Sensory Prevention Factor 30 Plus

Sensory Prevention Factor 30 Plus

Usually, summer - or at the very least spring - is running my psyche. But, occasionally, perhaps a little like Persephone descending into The Underworld for her allotted time with Hades, I can't help but let winter into my thoughts, and Cerberus, in his guise as the black dog of depression, manages to slip his leash. Thankfully, I am learning to get him under control, and make my way back to sunnier climes and blue skies of a happy soul.

But some people - well, for them, winter is a way of living, rather than just days on a calendar. Cold is ingrained in their personalities; it's almost as though they don't want to step into the sunlight for fear they may be burnt by happiness. Instead, they slap on Sensory Protection Factor 30 Plus, and allow the ice to become a part of their makeup, right down to the bone.

Clean To The Bone

Clean To The Bone

In the Regency era, women put wax pads inside their cheeks to make their faces fashionably plump. In the Edwardian, they constrained their rib cages and spines to the point of deformity with corsets. The 20s, thin was in. The 50s? Marilyn Monroe and curves were back with a vengeance, baby. 

Now? It's The Age of Kardashian, where cosmetic surgery is considered an acceptable sixteenth birthday gift. 'Happy Birthday, sweetie... you don't have enough turmoil going on with your hormones, so here's new teeth/breasts/a nose/lips/skin colour to confuse you even more about what you should look like to be a happy, whole human being'.

Charting The Way Home

Charting The Way Home

Both maps and hearts are not infallible. Together they are the wretched children of a million badly plotted navigational points of relationship memory, combined with our complete inability to leave that foreign country that is the past well alone.

World War Free

World War Free

One hundred years ago, both France and Belgium were battlefields. Names like Passchendaele, Mons, Neuve Chapelle, Armentières, Ypres, Vimy Ridge - they stopped being 'foreign', and were suddenly a part of everyday conversation.

Now - we have new names.

Baquba. Lahore. Varanasi. Baghdad. Jalalabad. Domodedovo Airport. Alexandria. Kabul. Faisalabad. Al Hillah. Zvornik. Benghazi. Maiduguri. Mogadishu. Chad. Moscow. Anbar. Diyarbakır. Jerusalem. Palestine. Al-Shabaab. Suruç. Ankara. The Sinai. Jakarta.

Paris. Brussels.

Keep Karma And Carry On

Keep Karma And Carry On

In what can be viewed as both a positive and a negative of the Age of White Noise, social media has given us the opportunity to invent new selves - sometimes, it seems, a hundred of them, to be used for different people, situations, even moods. It has given us the chance to smile when we are crying on the inside, if we aren't feeling very brave, or if we feel like we need to put on one of those hundred different selves. It has allowed us to share our despair, our wonderful happiness, our big thinking, and our dreams. 

But what it has also done is laid us bare to criticism and a lack of care, both in our own actions and those of others. We cannot hide from hurtful situations. We cannot hide from what we say and do, and sometimes - achingly, angrily, and agonisingly - we cannot hide from what others say and do to and about us. 

John Lennon was a wise man by the time he died, and he knew what was what when he said the words 'instant karma's gonna get you'. The Buddha had his own time of mortification - imagine what it would have been like if it had been fed back to him on Instagram, and Facebook, and Twitter?

They Who Know The Storm

They Who Know The Storm

Today is my 44th birthday. As stated by the woman I dearly wish I could have had the opportunity to drink under the table at the Algonquin, Ms Dorothy Parker herself:

“Time doth flit; oh shit.” 

Sound a bit dismal and non-fizzy for a girl who loves shoes, champagne, rugby and books on her FORTY SECOND (remember this, people) birthday?

Perhaps. 

But it's my birthday, and I'll chastise myself if I want to. 

To anyone celebrating a birthday today, or anytime soon, I have some things to say to you, imbued with my heartfelt love, appreciation, gratitude, and infinite wonder at the people who continue to love me, not least of all the Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant.

And On The Eighth Day, He Created Insomnia

And On The Eighth Day, He Created Insomnia

Call it a Heffalump or a hound from hell, insomnia is a beast of burden to those who carry it. It messes with mind, body and spirit, and I feel was dreamt up by whatever supernatural forces are out there - for the sake of argument let's say the Devil and God - along with menopause, hangovers, reality TV and Donald Trump as punishment for us being a bunch of absolute muppets. 

The Things We Leave Behind

The Things We Leave Behind

Because let's face it, kids. 2015 sucked. It sucked big, fat, hairy spiders. It was a year of hate, of sadness, of horror, and of general down and out big fat hairy spidery suckiness. If you had a reverse Olympics of sucky years, I reckon 2015 would be down in the anti-Gold medal position with 1888, when Frau Klara and Herr Alois decided to get on the Riesling one night in downtown Braunau am Inn, Austria, things got a bit zündend under the Federbett, and the result was the unspeakable horror that was Adolf Hitler. 

The Night Before Christmouse

The Night Before Christmouse

It is very obvious he does NOT LIKE OSKIES. So I am going to fool Satan Claws! Squishy was singing a stupid song about a raindear with a red nose so I am going to pretend to be one, and wait until Satan Claws arrives, and POUNCE on him because he thinks I am a raindear!

So... Where's My Hover Board?

So... Where's My Hover Board?

So - the great day has finally arrived. No, it's not my birthday, although thanks for thinking of me. It's not Christmas, or Hanukah, or even Festivus for the Restivus - not quite yet.

It's even more momentous than that.

Yes, you guessed right.

IT'S BACK TO THE THE FUTURE DAY. 

The Continuing Adventures Of Richie Benaud Redux

The Continuing Adventures Of Richie Benaud Redux

I wonder if Kennebec knew what he was getting on that day back in 1832, when an appealing and winsome little Katrina Laura Lambchop was cruelly wrenched from her mother's body - "thank God for that", was the cry from said mother, "she was reading under the covers already" - and thrust into his semi-waiting arms.

Sympathy For The Devil

Sympathy For The Devil

If the Devil is a woman, as several high-up members of organised religion seem to believe, then I don't blame her for being a bit of a naughty boots. If she's faced this pile of poo, then by crikey, she's bound to feel like taking it out on a few billion idiots who decide to sell their souls for a shekel or two. I say 'go for it, ducks - let them have it with both Beelzebarrels'.