Reasons to be grateful

Yesterday was a loooong day.

Reason to be Grateful #1: The alarm sounded at 4:45 and I actually heard it (I slept clean through a very loud hour's worth of Radio 2 on most days of last week).

Reason to be Grateful #2: I arrived at the Business Gym at 7:15, assisted with the registration process and didn't screw up. Just being part of the Business Gym is a reason to be grateful in itself.

Reason to be Grateful #3: At midday I caught the train to Hertford and actually had the balls (borrowed, obviously) to chase up some money owed to me. Not such a difficult task after all.

Reason to be Grateful #4: Feeling rather pleased with myself (and lighter than I had felt for weeks) I had time to catch the train home and sit for a couple of hours with a nice cup of tea, a huge salad, and access to email, rather than hanging around in either London or Hertford in coffee shops or bookstores. Not that the cup of tea lasted two hours, of course.

Reason to be Grateful #5: At 18:25 I left the house and caught the train back in to London to mentor a Kabbalah 1 class. It started to pour with rain when I emerged from the tube at Bond Street and I got soaked from the knees down in the short walk to the Kabbalah Centre. So how grateful I was to have remembered my umbrella - I would much rather have soggy knees than be a drowned rat.

Reason to be Grateful #6: The class ended earlier than usual and I made a beeline for Liverpool Street in the hope of walking through the front door at 11:30 (rather than midnight) which was a welcome thought considering my early start.

Okay, so here is where I get slightly short on gratitude for a while....

I ran out in to the main concourse at Liverpool Street and saw that the 22:28 to Cambridge was due to depart from platform 7 in two minutes time. This meant I would need to undertake what some people would describe as "running". I gave my best effort, and considering that I run like a chicken I am sure that I put a smile on a few faces too. However you want to describe my style, I made the train, picked up a discarded free paper and settled in for the journey home.

Several dull celebrity stories later, I realised that the train hadn't moved. Was this the right train? The board said platform 7, the sign above platform 7 said "22:28 to Cambridge"... the sign on the platform itself said "22:28 to Cambridge" but the electronic screens in the train were switched off, it was now 22:39 and the train was still stationary...

At this moment I had what was described by Douglas Adams in "The Meaning of Liff" as an 'Ely': "The split second in which you realise that something, somewhere, has gone horribly wrong..." and at that precise moment without word from the driver, the doors beeped and closed and the train lurched forwards. Bugger. I bet this is the wrong train.

And not only the wrong train, but extremely slow. After 25 excruciating minutes where I flipped between aggravation and nonchalance, instead of arriving at Tottenham Hale, we pulled in to Seven Sisters and the station announcement was given that this was the Stansted Express which stopped only at Harlow and Stansted Airport.

I decided to get off at Harlow and wait for a Cambridge train to be certain, but at Harlow another (departing) passenger said that he was sure that this train stopped at Bishops Stortford. Some of the trains do stop at both.... and this was a late train.... so maybe he is right. After all, the train I got on said it went to Cambridge. The doors beeped before I had time to really think through my options and I jumped back on the train. And guess what?

It didn't stop at Bishops Stortford.

At 23:42, after 20 long minutes of furious evil thoughts towards the driver, the passenger at Harlow and generally willing the train to hurry-the-f**k-up we pulled in to Stansted Airport, at which point the driver casually and quietly announced "Apologies to all of the passengers who thought this might be the Cambridge train" OH, SO NOW YOU'RE F**KING TALKING! WHERE WERE YOU BEFORE THE TRAIN LEFT F**KING LIVERPOOL STREET? CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE? Dickhead.

Most of the time I am a calm, rational being. On the odd occasion I get really angry. Usually when very tired and not likely to be confronted. I am very good at shouting to myself.

I looked at the London bound trains - platform 1 went via Harlow and platform 3 via Bishops Stortford - but the next train (the one I had just jumped off) was not due to depart for another 25 minutes. Marvellous. I jumped back on board and grabbed another free paper and sat down for the wait.

I didn't have to wait long - just ten minutes later the doors beeped, closed and we were off. WTF?!?! I was thrown once again in to sudden panic - why is this train leaving early? Is it the train on the board or is it heading back to a terminus or worse still, straight to Liverpool Street? I spent an agonizing 15 minutes throwing all kinds of worthless threats out in to thin air. If this doesn't stop in Stortford, I am screwed, because I have already missed the last train out of Liverpool Street.....you motherf**kers, what's with the lack of announcements? I'll charge you for my cab fare, I will! You'll have to pay! I'm not paying for your lack of communication! I could have been home by now! You dirty, stinking, train-driving bastards...

The train stopped at Bishops Stortford. I arrived home at 12:10. Okay, so there's Reason to be Grateful #7. I spent a night in my own bed rather than spending a small fortune on cab fares or sitting on a bench waiting for the first train to depart. And Oh! What a glorious night of deep sleep it was too.

What a day. If I sit on a train in the next 50 years it will be too soon.

Oh crap, I'm back in London tomorrow...

On Thin Ice

Oh the magic of TV. For the past few weeks I have been enthralled with "On Thin Ice" - the documentary following Ben Fogle and James Cracknell as they prepare for and take part in the first race to the South Pole for I don't know how many years (I could find out, but I can't be bothered to look it up - my google research seems to be reserved solely for investigating scams these days)

Merely watching them brace against the cold in temperatures way below freezing (with their breath solidifying instantly on their beards) has given me frostbite. I don't envy them one bit and I admire their bravery for traversing the crevasse fields, in terror of the ground simply opening up beneath their feet and swallowing them, ski's, pulks, beards and all.

But at the same time, I do have to laugh. Because this is a TV program. They set off at a rapid pace in front of the other teams, constantly exulting the fact that there is no form of life between them and the pole. They marvel at the isolation and the great danger of carking it unseen.

Except they won't be unseen because they have a professional camera crew following them, giving us the beautiful, long range views of the immense barren wilderness with the three of them trekking along the horizon. After ten days, all of the teams have to make a 24 hour stop at a medical camp. So where did that spring up from and how did all of the doctors get there?

Using the pfm protocol, obviously. (An old IT term, 'p' stands for pure and 'm' stands for magic...)

The presence of all of these other people just makes it seem a bit less life-threatening, if you ask me. It's hardly Scott, is it? At minimum they need to lose at least two toes and a finger (or maybe half a nose) each to convince me that they are genuinely on a dangerous mission.

And what will they do next? They've already rowed across the Atlantic, and Ben has recently returned from South America (risking his life by being infected with flesh-eating parasites). 20,000 leagues under the sea??

I think I'll stick to water-slides and Yoga.

More money coming my way

I received another email today, this time from the United Nations Assisted Programme for Scammed Victims. It looks very professional - see below:

Unlike the kind offer from Mr O'Brien, the UN actually exists, and they spent a little bit of time creating a front man and investing in graphics. Very impressive. Nice layout (might pinch some of this for setting up my business - what do they say? Oh yes: Plagiarism Saves Time!)

But I am apparently only entitled to a mere $500,000.00 this time, which I find rather disappointing (in comparison to the $19million offered two days ago). I mean, it's hardly worth the effort, is it.

I felt like replying and saying "Take your scrawny offer of half a million dollars and stick it where the sun doesn't shine, matey. I don't get out of bed for less than $1million a day...."

But instead I took my indignation and googled it instead... and found someone who had responded to the scam. Very interesting - take a look!

Mindless Time Wasting

The Job Centre want me to be working. That is why they pay me Job Seeker's Allowance and check every two weeks that I have been 'actively seeking work'. And that is fair enough. I want to be working too. I am in the process of setting up my own business, but in the meantime I am living off the good ole JSA, trying to find ways of keeping my self esteem off the carpet.

There isn't a Job Centre in Bishop's Stortford, so I have to travel to Hertford to sign on every two weeks. Due to the distance and the bus timetable, it is a four hour round trip which costs £4.70 in bus fare and £1.20 on a pot of English Breakfast tea in the delightful Serendipity cafe (which I resort to when I have read as many book covers in WH Smiths than I can bear whilst killing time for the bus home).

Don't get me wrong here - I need to count my blessings. Hertford is a lovely Job Centre, as Job Centres go. But that doesn't mean that I want to be there any more than I have to, which is what happened today.

Last week I was away on holiday and before you ask, no, I can't afford it and no, I didn't pay for it. But in order to receive my Job Seekers Allowance I had to a) convince the Job Centre that despite the fact that I was going virtually insane being on benefits and needed a mental break, that I would still be actively seeking work during my holiday and willing to return should some cruel bastard actually offer me work during the one week that I had chose to relax and b) make an appointment to visit the Hertford Job Centre on my return to prove that I was back.

So that is what I did today. One hour there, 3 minutes in the Job Centre, two hours of hanging around (drinking tea and doing what I could with my project plan), and one hour back. £5.90 and 4 hours down the pan.

And yes, I did have a wonderful holiday. Or at least:

1. I demonstrated to my nephews what real pain looks like when a person hits the water at speed coming off a water slide and takes half of the pool up their nose.
2. I gave piggy back and shoulder rides and carries whilst carrying a large bag filled with wet towels, a large camera and several tons of pick 'n' mix (MINE!, not theirs. I am not yet loving enough to share my pick 'n' mix with anyone. But I did buy them some).
3. I bruised my spine in several places (again, coming down the water slide at unnecessary speed)
4. I demonstrated how to feed the local wildlife, including geese, ducks, rabbits, a moorhen and several rather tame squirrels (one of which came regularly inside the villa to take monkey nuts from my shoulder, and eventually got fed up and peed on me. I took it graciously).
5. I went out for one evening with my sister and got pissed on a single Mojito... Oh how very Me.

Aah... memories....

I'm about to become a multi-millionaire!!!!!!

It's so exciting!! I have been vigorously voicing my affirmations twice a day for several weeks now and the ones related to finance ("My world is filled with abundance!!!!" and "I draw prosperity towards me like a magnet!!!!") appear to be paying off. I kid you not!! We cannot possibly predict how the Universe will provide, and I certainly didn't expect for my financial worries to evaporate at 18:57 hrs on a Sunday evening, via email. But who am I to refuse if the Universe chooses to make me wealthy in this way?!

I have just received an email from a solicitor called Everett O'Brien based in Northampton who has told me that he is the sole legal representative of a Mr Daniel Rookie who died with his immediate family in a car crash in 2002. He has been searching hard to find extended family with which to share his US$38 million fortune - and because I have the same surname, he would like to put me forward as a surviving family member and the sole next of kin. All I have to do is to sign a few papers in order to receive 50% of this fortune. That's US$19,000,000.00, give or take the odd cent!!! How shall I spent it?!

Look - I know you think I am being taken in here, but don't worry. It's not like it's an email from the Nigerian Lottery or anything. Everett assures me that this entire process is hitch free, and even though he is a complete stranger contacting via the unlikely method of email, I trust him completely!! He sounds so official.

Once again the words of Catherine Tate's Nan spring to mind: "Hhwhodda load of old shit!!!"

I have to confess, I was intrigued by the email, but as a precaution I decided to perform my usual hoax investigations. I carry these out each time I receive a friendly warning from a well meaning friend. You know the type of thing - that opening an email with the subject line "Free tickets to Disney Land" will result in my computer (and all of the computers of anyone on my contacts list) being hacked and the zero sector of our hard disks being wiped, or that each person that I forward the email to will result in 1p being donated to charity that sends badly maimed and whimpering children for a free trip to Disney Land.

Being as logical as the day is long, I always wonder how this could possibly work (there is no zero sector on a hard drive and who is keeping count of all of the forwarded emails? And why Disney Land every time?). But apart from being logical I have a keen aversion to being conned.

All the same, this really didn't look like a chain email and wasn't full of emotional blackmail either. Very clever. So let's take a closer look at Mr O'Brien's amazing offer....

1. Everett O'Brien Solicitors do not appear in the results of a google search.
2. Tyes Court (his office address) in Northampton looks suspiciously like a housing estate on google maps.
3. Mr O'Brien's email address is everett.obrien@btinternet.com - strange email address for a professional.
4. When I hit reply (yes, I was going to send a 'What a crock of shit' email but decided to spend the energy on blogging instead) the email address is everett.obrien@gmail.com. Creative, huh?
5. Mr Daniel Rookie apparently "worked as an independent oil magnate in my country". Shit - so he must be LOADED!!!!! (Hang on a minute.... an independent Oil Magnate... in England???)
6. My surname is not that uncommon. I spent an entire weekend a few weeks ago with bundles of Rookies, and yet the embassy could not give any other names. Gosh, how lucky I am that he found me first!!!!
7. Mr Daniel Rookie, independent UK (??) Oil Magnate left a sum of 38 million US Dollars. I guess that is possible.
8. Everett O'Brien is insisting on complete confidentiality. Oh crap - looks like I blew that one.

So my clever little brain has either saved me from losing what little money I have through bank fraud OR I will soon be receiving a postcard from St. Lucia from a close living Rookie relative who was second on the list to be emailed...

If that's the case, I want half....

p.s. feel free to spam either of the above email addresses on a regular basis.

A week of boys...

Most of my days I spend on my own. I am used to my space, the peace, the quiet, the 'no need to think about anyone but Me', the 'what shall I eat for MY tea?', the 'what shall I watch on the TV and where is MY remote? (oh, here it is, right where I put it...)'

Life gets lonely at times - nobody to bounce ideas off, no immediate support, nobody to talk to - but I take full responsibility for the situation I am in. If I were brave I would plunge myself in to the environment of a shared house. If I were clever I would find some kind of inbetween. If I were bold enough I would risk Love.

I know that I have a tendency to live inside my own head, my own little fantasy land. It's great there - I have more money than I know how to spend, my wardrobe of clothes leaves me spoiled for choice and each day is filled with love. Who would want to leave?

But I know that if my dreams are ever to become a reality I must start spending less time living in my head and more time living in the real world - in the moment, the present, the Now. Because that is where life actually happens. And this week I will be pulled in to the Now by being surrounded by boys.

One of my friends has 20-month old twin boys. Yesterday I became her unpaid helper at the Twins Club summer party (as her spouse could not resist the temptation of a Corporate treat at an Oasis concert) and there I was in the moment with a roomful of babies, toddlers and small children. Despite two babies being much harder to raise than one, none of the mothers were complaining as their children slowly demolished the room - possibly due to one of the mothers turning up with lively triplets...

Children amaze me with their ability to cover the full range of emotions several times in the space of a few minutes - masters of the art of living in the Now - and my friend's boys were no exception. Thankfully they were distracted enough by the other children not to revert to their somewhat bemusing behaviour of biting each other hard enough to draw blood - again and again and again. It's a wonder my friend has not been reported to social services - luckily (?!) the bite marks are clearly child-sized!

After 3 hours I walked home feeling slightly exhausted from the whole experience. And this is only a warm up. Today I am heading off to spend 5 days with my nephews. Five days with two lively, boisterous, loud, argumentative, sensitive, clever, loving little people. Five days of being kept on my toes. Five days of education on how to live in the Now.

I think I feel ready. In any event my sister has asked that I pack the vodka. The only question is, one bottle or two?

Lots of 'stuff' going on...

I took part in a Life Journey exercise last week with about 20 other people, where you map the story of your life - significant people, events and lessons - in whatever visual way you like.

I thought I was over my past. I have the ability to talk about the nasty stuff without a flicker of emotion - not because I am fighting back the tears or making a significant effort, but because I don't know how to connect with those feelings. My teenage years called for a poker face as far as my home life was concerned. For one thing, drawing attention to our situation outside of the house would 'cause trouble' (and there were enough things 'causing trouble' in our house without me adding to them) and for another, expressing my feelings was a waste of time - it didn't get me anywhere. I think I have a PhD. in "Not Making a Fuss"

So when I sat down to create my Life Journey, I was surprised at feeling very shaky and very sick (Oh for heaven's sake, get a grip, girl), but true to form I decided that this was not the time or the place to fall apart. The other people taking part in the exercise are potential work colleagues (many of them experts in counselling, psychotherapy and mental health) and I didn't want to expose myself as a complete nutcase. (This is a strange assumption to make considering that these people are probably the most likely to recognise that I am not a complete nutcase...)

I pushed myself through the exercise, dismayed to realise that half an hour of frantic scribbling had not captured half of the shit I went through - wow! If I wasn't so adverse to the shelves of self-pitying heartbreaking true life 'sob stories' I could write a book about this! (I liked 'A Child Called It' but then everyone started jumping on the bandwagon. Or maybe I'm just pissed because they all beat me to it :o)

Sorry, I digress. Later in the evening I discovered that several other people had come across things that had upset them. And like the sensible and emotionally sound people that they are, they risked their mascara and excess snot, had a good five minute cry, felt much better and got on with it.

Why can't I do that? My teacher said last week "you look at your feelings through glass" and this is so true. But I don't know how else to look at them. I can't even remember half of them - let's face it, this was over 20 years ago now. But I know that the buggers are still there.

Over the past 20 years I have had numerous attempts at counselling all of which have gone so far and then failed because - in the time-honoured tradition of "Nothing to see here" - I managed to convince each therapist that I was 'fixed'. Either that or the whole therapy process has pushed me in to such a dark hole for so many weeks until the therapist has said 'okay, that's enough. Now you need to start pulling yourself together'

Oh how I love those words.

I have no idea how I am going to fix this. It reminds me of the scene in "As Good As It Gets" where the Jack Nicholson character with obsessive compulsive disorder is told that he needs to make an appointment to see his doctor. How can I resolve my issues when the biggest one of them is a learned reaction of protecting myself by denying that my issues exist? Catch-22, no?

I think I might start with the Temper Tantrum route for a week or two, hurl myself on the floor and kick and scream whenever I don't get my own way and see where that gets me. And then after that I might try some Drama Queen therapy by bursting in to tears when anybody asks me absolutely anything ("Would you like fries with that?" *sob!*back of hand to forehead* "You have no idea how that makes me feel! How can you ask me such a thing?! I am emotionally damaged for life now!")

And then we'll take it from there, I guess.