My theme music must stay … we all need a theme song.

I am the music and the music is me.

The new computer.  Darling daughter tells me, cull Mommy, cull for the transfer of data.  Begin again, delete, delete, delete all the stuff of nonsense and make the transfer a smooth one.  And I have, only to stop at the music …

My playlist is in the millions. Like me, nothing dates.  Each and every song is part of my life and my goodness, I cannot delete any of them!  How can one, when every song is a trigger to a memory? Attempts at ruthlessness is futile. As I listen with intent to minimise, the swooping of memory intercedes with that force of all, of the force that is my life. ‘Tis true, my life is a song.

Childhood, long legs and awkward dreams of future me with Barry Manilow. Scoff perhaps, but ‘Mandy’ and ‘I write the songs’ transported from a dusty Free State town.  He has to stay.

Deep Purple. Underground. The Rolling Stones. Moody Blues – first dances with strange boys – they have to stay. And the Bee Gees.  And Barbra has to stay … she transcended all chapters and has to stay. My first ‘own earned’ pocket money to be spent at the OK Bazaars on LP’s has to stay on the playlist.

Bob Seger, America and Fleetwood Mac for the Varsity days.  ‘I will Survive’ (how ironic) when I knew nothing days.

The falling in love music. Wedding music. Sussing children to sleep music.

Joni Mitchell.  Carol King. Billy Joel and Barry White. Surely must stay? Francois Hardy with her French I did not understand? Michael Jackson, Michael George, how can I let them go? Even Elton …’Song for Guy’ and his story … no, he must stay. This is so hard!

Nostalgic music for my homeland.  Party music, loving music … empowering songs that lift the feet and fill the heart with oomph. Got to stay.

Just Ginger.  Cape Town vibes. Afrikaans. Charles and ‘She’ for my mum. Those melancholy nights music, lullaby songs and heart breaking ‘I understand songs’. No, you will not go. The Musicals as if I wrote every word.

Keeping Keane, The Fray, James Taylor, the boy bands, the girl bands, John Legend, John Mayer and Justin Timberlake, the Lighthouse family and all the legends that contributed to my life. They must stay. The crying to songs must stay. The elated, life is all empowering songs are right up there too.

The Taylor songs (yes we love and not so much love).

And of course, my foreign lovelies.  The crooner in Italian who takes me to places of extacy and foreign lands.

Truth is, every song on my playlist is part of me.  The making of my moments, the returning to the past, the embracing of now, the possibility of what is to come.  I cannot part with any of them.  I love pop, R & B, country, movie themes and everything in between.  Every song that catches my imagination, captures my heart and leaves its mark. Could I pick a favourite, no, is there the ‘one’ song, perhaps but I am not telling.

What I do know, is that music is the making of me.  Everyday, no matter how good or bad, if I have the music in my ears, early morning, late evening at home, going somewhere, music is my theme song to life.

Oh did I mention …

Do you have any favourite playlists that capture you?

As long as you are beside me, I can ask for nothing more.’ Petula Clark.

You are all important. You are all staying. Find space somewhere else.

Images: Rolling stones, you tube.

 

 

 

Passion is so powerful. Welcome back.

‘First the loving of self … then the passion ignites once more.’

Phew!  Been a while, she says.

Tilted life, balance in the gutter. Numbness and nothing matterness happens to the best of us.  I have written about it for a long time, that tsunami of events that takes us from the cruise liner to the raft, tattered mast and listless sea.  With no sail winds in sight.  The very worst and more so, takes the life out of your years … you lose them … and then, just one day, you find the mojo moment, the seedling in the quagmire and hello … is that a spark of passion?  You betcha!

Let’s talk about passion.  Sexual passion, familial passion, creative passion … that substance that runs through your veins and you cannot ignore it.  Sometimes you lose it when the death eaters come around, but it never dies.  You have to dig deep sometimes, really deep and you will find it, hiding in the cloak of disappointment, or loss, or just the humdrum of life when the one foot barely gets placed before the other.  It is there, all those elements of passion that you cannot deny. So, and it does take time, if life and love and just about everything tells you, you are not worth it, you are past it, you can let it go – don’t let it go. Never let it go, it will be the very essence of you – the new you, the real you.

When I gave up on my passions, it was alright.  A bit like faith.  We question and give up on it for a while when things are really bad.  It was not the time for passion, but hiding, closeting the self for self preservation and folding of cloaks around the battered heart. When all the questions arise – what am I going to do next, with the rest of my life … how to begin again, count, just become a little of myself again?  Leave it to your passions … they will arise again, like gorgeous little phoenixes and little by little, the self returns.  Stronger than ever.

Those passions?  They will lead you … from pain to purpose.

Those passions?  They will be the elements of your career in the making.  May not be the mainstream but what you love to do, and make a success of it.  Those little sparks will make you look at what you have, where you live, where you are today and say … I can work with this, and I can change it if I have to. Sweet little fairies that spin and dance to the music of your ego to build new resolve and purpose.

Purpose?  It is what WE are all about.  So you want to surround yourself with flowers, with pretty things and make a living out of it? Why not?  Want to become a CEO in your Silver Street, only you can make it work and with those little passion fairies, it is possible.  Want to create the beautiful home you ever dreamed of? Gather those passion fairies and make a plan, build a mood board, make goals, list the dream wish list and begin.  It is the beginning when everything makes sense, and one can only do it when you realise your passion. 

Rejection is a great place to fall into self. Wallow for a while and then, stop making excuses for the person you are, the things you did, the course you took, right or wrong, stop beating yourself up about it. You are the making of you. And your passions, your interesting led life is what makes you the unique human being in humanity from long before and long after.  Make you count now.

I was ready to let go and wonder about how to get through the next how many years. Now, with the  best music as my encore, I am dancing in my little place, no longer my cell but my place of ideas and sanctuary, bopping and planning just how to fuel these passions into a life I deserve, and want more than anything, because passion does that – passion brings purpose.  It’s exciting, it’s inspiring and most of all … we are still sexy, lovable, intellectual, wonderful and like no other.

Yay passion – so glad you are back!

Image: moneymotivatesme

Times life is a bowl of cherries. Adding them one at a time …

Got the lemons of late.  Bags of them …

Barges of them and the lemonade is fermenting in the cellar. I got so many lemons, got to the point of say ‘bring on them lemons baby, bring them on!’ Now the palate is seeking the sweet stuff – not the box of chocolates sort of humdrum stuff, but the bowl of cherries, and I aim to put them in the bowl, one by one.  Makes them all the sweeter, I say.

Post death, divorce and sweetheart remarrying faster than you can say ‘Blitz’ – ’twas the broken winged baby in the gutter of life. Trauma 101.  All those emotions, those martyr kick in stuff came to the fore – I wanted none of it, was going to do this, and that, and what the hell became of me? You have been there so you know the story, even if the cast is different.  Well, the cherries are filling up the bowl, and they are sweet!  One at a time.

Admittedly, living in England of course, it has a lot to do with the weather. No explanation needed. Summer brings flowers and yesterday, with my darling daughters, we bathed in them.  We revelled in them, creating, planning, executing, laughing and giggling till the tears fell freely for all the right reasons.  It all felt so, normal? Of course it did.  I am blessed to be close to my children and many of you I know are far from them, which is so hard at times – we mothers just want to hang around like those proverbial helicopters, and I don’t care what anyone says – it is fabulous to be close.

Massive cherry in the bowl.

The endless hours of work are beginning to pay off.  Up at five every morning, planning, posting, emailing and in between, working at the Travel and Events,at the coffee shop (which I love), the satisfaction of achievement is – let’s say twenty cherries in the bowl.  Never too old to begin again in business. Don’t count the hours in a day, but the joy I get from being so darn tired at the end of it, knowing I have done good, clients are happy and having many jobs is adding to my growth as a person.  Oh, go on, throw in a few more.

Friends. We know about the fair weathered ones, and the stay the distant ones. The ones when we went to see ‘Book Club’ and they went ‘aah’ and I went, what was that? Sorry Jane, Diane, Candice and Mary, you sold out to the cliché.  So had the opportunity to really take mature women and their stories to the max and you did the Hollywood fail.  My friends just sighed and let me rant. Another cherry for great friends.

Massive cherry for ‘Alias Grace’ and me getting back into clever stories.  And to you Hugh, for risking and being great in ‘A very English Scandal.’ May have served you tea on a few occasions, but love you still the more for it. Even now that you are married … I wished I could write great stories like that and that is a cherry to those who can.

Add a cherry to the fact that I am going solo to Paris this week. Solo to Lake Como in July. Double cherries to any woman who travels solo in Silver Street and fears nothing. Oh why not, twenty cherries for travelling solo anyway.

A whole punnet of cherries for still being in love. With love.

Not bad for two days of cherry picking.  And soon there will be an orchard of cherries in my bowl of life.  What about you? Gathering those cherries are we, dissing the lemons along the way … you go girl!

 

And she learns everyday … in the funniest of ways.

You know what they say about pride.  I am dealing with the before and after.

All I can say is I doubt those female icons possibly never had to deal with some of the things we Silver Streeters do.  Talking about pride we are.

So, in the huffy puffy way of ‘I need to do this for myself and ain’t gonna take that kinda of shit no more’, I looked around at the things I thought were bringing me down … and there was the little Mermaid Honda.  My farewell gift from now departed.  She is sweet I have to say, and got us through some situations, but we never bonded.  2004 model for starters, headlights so brittle the light barely shone through.  Had the battery issue, the whatever issue, and in one of my moments of ‘ain’t gonna take that shit no more’, I bequeathed her to another.  I will get myself a new car or do without (which is quite possible in London with public transport).  Done and dusted. End of an era Mermaid!

So imagine me yesterday.  On the bus.  Did I mention it was a crowded bus?  A long awaited for, crowded bus. As any normal woman would, the handbag, the kind of long strap bag that refused to stay on the shoulder and like the Greenwich meantime ball, crashes when you look down. Doable, but tricky when you have the groceries, dozens of them, in both hands.  The kind of my fingers are a distinct shade of purple weight grocery bags. Bloodless fingers. Cement bag grocery bags filled with sweeties and biltong for the army son.  And wine – we know how heavy those are.  Oh, did I mention the vacuum cleaner?

Handbag + grocery bags + vacuum cleaner.

Did I mention the cardboard box, flat pack style that fits not in the grocery bags for son’s sweeties?

Handbag + grocery bags + vacuum cleaner + cardboard box.

The narrow aisle meant casualties (and a bit of swearing English style … so rude!) I did not care, I was going to get home regardless of any future banning from bus.

And I did.  All fifty pounds of me and stuff.  Would have made the news but they were all focussed on Meghan’s new dress. And I was so bloody proud of myself.  Yes, I was hasty in my salute to Mermaid for sure, but I was thinking to myself, whilst vacuuming with new accessory – I did it.  All by my little self, and sometimes pride does not have to mean an achievement noteworthy of the Nobel prize, sometimes it’s just getting through the day, however the means, to do something you would never have done before. Had never done the bus and vacuum cleaner before.

I was proud.  Before the fall.  And am proud still, only in a different way, if that makes sense.

Don’t stop you hear – you are so worth it.

Image: Entity mag.

Divorce and the wedding ring issue.

I don’t know about you … but me?

It’s been a while now that I was left with a ‘you will be alright.’

And my marriage was over.  Two years of paralysis and fear, of times, hoping to just ‘go away’ or ‘what are you doing with the rest of your life?’ When the boxes are sealed, the papers signed and the thought of carrying on, at this late stage of your life, seemed entirely, impossible.

One of the issues women facing divorce in their Silver Street time is the question of the wedding rings.  Let’s face it, we have had the bands on our left hand for so long, the dent on our fingers are clearly visible.  The bands have worn thin over the years but more importantly, these bands are an integral part of our bodies, our psychological make up, they have been a part of us for decades. A symbol of our state, our relationship, our commitment – so when the marriage is over, what to do with the wedding rings?

I have thought a lot about this.  Interesting how many different people react to the same situation. One woman I spoke to literally took her wedding ring off the day her husband left and gave it to her daughter.  Another threw it in the river and yet another melted it down into a new piece of jewellery.  Those who somehow (and I am curious as to how they do it) went headlong into another relationship. happily ripped the wedding rings, now redundant to their new lives. I could not.  I could not take them off – forever it seemed – I could not make the gesture of removing my wedding rings. In my mind, I was not the one getting divorced, I was still married, in my mind, part of my life which I was not ready to change.

For a very long time I kept looking at anyone on the tube, on the bus, at their hands and sussing out the wedding ring situation.  Women, my age – wedding ringed, wedding ringless – and wondering about their stories.  The wedding band and eternity ring on my finger were my safety, and they stayed, for a long time. I was not ready.  How could I be if this was not of my choosing?

When my giver of my wedding rings re-married, I thought to myself. It is time – get over it and go ringless on that left hand. They should have a burial ceremony, a little coffin box for wedding rings that die when passion did. A hectic moment for sure.  My hand was bare, vulnerable, out of place with its nakedness.  For me, it was awful, not empowering.

For me, it seemed like I was advertising a new status, and not long after I stripped the relationship and tangible evidence of marriage, I found others thinking it an invitation.  I was not prepared at all. Neither wanted or invited the expectation of another in my life.  The reality was, I was still in love, still ‘married in my own eyes’ and still wanting to be the person I knew for the past thirty years. On my own now, I did have a choice in the situation – and in my eyes, choosing to wear the wedding bands took on a whole new meaning.

So I put them back on. I wear them still.  I may not be married to another, but I am still married to myself.  I like that feeling.  I want the time to grow and simply exist as I want to be, and that is committed, be it to myself or the one who is no longer committed to me.  Does that make sense to you?  I liked who I was then, and I like who I am now, after the drama, without the idea that I am on the market, available, ready for another experience.

It may change, who knows? My wearing my wedding rings gives me security, for myself.  Time to ponder living on my own until I am ready to change. May be soon, may be never but I am comfortable wearing the rings, content to be betrothed to me for a while. On my left hand is my wedding ring, my grandmother’s wedding ring and that of my mothers.  I am committed to all of them.

It is not a sad story.  If you are not ready to remove your wedding rings, don’t feel obliged to do so. They are part of who you are.  When someone does come along, seeing them, wanting to know more about you and you are ready to share you life, maybe then it will be the right time to take them off.  When you are ready.  Wearing my wedding rings is a message to my children that I still love their father, that I am acknowledging change but that most importantly, that I am now in a relationship with myself, growing, changing, facing life in this Silver Street time and happy.

I wear my wedding rings because I loved being married. I am not bitter and continue to honour someone who, in youth and life, I loved.  When I no longer feel that way, I will take them off, but only on my terms.

On my terms is what it is all about.  What do you think about it? 

Images: Pintrest,today,

Country garden guiding with horses, dogs and interesting people.

I volunteer.  Eight years ago, stranded in a small flat, disorientated and trying to adjust to a new life, I began my volunteering at the National Trust.  Why not I thought, having done my Master’s dissertation on the very subject, why not find a place close to me to offer my services and so my journey with Ham House, on the river banks near Richmond, began.

One little life saver. My contribution, voluntarily, to help others.  Volunteering takes the moving of self to the giving to others.  It’s great and you should try it. It’s heartwarming, freezing at times when I stand in the winter rain waiting, hoping no-one will turn up (and they do, dressed for the Artic, determined to have a garden tour) and off I go.  It is one of the most rewarding things I have ever done.

Lately, in this phase of ‘I am going to recapture my life’ stage, I gave my car to my children.  Carless in London is not a problem, yet there are times, like getting to Ham, it involves a trek of note.  Hour on the bus to the Dysart Arms pub and then literally walking across fields to the house. Think winter, yes, it happens.  Today however, Summer welcomes the heavily laden, designer handbag and ancient computer laden madam to meander past brook, park, scary horses.  We eye each other as I negotiate manure and gnats. Stopping nevertheless to absorb the sheer beauty of Spirea, cow’s parsley, running water and greenery that makes the eyes blink. This is Pooh country, Enid Blyton country, little lanes, public footpaths, houseboats on river and buzzing of the largest bees I have ever seen. Bumble bees.

Did I mention the Copper Beech – plumes of purple amid the white blossoms?  Could get so carried away here!  Nature is intoxicating at times.  At Ham House, giving these tours about 17th Century life in England, I am honoured, and at times, surprised at the people I engage with.  A study in characters for sure, most of them foreign, visiting London, sharing their stories from all over the world. Today I met a couple from Norfolk and a man who worked for Scottish whiskey, to fall one day and wake eighteen months later from an aneurism. Starting a new life in a different way.

As I finished, a dear old ditty woman accosted me with a question about a particular plant.  Is it really what the label says? 

‘Umm … think so?’

‘But you should know.’ she insisted. ‘ I come here all the time and the labels are a little confusing.  Is this a 17th century specimen?’

‘Umm .. think so.’

‘Well.’  she said. ‘The problem is that one has salads and then the flower may change the entire taste, if you eat it, you don’t like it, and if you discard it, the flavour will change with the dressing.’

Say what!  I lied. ‘Of course.’ I said.  ‘The flower is edible, but with the given vinaigrette could alter the flavour.’ Even I did not really know what I was saying but she insisted that the salad leaves … oh my Lord … was not authentic to the 17th century.  Like the shape of the leaves, the colour of the roots … and all I could think was this dear ditsy lady was lonely.  Was this going to be me in ten years time?

 

Hope bloody not. Loved her all the same.

The tours over and she begins the walk back to Richmond, via Petersham nurseries to get her fix of beauty.

I volunteer because I get to live outside the norm of my little world.  To meet and learn from others.  To be in a place where history lives, films are made and true English life is tangible.  The bus ride back is another story.

If you are sort of struggling about life at this time, go and volunteer.  If you already do, I would love to know more about what you do.

When we are old and ugly … sorry, when we are old.

Cindy Joseph – Model

Chatting to a friend the other day, about getting old.  I said ‘ When we are old and ugly …’ instantly met with a … no, no, ‘When we are old.  Full stop.  We will never be ugly.’ And she is right.

We choose how we want to look and feel, despite the mature years. We choose.

We baby boomers are not for sinking into old age.  We are soaring into maturity. Could I say even, becoming the first generation that makes the mature years totally glamourous! I think so. All around us there are beautiful women in their fifties, sixties, seventies and beyond who are nailing in the confident, together, empowering and looking better than they ever have.  Think Helen Mirren, Meryl Streep, Jane Fonda, Candice Bergman for example.  Then we have women like Cindy Jospeh, Yasmina Rossi and Carment Dell’Orefice who are inspiration deluxe!

Who would have thought it when we remember our mothers, aunties and grannies in their perms and twinsets and pearls?  Bless ’em.  Going to gym, doing yoga, partaking of the odd tweak, nip and tuck?  Not so much. Not the proverbial we.  Breaking of stereotype is more like it.  And you don’t have to embrace the grey if you don’t want to, but if you do … look at the possibilities. 

Nowadays women are facing the ‘gray divorce’, starting businesses from scratch, travelling more and finding their place in the world – they have been there for their children, their spouses and family and ultimately finding that ‘settling’ is not for them.  And not for us easy.

Must admit that life sort of bashed me around a bit in the last two years and I found myself going, ah what if the roots showed, what if the tracksuit was more comfortable … making an effort was an effort, and I needed the vegetate hollow to get myself back on track.  Happened faster when I was reminded that getting older did not mean letting go of who you are and how you look. And let’s face it, looking good is feeling good.  We have the mentors, the women who have blazed the path and this baby boomer is back on track.  Still going to wobble she knows, but starting with the never letting herself go when life lets her go.

Maybe you can relate.  For a long time, looking for new clothes was kind of blah.  I had clothes, practical clothes, clothes that maybe one day I would fit into again. Would go shopping and say .. right, first to get rid of all the old stuff … starting again … and not doing it. The wardrobe of settling.  Justifying the putting on of the odd pound, I needed the comfort food. Will change tomorrow.

Tomorrow arrived today. Went shopping and thought I need to be inspired and only I could do that, with the help of these incredible mentors.

Growing old, for sure.  Ugly … never. Owe it to myself, as you do.

Images bored panda, pintrest, telemetro

 

What a privilege it is to have someone worry about you.

One of the things I do when I get back to the ‘Old country’, is to call my friends.  Old socks friends, the rooting kind of friends, the Silver Street same avenue friends. Time to catch up.  And you know what … each one of them, bless their hearts, is worried about someone else.

Most are mothers.  Worried about their children – hardly a word spoken about themselves.  

‘How are you? ‘ I ask.  And they speak about their children, or those who don’t have, about someone else in their lives … and they care about, and worry about.  Interesting it is.  Some are about to become grandparents – they worry about the birth, how their children will deal with it, excited, but yes, worried.  Some have children who seemed to have lost their way … how to reach through to them, tell them it’s going to be ok when they are grown and following a part of their own making.

Some are worried about friends. Their health is scary, things are happening (as we well know in Silver Street) and worried that they will be alright, make it through, be assured of their being there for them.  Some are saying goodbye, nursing their parents, wishing things were different with partners and loved ones … each worrying about someone other then themselves. 

So, a flurry of calls to those I deem important in my life, and quiet moment to take in the love they have for others – it is amazing and gorgeous and I know, I worry about my own children , and those I love, but to hear it, to sense the outreach of it, to be surrounded by those who spoke of their concerns for others … what a privilege all of you out there, to have others worrying about you. That you come first, that you matter … that we in make it our day to worry and wonder at your wellbeing, your personal happiness, your life matters. It had me thinking … if I am guilty of being an over protective mother, worrying too much about my friends and those I love, I am not alone.  You are all doing the same.

And those being worried about … you are blessed. Someone has you in their corner.  They will fight for you, no matter what.

The truth is I do worry about those I love. I want the best for them. I want to take the hurt of life away and say it is ok.  I want them to know I will fight the bears, the dragons and the demons for them … and I am not alone. Rather than call us overprotective, meddling, too close, call us mothers, friends and lovers.  It is our calling to worry about you …and you should be happy we do.

Worry is a strange word sometimes. Negative perhaps, and lovely to know that someone may be doing the same for you.  Worrying you will be ok.  As long as you worry about them, it will come back to you … and in all that worrying, it will be alright.

Great to catch up and know you put others above you. Great to know others have someone in their corner. It is a win, win situation don’t you think? What a privilege to care that much.

Never dismiss another worrying about you. Value it.

Images: Quotes, my journey back.

The joy of Easter Friday.

You may wonder at the photograph –  a nice house, a bit of a view and lots of fog. Imagine it thus.

A seven bedroomed house, perched high up on a cliff with a view of the ocean, endless blue to gaze at from the pool deck with a glass of wine whilst the barbecue sizzles and the conversation is … we are finally here.

We are finally here.  A year of planning for a client’s birthday in South Africa.  Some clients are just that extra bit special and this is one such occasion.  An emotional event, friends from all over the world, coming together in Cape Town and the Wine lands to celebrate, not only a milestone but the bonds that link them.  Parents, grandparents, children and friends.  And this morning it was raining. 

Raining in the Cape.  A thirsty province in the grip of drought and though we from London and Ireland would go … why does it rain when we get here, instead we are blessed with the moisture from heaven – a good sign to say the least.  After church, I drove to Cape Town to make sure they had arrived safely, tired yet thrilled to be here.  The children just ran, I mean ran through the house, reuniting with cousins and eager to share this holiday freedom.  Left feeling elated, and as I drove along Camps Bay, the fog lifted to reveal sunlight on the beach.

Coming home, I was met with children playing on a building site across the road.  How I remember the joy of playing on a building site, half formed rooms, piles of sand, ledges to climb, places to jump down from. Not strictly allowed and a little .. oh oh, when they spied me, but I am the child who remembers that freedom and so as I sit on my little veranda, the sun still high at six, revelling in the outdoor frivolities of children, I thought about the message in church today.  And it is a Christian day, it is a Jewish special day … it is the day that we remember sacrifice of those who give us the traditions and beliefs we hold today. It is the grounding that allows us to feel alive and fortunate to have been given this world, at this time, despite the negativity, despite the hardship, we get to play a little longer in the sunlight.

To all my friends that believe in the higher power, the good, I wish you a beautiful Easter, a beautiful Pesach, time to reflect and yet a time to realise that we are but small, gorgeous creatures in a bigger place.  And we matter.  You matter.

I am blessed to be here in this sunshine.  Blessed to honour this special weekend and looking forward to the eggs on Sunday! Though times have been so tough, I am so in love … with it all.

The point is – times you have to move out of one’s own sphere and limited life to the bigger picture and today was joyful.  I helped people be happy, the children showed me the same and before the sun sets … love came through the clouds into my heart and showed me how great it is to be alive.

The picture: tonight the view is magnificent but we needed the rain to make it so.

The missioning day. Oy vey.

 

Hoorah!  I found the missing pants.  Oy vey, today was a missioning day.

The missioning day is when one sets aside time to do the business.  The prepping, supposed to be relaxing, grooming day.  I have of late been lacking in this department as one knows, practical labour and hum drum life makes of all slippers in the grooming department.

Not that I don’t try to keep up with the body beautiful.  I do.  At home, in dim light, which leaves much to be desired. Attempts at the contortionist act to do the dirty is ominous at best – can hardly find the eyebrows, not to mention the nether regions, and I balk at the touch up hair for the roots at Boots story, so today was the day.  I am going on holiday for goodness sake, to bikinis and sandals and sundresses, to whip the hair in a gentle breeze and look fabulous.  I needed help.

To the missioning day. Bank breaking stuff but needs must.

And it should be great, right?

Normally the way it works is thus.  For a bikini wax I enter the salon, am shown to a room and left alone to disrobe.  Elevator music, water rippling over stones. On the bed is placed a dainty little bit of fabric with elastic to act as a modicum of dignity i.e. the disposal panty.  One shimmies and prepares for the stranger to enter and a bit of banter may help to ease the unease of the situation at hand.  You are in the hands of whatever, and close those eyes to open the legs and await the warm wax – with gritted teeth and then it is all over.

Today: Miss Romania leads me to the room, closes the door and waits. Waits for me to strip and sans disposable pantie offering, mount the bed. She chats, I chat and no hot wax but some stuff followed by a machine gun battering of strips that makes my eyes water and my skin rip in the endeavour. What the …?  Rip, rip, rip.  I sigh, think of England and pray for this to end but no. Not the usual, bend this leg and so forth, I am frog positioned and the ripping continues unabated.  Is this the hot wax? No, oh sorry … and it gets worse from there. She is in a hurry, another client.  Should she ask someone else to complete the job? What! Mid wax by stripping bits and you want me to expose myself to someone else?  Have I not been through enough, you with little English and we trying to figure out if you understand your Hollywoods from your Brazilians and my dignity shred along in the process? Ok, enough, she is gone, I am left with a half baked job and my walk to the cashier resembles someone who has spent six days on a horse, in the Wild West, with no saddle. Admittedly unhappy with the not so hairless exercise and one week on the job job, so mercy in that I am not charged for the oy vey experience.

To the hair.  Let’s just say Miss Czech Republic (eight months in training) has me foiled for no less than four hours. Imagine being all magazined out and the last one in the salon, long after the lights have been turned off. Missed my check in airline moment, missed life as it happened in that time. No wonder the tears were flowing freely at the cost of hair and tender post wax treatment. 

It’s ok. I am done and dusted for the flight tomorrow.  Unlike many, flying still holds the dread of the flying day but the determination not to look like an ASBO in a hoody with yesterday’s wine on my breath. I shall be groomed, half groomed and ready. Did not get to the mani/pedi alas but think enough torture for one day.  Tomorrow I shall survey (in the sunlight) the results and be positive.  I did the missioning day.

Or should I say, I survived this missioning day. And I am happy because I did this for me.  And that is what counts, looking good, for me.

Images Group, pintrest