SLOW DOWN!" and "WAIT", whilst he hurtled off aiming directly toward the deep and dingy lake on his pedal free toddler bike. Whenever you witness a family together with toddlers in tow, consider this, however ideal it may look on the outside, the parents are probably experiencing varying levels of cortisol overload and near spontaneous combustion.

Nevertheless, London feels happier when the weather is good, people heading on out carrying picnic laiden baskets and parading pretty floral cottons and shorts galore. Smile.

Opinionated

Usually, once a week I stop by the newsagent and pick up a couple of trashy mags to take with me to breakfast at the posh local gastro pub. I've kind of made it a ritual to have on one of my child free days. My 'swimming in lake me' day. For about an hour I check out and fill my head with junk.

So yesterday I was reading about Britney and how she recently lost the plot on a photo shoot and legged it with a shit load of designer merchandise. Another example of her eratic behaviour outlined how she had hissed at some pap guy that he was "fat fuck" and had he ever heard of weight watchers! Apart from finding elements of the stories vaguely amusing, I suddenly felt really sorry for her. That her relationship with the publicity machine that created her has totally flipped and here she is running around totally lost. Is she post natally depressed I wonder, and if so go to bed girl and sleep it off. I can never understand why people like her get addicted to the attention, I mean why not buy a desert island and disappear for a year - get it together. It's a sad show to observe.

Meanwhile, Lady Beckham needs a new stylist. I feel revolted by her appearance, the Bandaged Sausage on Stilts Look. Chill out, get some vegan Birkenstocks and grow your hair. It would make a nice change from her anally retentive catwalk copies, and she would really suit a more laid back Californian look. I can't comprehend walking across a football pitch with six inch (ugly) platform stilettos on, was she being ironic? I doubt it.

Finally - Hollywood is fast becoming a parody of Prisoner Cell Block H. Lyndsay, Parish and that other smidgen of a girl keep breaking the law. I wonder who will be top dog next week.
Edit: Who cares it's all so b-o-r-i-n-g.

It makes me glad that I have a normal (ish) life.

Who am I, your Mother ?

There are many additional doing activities that come attached to the role of Mother, unless you employ people to do them for you. With each phase of a child's growth come new challenges, and just as I am about to snap in two with frustration, the tide turns and I can't remember how peaked my stress curves had previously become in relation to the relevant learning curve. I realise we are creating some healthy boundaries here, but sometimes it hurts.

The latest in this experiential ladder is that now my boy can walk, talk and feed himself, he has assumed my position as waitress, chef, cleaner and general slave to his every whim and fancy. "Mum get me a snack," is his predominant demand whenever he claps eyes on me, particularly if I'm seen to be stationary, or attending to some work. Throughout a whole day, in between breaths the previous statement is interceded with, "Can I have a lolly: toy: balloon: a million quid and a lambourgine? Now!". Fairly innocuous one might assume, but for me it's the equivalent to having an incessantly nagging parrot on my shoulder speaking in munchkin, constantly probing me until I combust with irritation.

Ashamedly I have now reached my personal end of the line now, so the negotiation tactics have descended to a basic retort of , "No". Which is kind of like slapping myself several times round the face, because naturally the four year old responds with a strop of varying intensity. This has the effect of a) weakening my resolve until I just give in to escape the momentary hell, or b) confront his battle with steely calm and gritted teeth. Neither being much good for my Motherly self esteem as my child apparently hates me either way.

The other aspect of this nurturing role I play involves a great deal of picking up and putting things away that persistently scatter across every vacant patch of flooring, magically all by themselves. Especially hundreds of odd socks (where do they come from?) that the cat enjoys tousling with, and shoes, shoes, fucking shoes. Of course I do try to exert discipline and attempt to educate my son to do some of his own dirty work after play, but generally I am champion picker upper. Then there is the ignoring, "What Mum? I can't hear you - are you under water or something? Sorry I don't do tasks, not for no one. I am King, serve me or die."

With the sun on permanent leave in the UK, children's activity is limited. I am waiting for this phase to pass, soon - it must. Be. Soon.

Knit one pearl one

I'm not knitting, I was just thinking of the methodical~ness of the activity and visualising incorporating some of that technique into my studies. The boys (mature and infant) have vacated the home, left me alone to bury my head in nutritional facts. There is no excuse, the house is tidy, the village idiots that are my neighbours are reasonably quiet. Yet I am here typing a stream of meaningless dialogue for no-one to read. If nothing else it helps me to reflect on how much I shy from pressure of any kind to - 'do'. I kind of have to do important chores without planning it. Even blogging becomes a chore when I feel I have to do it, and find myself procrastinating and doing ANYTHING except the task in hand, like clean the cat poop tray instead. I need to practice reverse psychology to get tasks done, ie: when I need to study it feels far more appealing to update my blog. Conversely if I feel I have to update my blog after three months of neglect, you will probably find me balancing my books. I love my subject, but experience a strong resistance to examination and revision.

I'm thinking I must add some snapshots, which means maybe next year because now I'm planning and pressurising. Like Nike says: Just do it.

Oh Gee

I'm supposed to be revising. I'm in the shopping centre, feeling guilty about leaving my only child in a creche whilst I read up for my exam on Sunday. It's ok, although I deleted my Typepad account only last week, today I awoke with the super urge to start another - one which is free and will undoubtedly suck dry every spare moment of my non existent free time.

Good, procrastination rocks already....