Jeff, Pete and Chelsea too

It’s that time of year again where I tend to feel grossly inadequate. Well, maybe I exaggerate but I’m not far off the mark. You see, not only has spring well and truly sprung, but it’s Chelsea Flower Show time, that bastion of green fingers, RHS membership wielding people in macs knocking back bottles of booze like it’s a PTA fundraising quiz, and well, flowers & gardens… and this is where the inadequacy comes in.

Pete the Palm

I’ve grown up around gardens see, my mum has the greenest of fingers, and the loveliest of gardens. Unfortunately while green fingers may be her anatomical forte her back isn’t. It’s like a barometer of gardening. You don’t need the BBC weather to tell you when it’s sunny outside, just a chat to see if she’s put her back out recently, for sure as eggs is eggs, when the weather is nice mum is outside gardening… and 2 days later laid up in bed with back pain from crouching down to pull out those accursed weeds that inevitably sneak past her Gaealike guard in winter months. And she’s not the only one with the gardening genes, my cousin Maddie also has a keen interest in all things green. Unfortunately, it’s more grey than green at the moment, possibly due to an aesthetic choice, though I hazard it's more likely due to a house by the sea & a stiff salty breeze. Either ways, I’m sure that will be rectified soon, why so? Well mostly cos they’ve all been off to Chelsea with their mates this week and boy am I jealous.

Being like many people my age (& income) living in London, a garden is an aspiration way out of my reach, for now at least. It’s one of those things other people have, you know, the ones with more years, income and children in the grand building society of life. But for now it is  something I can only yearn for, which is a real shame because as we all know, plants are good for you. According to them white coated, green fingered science boffins (science people are ALWAYS boffins), gardening is good for you. It reduces blood pressure while simultaneously increasing brain activity & a general sense of well being (boffins sadly don’t mention mum’s back however). Plants themselves offer numerous benefits, they improve air quality, reduce stress (with the exception of anyone trying to grow pumpkins on their windowsill that is… more on that later), they make people calmer & happier, they pump out oxygen and research states that when used in shopping malls, they can increase shopper stay-time by half an hour. Now my humble abode is no Mall of America, nor do I wish to bribe people into staying longer for dinner simply by the subtleties of my glistening foliage, but apart from that, these all seem like Very Good Things, which is why my lack of gardening skills saddens me so.

The Sophington Towers Hothouse starring 
Jeff stage left, Spike stage right

I’ve tried gardening but more often than not that trying has gone hand in hand with failing… spectacularly. From old shared houses where we tried to grow a green luscious lawn each year without fail (except we did fail… no doubt in part due to the presents left to us by our generous neighbours), to some equally rubbish university experiments with my flatmates to bloom something more ‘home grown’ shall we say. And let us not forget the random trial of potted pumpkins several years ago. Who was I to know that pumpkins needed to trail their vines and weren’t best suited to a windowsill?  I currently have a collection of green growers, including friendship plants, the odd phallically shaped cactuses (cacti?) as well as a very green thing I’ve called Jeff and his mates Pete the Palm & Spike the umm, well unknown spiky plant. So I’m trying, honestly I am. But due to the evidence of many plant deaths in my growing history, my fear is that it is surely only a matter of time before Jeff & co. depart to the great garden in the sky. I worry that the green fingers may be skipping a generation, but I'm resolved. This year it’s going to be different. This year, inspired by my cousin, mum & their chums’ glorious Chelsea pictures on Facebook, I’ve made a new resolution… Try harder, MUCH harder, if only so I can practice for when I’m grown up, with my mum’s green fingered reputation to protect.  Will I succeed? Who knows, I can only hope so for the sake of Jeff, Spike, Pete & their other leafy chums. Come talk to me in a year and we can see the results, in the meantime I’m off to pot up some seedlings and get my watering can out. 

Photosynthesis? No, photosynthesize THAT Jeff.

My windowsill pumpkin. Squash by name, squashed by nature

.

Resistance is futile: The rise of the super furry animals

Me + Miles = happy days

You may have already noticed in previous blogs that I am a bit of a pet lover. I am, I’ll fully admit, a sucker for the animals, witnessed by not only my willingness to dogsit Cedric the Viszla at any time & my swift falling into love with my mate Allison's gorgeous French Bulldog Miles, but also by the numerous pets I have kept over the years. In the early years I had a series of confectionarily named hamsters (Caramel, Toffee & Rolo since you're asking), who seemed to pop their clogs with alarming regularity. I graduated up the rodent stepladder to the gerbils Yogi and BooBoo who, if I remember rightly, met their untimely end after a row over a particularly succulent looking chunk of cucumber. I also had a very fine border collie by the name of Henry, who though slightly mad was very dear to me, and well… more on him later. I had rabbits by the names of Radar & Silver, the latter most remembered for an unfortunate mating incident where a friend’s rabbit proceeded to mount her at the wrong end. Ouch! Think of the teeth! Both these two fluffy friends went to that giant rabbit hole in the sky at the hands (or should that be paws?) of the dreaded beast, the urban fox…  Enough of the gloomy pet death tales maybe, and yes, I’m sorry about that, but it’s on my mind at the moment following a recent conversation with my aunt, so I just can’t help myself.

Blowing a raspberry at life

First I must tell you a little about my aunt. There seems to be a thing that runs in that side of our family’s female line, that we are massive animal fans, and none more so than she. She has five cats, as well a very fine and patient (well, he’d have to be with all them cats) dog called Jago. My favourite cat is Yoda, who holds the adorable qualities of being both very affectionate and rather stupid (and no, that’s NOT how I like my men…. well only sometimes). On an adorable side note, Yoda’s particular charm is his tongue, which being that bit too long for his mouth, is permanently protruding as if he’s blowing a huge raspberry at life (which I’m sure he would be if he were only a little smarter to understand it.) Anyways, I digress…. Unfortunately, last week I got a rather tearful message from my aunt who broke to me the sad news of the demise of Yoda’s mum Marmi, who was brutally whisked from this world courtesy of her neighbour’s violent dog. She was naturally distraught, but one of the things she kept repeating to me was the fact that ‘it’s only a cat’ as if I were somehow going to judge her for her tears. Of course I would not, being such a keen animal lover myself, but I think the statement that ‘it’s only a pet’ is something us pet owners have all had leveled at us at some point (mostly by those around us who are without such animal adoration in our lives), and unfairly so as pets really do become such a massive part of our lives.

My beloved Henry

You wouldn’t think electronics purveyors Samsung have much to do with this, but as a partner of Crufts dog show they recently carried out a survey which reported back that 9 out of 10 dog owners consider their pet a ‘fully fledged’ member of the family. Furthermore, half of all dog owners said they would be sadder if their pet passed away than if their uncle, aunt or grandparent did. I certainly know that when my beloved collie Henry passed away I was distraught. I got the news he was off to the vets for his final curtain while I was travelling on the 73 bus through Kings Cross. I was sobbing, snotting & generally scaring off all my fellow bus riders so much, I got that rare occurrence of a spare seat next to me all the way home, practically unheard of during rush hour.

Look into the eyes.... 

But why is all of this outpouring of grief? Are they ever ‘just a pet’? Well, thanks to a friend who firmly holds the belief that dogs are evil manipulators trying to take over the world (well he would say that, he’s a cat owner!) I am now equipped with information about what it is that builds the doggy-human bond so much. He pointed me in the direction of some recently released research in Science which found that when dog owners (or as my cat owning friend refers to them, ‘their human overlords’) look into the eyes of their pet, there is a chemical released called Oxytocin, also known as the "cuddle chemical”. This hormone is responsible for encouraging bonding between mothers and their offspring, both human and of the more furry nature too Furthermore, it is also involved in both partner bonding and that within social circles. When you take all of this into consideration, it is no wonder we love our canine chums so… but hold up! The release of oxytocin is not just restricted to our relationships with children, lovers, friends and dogs, but actually all pets in general.  A study in 2014 of the same hormone showed that the more pets you’ve had in a lifetime, whether dogs, cats or even goats (hat tip to my father there, AKA the Goatherder General of New Jersey), corresponds with higher levels of the cuddle chemical being released.

Unfortunately the influence of longevity of her pet relationships is rather bad news for my aunt. She has owned dogs for as long as I can remember, and her still remaining family of cats look set to be around for a long time yet, not withstanding the neighbours dog. However, she needs to remember the wise words of (the only sometimes batty) Sigmund Freud who reportedly said that “Time spent with cats is never wasted”, and should she need a hit of the huggle hormone (as I’m now calling it) she need not look far to gaze into the kitty eyes of Pooky, Moose, Yoda, Wednesday, Holly or indeed the ever patient (& much beat up) Jago. While it may not make up for her sad loss, it might make the blow that much softer to bear, and frankly who could blame her, after all, they are all so much more than ‘only a pet’.

Jago & my aunt. Happy dog walking days.

Are the sisters doing it for themselves?

It can’t have failed to escape anyone’s notice that it’s not long to go before the general election, 20 days to be precise and for me, one of the things that has really stood out in this particular democratic campaign, is the women. It’s not just the fact that there has been far more high profile women than I’ve seen in elections previously, with Sturgeon, Green & Bennett purportedly holding the political balance in their hands as they pack political punches at swivel eyed Farage. Nor is it the fact that taking into account the number of women standing for election and current polling, parliament could see its biggest ever influx of female MPs. No, for me it’s more than that, it’s the women around me that I’ve noticed more, and this can only be A Good Thing.

According to an article I read this week, over 9 million women failed to vote in the last general election, a figure I find both staggering and depressing. If you look at the younger demographic (younger than I unfortunately) the problem gets even worse with a mere 39% of women aged 18-to-24 voting in comparison with 50% of men in the same age bracket. Yikes! That’s terrifying! Can it change? Well fingers crossed, and judging from the very small pool of my mates, I’m hoping it will this year. Ok, ok, pub conversations involving alcohol may be less reliable than actual facts and statistics, however it seems to me that more of my female mates are engaging politically this year, to a higher degree than I’ve witnessed previously. Whereas the vast majority of my female friends have investigated parties, debated pros and cons, and certainly registered to vote, whenever I’ve encountered a lackadaisical ‘they’re all the same’, ‘what’s the point’ response, it has invariably made its way into this world from the mouth of a man. Now, I’m not going to slate all my boy mates here, there are some that are raring to go come 7^th May, voting cards at the ready so they are certainly not ‘all the same’, but it seems to me that this year, the sisters really are doing it for themselves and I’m wondering what it is that has turned the tables?

Well, the Guardian reader within me certainly points to the effect of the current government, after all, no matter what paper you’re reading, we’ve all seen the statistics that suggest that under David Cameron’s leadership it is women who have lost out the most (and no DC, a heads up, I won’t ‘calm down dear’). Certainly the very public female leadership of some of the leading minority parties has played a part, you only had to see the reaction to the recently televised leaders debate to witness that. I’d also like to think that the relatively recent acceptability of feminism has had a role to play too. The prominence of the work of Everyday Sexism & the No More Page Three campaign are just two examples that have not only spurred on a generation of young women to proudly wave their feminist banner high, but also kick started my generation to realize that just perhaps we never really achieved the gender equality that the 1990s ladette culture promised.  In my humble opinion, the reasons for it don't matter, but if these factors combine to get more women voting, this can only be for the better.

With only 4 weeks to go until the election, I can only hope female voting really does improve this time round, and if my friends are anything to go by then it certainly should. But the real key to improving matters is actually getting out there and doing something… With only 3 days left to register to vote, it’s crucial that us women (& all the chaps out there too) make sure we can actually get our voices heard. If you haven’t done so already, it only takes 5 minutes, so get on it, please! Handy link hint here: https://www.gov.uk/register-to-vote.

p.s apologies for the slightly ranty, serious tone of this blog. Normal service will resume shortly…. promise.

Putting my money where my mouth is

I’ve done many terrifying things in my life… I’ve had a go at flying planes, in fact I’ve even jumped out of planes (albeit strapped to a very fine specimen of South African man beef). I’ve done public speaking batting only the mildest of eyelids, and heck when I was suffering from an (as yet undiagnosed) inflamed appendix aged 13 it had at one high-fevered delirious point, crossed my mind that the cause of all my stomach pain was that I was the next virgin birth. I blame the Catholic upbringing for that last one, but needless to say I have faced my fears, however over the next 2 months it is time to face some more…. The Dentist.

Yeah, cos that TOTALLY makes me 
trust you more! Idiot.

I’ve been terrified of the dentist as long as I can remember. Having had my teeth pulled, prodded, filled and poked for years, I have developed an intense aversion to our fang-tending friends. So much so, I must confess *hangs head in shame* in recent years, my mother has taken to treating her 34 year old daughter in a manner akin to a 5 year old, namely, by coming along to offer sympathy & hold my hand. OK, maybe not literally hand holding, but let it be said, when I book my dental appointments, more often than not, I check my mum’s availability first. Pathetic isn’t it? And before you say anything, it’s not the pain I fear. Sheesh, I can cope with PAIN! The 13 year-old appendectomy survivor within me scoffs at mere pain! No, it’s all the poking and prodding I don’t like. The not knowing what’s gonna happen next, or where in my mouth will suffer the next onslaught of drilling, scraping, jabbing or pulling. It’s the being completely and utterly at someone else’s mercy, while flipped with your feet in the air, blinded by a torture lamp that is more often seen at your friendly local, CIA black site.

Ian, with his 'successful' extractions

So no wonder I’m scared of dentists! And that’s before we even start talking costs… Apparently the UK has some of the highest dental costs in the world, and the highest overall in Europe, according to Keith Pollard, chief executive of health-care publisher Intuition. I guess this explains why there is a rising trend in home dentistry in the UK, with DIY dental kits are being sold in record numbers. Just earlier this week, several newspapers featured the story of army veteran Ian Boynton who, unable either afford private treatment or find an NHS dentist, has extracted 13 of his own teeth since 2006 using no more than his trusty, rusty pliers, a thought which fills me with more horror than house spiders (which says A LOT). Naturally, he has only managed to extract said teeth & not replace them, leaving him with the gappy-faced grimace of a 18^th century sugar baron, not a look which I wish to try to pull off.

So where does that leave me? Well, my fear of dentists still remains, as do my next four appointments over the next two months, which (should) successfully root canal & crown my recently cracked tooth. However do think of me in June, although I may not be smiling as I stare into the cavernous gape of my now empty bank account, at least I’ll have my teeth all fixed & gleaming, ready to take on the next toffee apple that comes my way… Unlike poor Ian.

Life lessons from a furry friend

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, but it’s been one of those months you know? With visits from friends, visits to friends, and a certain friend coming to stay at my house for an extended holiday…. and this particular friend is very special.  No, I haven’t gone and found myself a man whose hunky charms are so alluring I have been distracted from writing for a while. Instead, my friend who has been visiting is that of a hairy variety, ginger in hue, and VERY high maintenance. Not my usual type at all, and that’s before you take into account the four legs and very waggy tail. Yes… I have been dogsitting. Now those who know me will know that I am a bit of a nut for the dogs. No bonkers cat woman status for me, for I’m all about the waggy tails. So when my mate Simon went on hols recently, he knew I would be as overjoyed to look after his dog Cedric as his Cedric would be to come and live with me (well I think I may have been more excited but still, anyone can be bribed with treats). The week was an experience and taught me some lessons in life that I am sharing with you here:

Never leave a TV remote unattended

EXHIBIT A: "Who? ME??"

While your aversion to that rubber faced media mogul Rupert Murdoch may be swayed by a vast array of reality TV rubbish / documentaries/ latest drama from across the Atlantic*, a dog is not distracted by such matters… as I know to my cost! Needless to say, when my back was turned Cedders released his hitherto disguised rage at Mr Murdoch upon my sky remote, as can be witnessed both by exhibit A and my £25.00 lighter wallet.

*delete as appropriate

Don’t judge a woman by her pockets

Usually my pockets are jammed full of the essential fripperies of London life; oyster card, lip balm, housekeys, cigs & lighter - not so when my furry friend is about! Pockets become the receptacle for all things needed immediately to hand, namely poo bags & treats. So next time you see a woman with schmackos, bonios and all manner of bakers complete spilling from her jeans, please don’t assume she’s on the latest fad diet & chastise her nutritional choices. She’s just a woman, doing what she needs to do to make sure 1. her dog is kept to heel and 2. the streets of Hackney don’t suffer his presence too much.

Not MY actual hand.
That would be disgusting. 

Swan poos are bigger than you’d imagine

Now, this is one I’d never considered before my foray into dogsitting but HAVE YOU SEEN THE SIZE OF EM??? I know a swan is rumoured to be able to break your arm, but let me tell you, a swan poo can very nearly break your spirit. It certainly nearly broke mine when I had to clean off my ginger ninja after his delighted squirmings into said monstrosities. They are frickin HUGE them things! Huge and gooey and quite frankly more than I’d ever thought swan would be able to produce, what do those things EAT???  Actually, am not sure I want to know, but either ways, their deposits take me neatly onto the next subject.

Never leave home without your wet wipes

An essential lesson this one, as proved not only by the above point, but also with an enthusiastic meeting between Cedric and a used, discarded nappy on Epping Forest. Swans may not have the dexterity or inclination to use a litter bin, but humans do, so shame on whoever flung said nappy with such disgusting abandon. Just as well I had baby wipes to hand I can tell you (no wonder, after Operation Swan Poo) and never did they leave my side in future walks, proving that it’s not just human children that require a shedload of necessities wherever they go, but children of the furry nature too.

Men use babies, us women use dogs

We’ve all seen it, the new father left alone with his child for the first time, out nervously wandering the streets, bleary eyed, a nigh on husk of a man…. that is until the women descend, cooing like pigeons at his wrinkle faced offspring. Now I may not have offspring, but I do have  Cedric, a very handsome, boisterous Hungarian Viszla. Cedric attracted all kinds of men, young ones & old ones, hot ones & not so hot ones, white ones, black ones & blue ones. OK, maybe not blue ones (apart from that rather cold looking tramp outside of Asda once), but you get my drift. Cedders was a starting point for many a conversation with men, cut short only by his mischievous behavior, bad manners and a complete disregard at my attempts to ingratiate myself into the lives of the hot ones. But let me tell you ladies, if you want to find yourself having a nice, easy breezy conversation with the man of your dreams (Mr owner of Rex, a 9 month German Shepherd puppy, I’m looking at you here), get yourself a dog pronto.

So with my life lessons learned and my flat now bereft of all traces of dog, excusing the constant crunch of abandoned kibble underneath my feet (whaaat? I’m leaving it for a treat for next time Cedric comes round!), I am left furiously checking my housing contract for any mention of keeping animals in the flat, because I want me a full time doggy companion of my own, pronto! And then watch out Springfield Park! I’m coming to find Rex and his owner, only this time I’m definitely bringing wet wipes for the swan poo.

There's ALWAYS time for a snuggle