Observations from behind the apron.

Thank the Pope for the end of the holidays.  Love them, indulge and then get totally over it. Life must have structure she says.  All that eating, drinking and trying to remember what day of the week it is … too many left over chocolates conflicting with the resolutions.  So she rises in the dark of London … lights on at five am … yuck … thrilled to hear the tubes working and off to the ‘other job’.  Yay, life is moving again.

For the newbies, I am travel consultant/event planner/writer and part time waitron.  The latter gets me out of my little abode that can at times become trying and into social engagement. I disappear behind an apron and try to remember the orders, which all of you, be a little more compassionate with this brain and all those silly requests for extra hot/one shot/almond milk/a little more foam but no foam and put it on the side sort of thing.  I don’t mind, I am floating above all over you and whilst you ponder the Silver something behind the apron, I in turn prattle, enquire and entertain.  And observe – life in a café is a life lesson of note.

You reveal all your stories.

Keep mine close.

Today there were tears.  She is meeting her ex to discuss the schedule for children caught between their letting go of each other. Both defensive and staring at diaries rather than each other.  She has heard bad news, trying to smile but her eyes are maps of her misery over the espresso.

He misses home in Australia. It’s tough spending the winter here on his own and all resolve to forge a new life is waning in the missing. Feels left out from it all back home – the smiling and saying it’s all good wanes with the need to chat.

Her child shifts the eggs around on her plate.  Mother on the mobile, not with her. Dealing with the world, but not with her.

A flat white and a slice of banana bread to pass the time.  She is alone, her Silver hair speaks volumes of figuring out what to do next.

The three year old boys faces a barrage of entrance tests to get into the right school. He wants to read books, mother wants to groom him to get it right and the competition is fierce.

Discussing the next safari – but where to go?  I say nothing but it is not easy. 

Bringing all the post with them. Christmas cards to be dealt with – they have been away and life has happened in the meantime. Unopened they tear them one by one, it is past … someone took the time to send them wishes. I clear the table to dispose of the wishes.

London wakes to the New Year.  Going back to work.  Shall I see the regulars asking for a discount?  Have some changed jobs, locality, have some taken that leap and changed everything?  Around the world have some taken a resolve to begin again, move house, change jobs, relationships?  In this little space much has changed since Christmas, and little has too.

‘Thank God you are still here.’ happened.

And I am still here. I know your favourites.  Your little scenes you think I don’t notice. You know little of me and that is the way it should be. Behind the apron I gather stories, make friends, give solace and learn.  I always learn from you.

Good to be in this space. I grow and gather.

Never stop learning, and listening and realise, as I do, that life is life for everyone – and then you make the choices.

Wow, it is awesome and I am going to take each story, everyday I am behind the apron, to high five life and to realise that the fat lady is far from singing.

I kind of like the idea that I have pushed myself out there, to learn a little more, take it all in and build a life anew.  Far cry from the past of madam had it everything, but close to the life madam is going to embrace.  The apron will not last forever, but the memories of being empowered, will.

As a student I spent all my free time being a waitron.  I earned my way. It changed my life, my direction in my studies and taught me so much.  Now, forty years later I am the waitron again, with a little more strain on the body, but not in spirit, I have gone back to learn, and remind myself that observing others is the way to stand back, behind the apron, and in time, leap into a new direction.

And if you, in your Silver Street time, are feeling a little lost, a little unaccepted or unloved – go find an apron. You are never too old to begin again …

 

Image: mylittleparis

 

 

The New Year.

 

We get another chance at this thing called Life.

A blank page,

a heart still beating.

Renewed magic in our veins.

Words in the new chapter,

Sketching on another’s soul,

Fierce love.

 

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My New Year’s wish for you …

Flowers – everyday.  Every, every day. Big bouquets. Huge, I mean huge bouquets for you.

Grandeur – everyday.  Wonder and awe.  Big ideas, bold moves, elegance and grace. Grand gestures, big dance moves, grand jetes higher and further than you have ever dared.

Adventure – everyday.  New destinations.  Diving deep.  Soaring and sipping champagne. A new language, lover’s promises, head heady with plans.

 

Peace – everyday.  Silent repose.  Dawn fresh mornings.  Coffee in quiet places.  Serenity in situations. Calm in confusion.  A definitive sigh of something well done.  Kindness in giving, comfort in cashmere and love.

LOVE IN EVERYTHING

and most of all …

Bravery – everyday.  Never to doubt your ability or yourself.  To take those tough decisions and stick to your dreams.  To find the strength of conviction.  The power to apologise. Be fair. Stand your ground and fight for those who need you. Always fight for love.

I see the Wonder Woman in you – now go and make this year count you beautiful person.

Images: Pintrest, paristoversailles,keywordsuggest, Forbes.

Coup de battery and Elizabeth Bennet.


There she was with a dead, dead as the possum on Davy Crockett’s hat, battery.  The battery she is f…ed.  

And of course, of course dear heart, the discovery should happen on Christmas Eve, when the closure of the world commences.  Why do things go wrong on ‘no absolutely any way you are going to get some help days? Murphy of course.  Not even the shock therapy of jump leads would spark a reaction.  Her heart was quite broken.  So darling younger beloved daughter had to take a cab to the airport (I am one of those with the always have someone waiting at arrivals kind of romantic) and facing another day with comatose England, delighted to find that Halfords was open.  To battery to buy!  Oh why did I cancel the AA membership – is it a curse?

Tubes still hungover, bus to Putney. Eleven o’clock and the sun fading fast (damn you winter) I found three young lads working, which I am sure they were reluctant to do.  Nifty stuff though, punch in the registration and computer delivers battery needed – except no batteries in stock. Cough, cough. Tally Ho!  To Wandsworth she must go – bus, another bus, waiting for another bus and dark by one pm. Cold, miserable, over this bloody nonsense till ghostlike in non-business mode, the doors opened and the battery was bought.  With wrench and scant directions of how to replace.  Needless to say, the walk back to the bus depot, avec cadaver of new battery biting into the shoulder bag, I made it home with more determination than Lady Macbeth to do the dirty and get the little car rumbubling again. Did I mention the mortal fear of blowing myself up in the process?

With surgeons hands at the steady, careful, careful, undo the plate – oh shit there goes the bolt into the depths of car never to come out the other end. Bah humbug – moving on.  Old heart out, new heart in, the leads are too small for the new terminals! What the ….! The thought of having to do the trek again was just too much and far to early for wine, so called Halfords.  Imagine if you will the explanation of this thingy does not fit onto that thingy.  Oh, said the man, some have more casing around the terminals, simply pry them off and bob is your in law for life. By now I am Medusa – spanner and hatred are a great combination, not without the grease and wound inflicted.  Now she is bleeding but disregards like Rambo the gashed hand and scarlett fluid dripping on the battery.  James Bond never had to put up with this shit … remember the line, but I am now single and there are no Galahads on the horizon.

Voila! Success!  The purring of motor is a feat this lady has never experienced before.  I have changed the battery on my car, with tools, without blowing myself up.  You needed to be here to experience the euphoria of that moment – I was mechanic supreme. Have mastered a new skill, have overcome the iffy cannot do this from the past.  In the dark. It’s three pm. Dutifully I return to Halfords to donate the dead organ and explain to Mohammed about the thinny that fell into the bowls of under the bonnet – and whoosh, he produces a magnet pointer thing, retrieves thinny and all is well with the world.

So empowered I was, returning to the flat I vowed this woman power needed more endorsement.  Flurry in furious gone to the head fervour. Gone are the Christmas decorations (after all we have been doing Christmas for a month already) and onto Elizabeth Bennet. 

For me, this day, now already four hours into night, means only one thing.  Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Austen. Some may swoon over Darcy, I over Elizabeth. Candles lit, wine poured and Lizzy. All the hours of Lizzy, literature and eventually, trying to get the grease out from under my nails. 

Pity about the newly painted nails, but ’tis nothing to the pioneering achieved today.

One small step for Karenkind, and if I can do it … you can too. 

The small achievement is enough to dream of empire making. Avec Sauvignon blanc …

Images Twitter, Vintage Everyday.

 

Christmas getting smaller, and that’s ok too… you are still you.

Totally addicted to Christmas. Totally addicted to anything pretty. I am the one transfixed by shiny things which means Christmas has me at tinsel obsession. 

Growing up in the Southern Hemisphere did not deter. Christmas was fabric dyed mistletoe, carols beside the pool and longed for new swimming costume and hectically ‘bont’ towel for the trip to the beach – yay!  Turkey was not something one did in the heartland of the Free State but roast chicken and shiny crackers with small tape measures in them was celebration enough.  My grandmother would arrive, chauffeured in her very long, two toned pistachio green /white with wings limousine packed to the roof with presents.  Ma grand-mere.

Christmas has always been about family.  Scattered, loathed at times, distant but family time.  Time changed that for me, and I guess for most of us in The Silver Street time.  There is this period, this time between children forging fresh relationships and then the … grandchildren.  When the family falls into each other again, particularly at Christmas time.  I ain’t there yet.  I am between the Silver divorce and Empty Nest valley – when darling has departed and children are having to play one parent at a time, old enough to decide and opting at times to spend it with partners and their parents, which is all good, but where does it leave this little Christmas fairy?  

Allors! So what happens when the mummy/madam of the twenty days lead up and post Christmas festivities, finds herself with little to Christmasorganise? Free fall into the memory bank of ‘we used to have such Deck the Holly Christmas’ and pout and feel the hot tears on my cheeks? No, we do the following:

Absolutely Must watch the Christmas movie must list!

I pretty much watch them all year round, but the seasonal holiday would not be complete without 

Love Actually

The Holiday

Elf

It’s a wonderful life

So many more … do you have any favourites?

Nothing that a Christmas movie and a massive bowl of popcorn cannot solve.

What about Volunteering?  Many are hungry, homeless and yes, lonely over this period – we all say ‘You can make a difference’ but you can.  Remember the movies … helping others is helping yourself. Try and make one present a donation to charity.

Forget about the sad little mangy tree for one, or two, or three – Go Big and become Interior Christmas tree designer of the year. Pick a different theme and sit back with the Chardonnay and admire your dressing of tree skills.  Expand this to wrapping of present skills, basting of turkey skills and those delightful party games around the table skills, even if you are a party of single numbers.

Become silly and special.  If you want to wear the Christmas jumper and those flashing antlers on your head, you just know you are going to look amazingly beautiful my little Elf.

Get out.  Go to the place of pretty lights.  Wander in the early darkness or blazing sun and ingest all that spirit, eat all the chocolates and the things you never have during the year like mulled wine (?!!) and candied peel. Make friends with Brussels sprouts and eggnog if you dare.

The point is:  Others have been facing Christmas and the holiday season alone for centuries.  Your reduced audience is not exclusive, but takes adjusting too.  I know wherever my family are in the world, they will love and wish me Christmas cheer as I do them.  Christmas may be my fantasy of ‘Driving home for Christmas’, but I am still loved and more importantly, I shall love myself in my made up Father Christmas wonderful of my own making.

Finally, there remains the greatest reason to celebrate Christmas.  You have been brought a gift from God, a gift to humanity to love us through it all, and this is the time when our faith should be the greatest celebration of Christmas.  Christ is all that is the Nativity play, the look in our little one’s eyes, the eyes of those that have fallen into eternal slumber, but shines on still.

We may find our Christmas’ getting smaller, and times it makes us feel smaller too, but when I am about to fall about with Micheal Buble’s ‘Home’ and reach for the sadness heart, there is one more gift under the tree.  

My gift to you, wherever you are, be it alone or with crowds of worshippers. If you share your heart, shows kindness, believe and enriches the life of another at this time, this gift is for you.

Then my table is full of love and happiness.  Then the bells jingle all the way.

 

Images: Glamour, Youtube and Pintrest

 

 

 

 

 

F&M popping up at Somerset House for Christmas: blades, fondue and mince pies.

 

If only the reality of moi avec ice-skates were not the stuff of jarring thoughts, I too would be gliding across the ice like an extra from ‘Frozen.’

You have seen the ilk of me before.  Pained (fibreglass boots that never fit), terrified (look down), sadistic (the edge for holding on is all mine, all mine) and rigid attempters who vow every year we shall never do it again – but as you all know, the allure of slooching over ice with pretty lights and the allowed hot chocolate often produces the cruelest of momentary lapses.

Somerset House is one of my very favourite places along the Strand.  It’s grand.  It’s filled with Art and lovely restaurants.  Now, in the Christmas season, it has an ice -rink, slap in the middle of 17th Century architecture.  Place of history, tales of executions, renamed Denmark House and once a palace – as I said it is a grand place.  But I am getting carried away with the rest – and here to talk about – Fortnum and Mason is at Somerset House for the winter!

Returning to reside in the West Wing, it’s like having your own personal tour of the home shop in Piccadilly Street.  Hope the hoards that frequent the Piccadilly store don’t discover it.  Let’s just say, in my dream home, I want this wing – just this wing – adorned by F&M for Christmas.  Where Tea smells of hearth and candle echoes tea scent.  Where picnic hampers and tartan are the seasonal must have.  Like Prestat, and Laduree, the colours of F&M and in particular her trademark hue, is lifted to a new level in luxury packaging (and seriously, I am mostly buying for the pretty boxes and ribbons.) 

 

If I were to attempt the ice skating thinny again, it would be for the package of ‘Blades of Glory’ meets ‘Swiss fondue.’  Mulled wine.  Totter off the ice into the warmth of wooden floors, crackling fire, dipping into cheese and smelling that Christmas Spice – I get hot just thinking about it. The mince pie thing has been going on for a few weeks now so for me it will be the entire diving into 70’s style Swiss Chalet Fondue. Enough to tempt even the most hesitant.

 

 

London transforms herself in this season time – compensation I think for the early darkness, the multitude of sparkly, sparkly, lights and Christmas decorations are a fairyland to delight all ages.

Images: Fortnum and Mason

 

 

 

Plan for Joy.

 

Luxury is not measured by material possessions, but by love and pure joy.  These two things elevate life from the mundane to the luxurious.’

The past weekend I found myself in one of the most beautiful settings in the world.  The haven that is Franschoek: the occasion, a wedding that will live in my memory forever.  There are three reasons of this:

  • South Africa offers some of the most beautiful wedding venues in the world.  Nature provides the backdrop, be it in the bush, in the vineyards, on the beach … each spectacular, unique. I was reminded of this.  This is why I love doing events and weddings here.
  • The wedding was one long awaited.  Two souls who have been together for a long time,  the bride converting to Judaism to prove her love, a gesture so great, the occasion was sweeter for it.
  • A reunion of lifelong friends.  Literally lifelong as I am part of a group of exceptional women who have stayed friends since birth. Fifty odd years of commitment and joy to each other.  And we celebrated this.  We have led extraordinary lives, times uneasy, times fraught with the living of it, but never without each other’s undying support. I count myself blessed to have a sisterhood unlike any other.

As the sun clipped the top of the Helderberg mountains, turning the landscape a romantic hue of pink, love and joy were tangible for all to succumb to and revel in. We cried in our love for the couple, Tamsin and Jarryd, tears of joy as we witnessed their devotion, depth of  religion, traditions, uninhibited joy. 

Which reminded me:  we have to plan for joy.  

In the daily grind, we plod, through the routines, the schedules, the diary filled with what to do.  We become blasé to that feeling of giddiness, of exultation, of romance in our lives.  Guilty on that score when things seems dull and ugly.  So we must make the effort, we must plan for joy.  In the smallest of occasions, in the grandest of celebration, we must plan to make that moment, as it was for me, a day to remember. The event planning, the months of work, will be worth it, no matter how small the celebration, make it unforgettable and purposeful. Fill your life with flowers, with small gifts for others, put thought into making others happy.  Plan for joy.

 

Then came the interesting comment. ‘You are very brave to attend this wedding on your own.’

I must admit, since I became ‘on my own’, I have avoided weddings and special occasions, for this very reason.  My new, single status seemed ‘without the plus one’ and we know how that feels.  I pondered for awhile and then I said:

I still find myself in that luxurious state of love and unending romance. I find myself exactly where I want to be.’

Let’s just say, I planned for joy, and I found it.

Note to self.  Sometimes you have to make a plan to find joy, it needs some commitment but the rewards are unending.

Are you planning for joy?

PS whilst I was indulging in romance, love and joy in South Africa, my children were celebrating Halloween in London – with planned joy. Divine! Nothing like an occasion to celebrate life xxx

 

Images: Chatz wedding, Tasha Seccombe, Fleur le Cordeur

#boschendal #fleur le corder #okasie #franschoek #southafrica #emilysiannecox

The Gratitude Diary. A personal approach.

‘I realised that my focus was always on the negative and on what had to be done, rather than on what I’d already achieved or the things I could be grateful for.’  Wendy Fry on how a Gratitude diary helped her be more positive.

Times really don’t want all the cheeriness about.  Clichéd quotes and all those preppy, positive utterances which sort of sends me into a deeper depression than the one I am trying to escape from – back off happy hippy!

But, and she says but, I admit to having a gratitude journal.  Sort of.  Actually do, although I don’t write in it everyday and times I have to think really hard about what I can be grateful for – this is tricky when life has just dished out the latest slap on the back of my head sort of thing, so I don’t push it.  I would have to be drug induced to smile everyday with that gratitude label when it ain’t such a great day.

But, I digress.  The journal, at it’s proper time, is great.  And this is how I snuggle up to mine.

  • Morning is best for me.  With a strong espresso and a fluid, black, ink pen.  Early means the day still has plenty of promise.  
  • Everything looks more ‘to be grateful for’ in the morning.’
  • Weird as I am, I usually list one thing that is not so good. Short, sweet, just like that.  Something happened, a diary entry.  Then I write one word to address it – what I am going to do about it.  Sorts that one out.
  • List three things I am grateful for i.e. my children, my ability to travel, my home.  Pick up on the three key points, children, travel and home and think of three ways I am going to enjoy them more. In a short amount of time, I have thought of a day out with my children and something to do in my home – even getting a bunch of flowers would be perfect.

 

(The Flowers I can have, the Hallway?  Still a dream …)

In a quick sip of the espresso, I have dealt with a negative, listed three things I am deeply grateful for, and swung into positive action.

Short and so, so sweet. 

Images:  Gratitude forward TCK, writing forward, Pintrest

 

 

 

The sentimental sort of mothering.

IMG_6255 Just as there can never be enough space in a mother’s heart for her children, there can never be a greater compliment for a child when their mother holds onto every little bit of their childhood.

I am so sentimental!  One of the problems of downscaling and moving house, has always been my dogged commitment to keeping every little piece of my children’s years; their early ‘interesting’ art, scribbled phonetical lines.  Their letters to Santa (which of course were posted), reports on poems said, galas swum and of course the birthday cards, inoculation cards, dance cards and then there are the photographs. These tangible pieces of their lives are lugged around from country to country, home to home, at times in lieu of furniture or favourite pieces, for these are the days of their lives (literally)

IMG_6263 Times life changed from the plan, and they grew up.  Times they did not want reminding that Mom was always reminding them of ‘when you were young’ – Mom, don’t do that sort of thing – but she does.

‘Grown don’t mean a thing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown. In my heart, it doesn’t mean a thing.’

Toni Morrison.

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Today I dipped back into the boxes. Old friends.  Laughs and giggles and in a way, a reminder that I did good.  I am the keeper of childhood, the maker of the King and Queens and overall, in the large scheme of things, as life as it throws us like surf on the highest wave, I did good.

I am a sentimental mother.  Guilty and giddy with the thought.

 

Giacometti, The Tate Modern and merde – she says no, no, no

fullsizeoutput_75d7 ‘Be it ancient or contemporary, Art speaks of our time on earth.’

Times mistakes are good.  Blond here had a ticket for Stanley Tucchi’s film ‘The Final Portrait’ with Geoffrey Rush, depicting the life of Giacometti. Happens to coincide with the exhibition at the Tate Modern.  Sunday, sunday, sunday she had drilled in her head.  Problem was, Sunday past and my entrance into a very empty cinema confirmed my dilly lack of detail. ‘Merde’ she hisses … but I am at the Tate Modern, to Giacometti I will go. Stream the movie later.

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Sensory overload.  Understanding contemporary art requires careful observation.  Standing back, reflection and looking at the careful details of every aspect of what is presented to the viewer.  Story telling in the art. Don’t rush, don’t rush.  These are statements on politics, social interaction, the world perceived by those who strip the everyday to the core. Sometimes, I find myself looking at splotches (yes a bit like a child throwing paint on canvas) but then comes the question – does it make sense as a piece on it’s own, or more if we learn what the artist was trying to express?  What are your thoughts?

fullsizeoutput_75d5 Then, we come to the raindrop.  The artist, mesmerised by the spiritual qualities of a raindrop, and how to transform in concrete terms … I stand and look, and look and in the looking … behind me a woman says in Afrikaans ‘lyk soon ‘n tiet’ – looks like a tit! Boob dangling from string – are you totally without I wonder, but laugh as she does to realise I understand the language.  The art is decidedly lost on her and her partner, in fact a few minutes later I pass them again, her voicing the need to find an exit to all this nonsense.  No, No and no again … And so it goes … should I smile, should I shudder … but that is contemporary art for you … each to his own I guess.

I, on the other hand, am inspired.  I cannot do this, so I appreciate others who can. May not always understand, but try to,  There is a reason these pieces have a place in this great gallery. 

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Aaah, ’twas a great afternoon. I live in a city where all the great works come together.  The Tate, the Modern Tate and all the other galleries that offer me the chance to see the greats.  Not too shabby she says as she takes the lift to the 10th floor. The viewing deck.

IMG_5596IMG_5611 London Skyline

Standing up there, with a full 380 degree view, Art is everywhere. Ancient, modern, traditional, futuristic, it’s all for our pleasure. 

I want more of Botticelli, Michelangelo, Titian, Pollack, Warhol and everyone else that paints, sculpts, draws and puts to paper, canvas and metal the world the way they see it, to enlighten, enchant and entertain me … for I learn.

 

It’s official. You have to stop playing the Lotto – like now!

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It. Is. My. Turn.

We all know about the Struggle.  We do.  We live it, write about it and light candles to pray for the stopping of it.  The struggle is exhausting, and sometimes, all the hard work and millions of little dreams just elude the overcoming of the Struggle.

So the Lotto win is the next big thing. Have tried it at times, and weirdly, at times taken a ticket and never looked to see if I won anything – have you done that? ‘Perhaps winning something ticket’ lies in my purse until I tear it up, too arsed to see if a pound richer I am. Useless.  So I reckon, if I appeal to everyone on the planet earth to stop playing the Lotto, just for a little spell, I have a chance.  I need to win that Lotto, and my reasons are pure. They are:

  • I reckon I earned it.  Have dealt with the Struggle more than most of late.  Lotto will reward me for the Struggle.
  • In the eddy of Struggle, I have had to make do with Boots generic face products.  This is sad to say the least.  Trés sad.  I believe darling Helen Mirren says ‘f…king’ helps little all those moisturisers but it feels SO good to have expensive creams on the wrinkly face.  Bits of gold leaf in neck cream is awesome.
  • Need new gym clothes.  I don’t go to the gym but wearing them around the house makes me feel healthy. Haute couture gym clothes is all for working on the laptop.
  • Googling exotic destination holidays on waitron salary is fatal to the soul. A la masochistic mode. A little Lotto booty will take me from Southfields to the South of France and we all know, a girl needs the Cote d’Azur for uber wellness.
  • Mermaid Honda Jazz is sick.  She is valiant, but sick.  Ignore anyone who says it’s fine – trying to outsmart a Range Rover Vogue is not only frightening but makes us feel like  Thomas the tank engine next to Gordon the Big. I need Range Rover injection.
  • Surrounded by big city fashion labels.  I don’t really like fashion labels (bullies all of you) but sneaking into Primark is random stuff. Just once, just once, Lotto can get me the Loro Piana, Hermes and wine – circa made by monks with no screw top.
  • Letting someone else struggle with the unruly Macbeth hags hair.
  • Foregoing Ryan Air dehumanisation in favour of turning left on British Airways.
  • Allow for setting up trust funds for my children with great titles that sound important.
  • Centre court tickets at Wimbledon.  Tennis is not my passion but centre court sounds so grand.
  • Being told, of course you may have a table, and not being lied to about full bookings because you ask for a table for one.
  • Charity.  Being able to share the Lotto with others rather than thinking, sorry mate, I have beans for the rest of the month myself.

And you know what?  I don’t want the millions – seriously – it brings it’s own headaches and heartaches, but a little extra would be welcome.  

And you know what?  If I won, I would most likely give it all to my children.  Actually more in love with the packaging of Uber brands than spending money on the items themselves. Have no need for yachts or watches, sports cars or holiday homes.

Just want the feeling of saying … maybe I could.

Truth be told … very happy with what the Struggle has made of me, the great opportunities presented and the drive created.  But, and I say but … a little of the Lotto would be nice.

So again, stop playing all you lovely people – this dame needs a windfall of possibilities.

You can play again, say in a month or two.  And if the saying that every draw creates six winners of millions and I figure this has being going on for a while, surely the odds are in my favour if you all desist for a while …

images-40 The price of a new car, cosmetic ‘upliftment’ and that little black dress means winning the Lotto – so help a poor girl out will you?

PS if I win, having taken two tickets tonight, I shall share it with the first person who tells me how winning will change their lives, in the most interesting way, for the better.

PS – if you believe that I love you, but seriously, a little for the information.

Images: Pintrest