Not such a hair-brained idea

You know when you have an upcoming thing that you’ve booked in to do, and then suddenly that thing is all you can see around you? Well that. That’s been going on. I’ve had something buzzing on my mind recently, or perhaps more accurately, on my head. Let me explain…

I’ve been thinking a lot about hair this week. Yes. Hair. That swishy, glossy, flip about seductively (ha! I wish!) accessory, that many women aspire to acquire at least once in her life. But why have I been thinking about this? Well partially by the fact I’ve been to the hairdressers recently, and partly because I’ve somehow stumbled across quite a lot of hairy stories. It’s funny isn’t it? It’s like you see one spider dashing for the safety of under your sofa, then you see spiders everywhere, with their skittery hairy (see, there I go again) legs akimbo, suddenly TAKING OVER YOUR LIFE! Well, this is just like that... with hair. But I digress.

Yep.That's a look!

So yes, my hair, I've had it on my mind becuse there's nothing quite like a good hairdo. It gives you a confidence, and if even only a mild fringe trim, it can transform you. I'll be honest, I may not be the swishiest in town, but I love a good hairdo. Now I must raise a conflict of interests here, I love my hairdresser, which frankly considering some of the butchers I've experienced in the past, is a bleedin miracle. But not my current hairdresser. She’s aces! She brings a smile to my face whenever I see her, probably less so that I bring one to hers when she sees the bedraggled, 'shoulda been to see her 3 months earlier’ mop that is usually adorning my bonce. You see, I’m not a regular visitor, not as much as I should be, and it usually takes a prodding from my mother, and a double check of my bank balance before I am persuaded into that chair. Which is ridiculous, because who doesn’t like the fuss, the pamper, and frankly don’t even get me started on the free wine and massage chair. Ooh, I could be there for HOURS. And, unfortunately for the state of my roots, infrequently I am. I love the hairdressers, I love our conspiratorial type discussions about what I want doing & what’s been going on in our lives, let alone positively adoring that swishy ‘just stepped outta the salon’ boost you get when you leave. And let alone that transformation!

And hair is transformative. Don’t let anyone else tell you any different, a new hairdo has the power to make you feel different, not only about yourself, but also about your life. I mentioned I am seeing hair everywhere and only this week did I hear about the Canadian ‘superhero’ doling out free haircuts on the streets of Toronto. Donning a mask, cape and tight spandex outfit (trust me, it’s a LOOK), Matthew Gesner regularly takes to the streets of Kensington Market, giving out free haircuts to the homeless in order to make a bit of difference in an otherwise pretty crappy life. What an amazing idea! But wait! He’s not alone in this phenomenon, last month the Metro reported the story of Nasir Sobhani, aka The Streets Barber (catch up with his exploits on Instagram), who similarly to his Torontonian comrade in follicles, spends his weekly day off on the streets of Melbourne, haircutting the homeless & making a difference.  Having come from a place of addiction himself, he recognizes in his client that sense of not being able to look at oneself in the mirror, and a new haircut can change all of that, saying “You already have a new-found confidence when you get a haircut, and now imagine what it’s like for someone who’s really been in a bad place in their life.” Well, quite. And what wonderful men these are to be providing transformations to those in life who perhaps feel the need for it most.

Wow,  you only have to see his face to see the transformation
(c) thestreetsbarber

So while my life is not in a really bad place, and while my new do may not be quite on the same level, there is no doubt that now my ends have been trimmed, and my, sadly grey, roots duly covered up (but only 40% grey according to my hairdresser – yay! *sighs*), I am feeling like a new woman. Now to find one me of them massage chairs, with precisely ZERO room for spiders underneath.

Ten years on....

So I may not have written in a while, but as today is one of those days of thought and reflection, it seems as good as day as any to share my thoughts with the world. 

Ten years ago today was like every other day, yet another day on the trusty steed that is the 73 bus, taking my usual humdrum commute to work. There had been talk of a potential terrorist attack on the London transport system in the news in previous months, talk had been going on for years in fact, and especially so since the Madrid bombings of the previous year. But this is London, there is ALWAYS talk of terrorist attacks. There has been ever since I was a kid, IRA bomb scares were the norm rather than the exception, so I was well used to living with threat. Even so, I clearly remember one day in 2004, a Metro newspaper blaring the headline that an attack on the underground was 'expected and imminent’. It was in that moment that I was convinced of the need to move somewhere where I could catch buses on my daily commute instead of tubes, and was I ever grateful because on this day, 10 years ago, that headline was came true.

As we all know, on that momentous day, 4 men set off to put fear in our hearts, while simultaneously ripping the hearts out of the lives of 52 sets of family and friends. And yes, they did scare us, but not forever. We would get back on our tubes again, we would ride our buses back and forth to work, to our friends, to our family, because what they instilled in us was courage, not fear.

These 4 men tried to divide us, setting us against our neighbours, our fellow commuters. But when I walked home that day from central London, walking along with thousands of others, all I saw was unity, not division. The unity of strangers helping strangers navigate their way through crowded streets thronged with office refugees outside of their usual 9-5 existence. The unity of pub landlords and customers, barmen defying stereotypes by handing out free drinks to all and sundry on a scorching summer’s day, the sun all bold and beautiful in the blue sky contradicting the shockingly dark turn of the day. The unity of my friends, coming together unasked for, drifting in their dribs and drabs to our collective home from home, our local pub beer garden. That unity was not what they set out to achieve. 

I think perhaps what those 4 heartless men did not consider is this is London, and no one gets to do that to London. This is the London that has been relentlessly multicultural since way back when, since beyond that year, beyond that decade, heck even beyond the last century and so many before that. This is the London that has fallen prey to terrorists before, but it has never fallen victim, and ten years on, I know this to be true. I knew it to be true as I looked into the faces of my fellow passengers on the way into work this morning, and I’ll know it to be true as I travel into work tomorrow morning, and every morning thereafter. We may be wary but we’re not weary, unnerved perhaps but undeterred, we are not divided nor are we conquered. That's because we are Londoners, made up of people from every corner of the globe and while we remain Londoners, blitz spirit & all, we will not let them win. 

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

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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.