Sunday 12 December 2010
Tuesday 30 November 2010
To be or not to be...
Something peculiar happens to my feet when I enter an art gallery anywhere. I should be attending these things every other day – after all I’m an Art graduate. But a leaden feeling generally comes over me as I struggle inside, invite in hand. It takes all my strength not to skip the exhibition altogether and go for a drink instead.
“No one will ever know,” a devilish Jack Nicholson sort of voice whispers in my ear. I force myself not to look for the bar. “Which would you rather have?” he whispers. “High culture or a Margarita?”
Hyperventilating a little, I just about make it to the first room of the exhibition. There are people everywhere, trying to look cultured and serious. The only sounds are whispers and a muffled shuffle of sensible shoes accompanied by the clicking of stilettos. Half of these people don’t even know what they are looking at and the other half are pretending… Meanwhile, I feel as though I’ve been injected with buffalo tranquillizer, and start looking for a seat – anywhere I might lie down for three hours until it’s acceptable to go home again.
It’s then that I remember why the last time I “did” art was at an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery in London. At least there you don’t have to spend your time with a bunch of boring people pretending to like whatever has been hung on the wall.
There is a halcyon period in your twenties when you ignore any pretensions to clever stuff. You’re past the university project stage, and life is a merry-go-round between the pub and the wine bar. You’re too busy falling in love, falling into debt or falling over to care about the latest retrospective at the Tate. Then you become settled. You’ve got the partner, the mortgage, the job. The kitchen extension is finished. You’re all grown-up. Suddenly, spare time is for self-improvement.
There is an assumption that people actually want to visit obscure old churches while on holiday in the south of France, watch video BBC documentaries about global warming or book tickets for the latest Sam Beckett revival at the Barbican when in London. Being older and wiser means turning off the television when your favorite soap opera comes on, and retiring to the sofa or the bedroom to read a book instead. In Grown-up World, the thirty-something should have passed seamlessly through the “Let’s just get a cheap last-minute deal to Barcelona” phase and taken up picture-framing holidays in Tuscany instead. Not wishing to appear a complete dimwit, though, I do love doing many so-called cultured things, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I just wish some people would let their hair down and stop pretending once in a while.
My father for one, although socially educated and well-travelled, wouldn’t be seen dead at the opera. I once took him with me to Covent Garden. He fell asleep half way through act one, woke up just before the interval and missed the second bit trying to find the bar. His philosophy is simple: “Why spend your life pretending to know stuff you don’t?”
I agree. Grown-up parties – as opposed to drinking copious bottles of wine and talking about nothing in particular parties – can be terrifying. You have to spend the whole time feigning knowledge about politics when all you really want to talk about is who’s bonking who.
Entire areas of chitchat – the Israeli-Palestinian peace process, French grapes, the films of Ingmar Bergman – can be saved for more appropriate places such as funerals. I have been to too many a “do” where I would have preferred to have spent the night in the loo clutching a bottle of Tattinger instead.
Don’t get me wrong – I don’t actually want to be friends with some of these people. I’ve made that mistake in the past, most memorably with a guy who liked jazz. You know the type – builds his own turntable and flatly refuses to use his CD covers as beer mats. I do like jazz, but there’s love and there’s luurrve. He once forced me to go to a jazz gig and spent the entire night with his eyes closed in a semi-orgasmic state while tapping his fingers on the table top. Meanwhile, I spent my time wondering when the hell each tune might end. Jazz, in my opinion, would be greatly improved if each piece was limited to precisely four minutes.
The jazz fan told me on the way home that the trio were improvising – in other words they were making it up as they went along. But I’d already figured out that one for myself. I never saw him again.
Admit it: where would you rather be if you had the choice? Sitting on a wooden bench watching a modern dance workshop about the deforestation of South America or sitting in a hot bath with your partner drinking ice cold G&Ts?
Why do you think Stephen Hawking’s philosophical tour de force, “A Brief History of Time”, remains one of the greatest unread blockbusters in living memory? Or why annual membership of a Film Institute is like joining the gym? All those good intentions of watching obscure foreign films with subtitles soon evaporate, and before you know it, you’re back to buying pirated blockbusters from your local ‘peripteron’!
Sometimes I’m too exhausted after a day’s work to read the instructions on the side of a packet of pasta, let alone tackle a one-man rendition of “Under Milk Wood”. Surely I can’t be the only one?
Of course, if my parents hadn’t had to work so hard and late when I was growing up in London and I had more time to listen to classical music and go on watercolor courses in north Devon, maybe all this cultural stuff would have seemed more important to me. I would have known before the age of seven that “Le Nozze di Figaro” is not, in fact, a new ice cream with caramel topping and dark chocolate, and when I reached 30 all the highbrow stuff would have come back to me – in the same way that I can recite all the actors in “The Godfather”, except the good-looking one whose name I can never remember…
I’m not a complete culture-phobe, I just wish some people would relax a bit at “arty” events and not pretend to like things that they obviously don’t. I did hear of an American psychologist who discovered that for most people the urge to try anything new stalls at the age of 24. By the time we reach our mid-twenties, he argued, we think we know what we like and what we don’t, and are disinclined to budge. This makes perfect sense to me, and explains why you never see old people in sushi bars.
Personally, I think there should be a self-help group for people with culture phobia. People could meet in each others’ houses, drink gin and confess – “My name is Lulu and last night I watched ‘House series 4’ on satellite. The repeats. And yes I found it funny...
“No one will ever know,” a devilish Jack Nicholson sort of voice whispers in my ear. I force myself not to look for the bar. “Which would you rather have?” he whispers. “High culture or a Margarita?”
Hyperventilating a little, I just about make it to the first room of the exhibition. There are people everywhere, trying to look cultured and serious. The only sounds are whispers and a muffled shuffle of sensible shoes accompanied by the clicking of stilettos. Half of these people don’t even know what they are looking at and the other half are pretending… Meanwhile, I feel as though I’ve been injected with buffalo tranquillizer, and start looking for a seat – anywhere I might lie down for three hours until it’s acceptable to go home again.
It’s then that I remember why the last time I “did” art was at an exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery in London. At least there you don’t have to spend your time with a bunch of boring people pretending to like whatever has been hung on the wall.
There is a halcyon period in your twenties when you ignore any pretensions to clever stuff. You’re past the university project stage, and life is a merry-go-round between the pub and the wine bar. You’re too busy falling in love, falling into debt or falling over to care about the latest retrospective at the Tate. Then you become settled. You’ve got the partner, the mortgage, the job. The kitchen extension is finished. You’re all grown-up. Suddenly, spare time is for self-improvement.
There is an assumption that people actually want to visit obscure old churches while on holiday in the south of France, watch video BBC documentaries about global warming or book tickets for the latest Sam Beckett revival at the Barbican when in London. Being older and wiser means turning off the television when your favorite soap opera comes on, and retiring to the sofa or the bedroom to read a book instead. In Grown-up World, the thirty-something should have passed seamlessly through the “Let’s just get a cheap last-minute deal to Barcelona” phase and taken up picture-framing holidays in Tuscany instead. Not wishing to appear a complete dimwit, though, I do love doing many so-called cultured things, but there’s a time and a place for everything. I just wish some people would let their hair down and stop pretending once in a while.
My father for one, although socially educated and well-travelled, wouldn’t be seen dead at the opera. I once took him with me to Covent Garden. He fell asleep half way through act one, woke up just before the interval and missed the second bit trying to find the bar. His philosophy is simple: “Why spend your life pretending to know stuff you don’t?”
I agree. Grown-up parties – as opposed to drinking copious bottles of wine and talking about nothing in particular parties – can be terrifying. You have to spend the whole time feigning knowledge about politics when all you really want to talk about is who’s bonking who.
Entire areas of chitchat – the Israeli-Palestinian peace process, French grapes, the films of Ingmar Bergman – can be saved for more appropriate places such as funerals. I have been to too many a “do” where I would have preferred to have spent the night in the loo clutching a bottle of Tattinger instead.
Don’t get me wrong – I don’t actually want to be friends with some of these people. I’ve made that mistake in the past, most memorably with a guy who liked jazz. You know the type – builds his own turntable and flatly refuses to use his CD covers as beer mats. I do like jazz, but there’s love and there’s luurrve. He once forced me to go to a jazz gig and spent the entire night with his eyes closed in a semi-orgasmic state while tapping his fingers on the table top. Meanwhile, I spent my time wondering when the hell each tune might end. Jazz, in my opinion, would be greatly improved if each piece was limited to precisely four minutes.
The jazz fan told me on the way home that the trio were improvising – in other words they were making it up as they went along. But I’d already figured out that one for myself. I never saw him again.
Admit it: where would you rather be if you had the choice? Sitting on a wooden bench watching a modern dance workshop about the deforestation of South America or sitting in a hot bath with your partner drinking ice cold G&Ts?
Why do you think Stephen Hawking’s philosophical tour de force, “A Brief History of Time”, remains one of the greatest unread blockbusters in living memory? Or why annual membership of a Film Institute is like joining the gym? All those good intentions of watching obscure foreign films with subtitles soon evaporate, and before you know it, you’re back to buying pirated blockbusters from your local ‘peripteron’!
Sometimes I’m too exhausted after a day’s work to read the instructions on the side of a packet of pasta, let alone tackle a one-man rendition of “Under Milk Wood”. Surely I can’t be the only one?
Of course, if my parents hadn’t had to work so hard and late when I was growing up in London and I had more time to listen to classical music and go on watercolor courses in north Devon, maybe all this cultural stuff would have seemed more important to me. I would have known before the age of seven that “Le Nozze di Figaro” is not, in fact, a new ice cream with caramel topping and dark chocolate, and when I reached 30 all the highbrow stuff would have come back to me – in the same way that I can recite all the actors in “The Godfather”, except the good-looking one whose name I can never remember…
I’m not a complete culture-phobe, I just wish some people would relax a bit at “arty” events and not pretend to like things that they obviously don’t. I did hear of an American psychologist who discovered that for most people the urge to try anything new stalls at the age of 24. By the time we reach our mid-twenties, he argued, we think we know what we like and what we don’t, and are disinclined to budge. This makes perfect sense to me, and explains why you never see old people in sushi bars.
Personally, I think there should be a self-help group for people with culture phobia. People could meet in each others’ houses, drink gin and confess – “My name is Lulu and last night I watched ‘House series 4’ on satellite. The repeats. And yes I found it funny...
Thursday 4 November 2010
Saturday 30 October 2010
Truly, Madly, Deeply...
I knew it wouldn’t work, him and I. To begin with, his dress sense would be weird in public – all those skimpy loincloths and armor. But that didn’t stop me fantasizing. What is it about gladiators? Their reckless bravery, the sexual charge of survival against all odds?
You will of course be thinking Russell Crowe. Nice body, great special effects. But my admission is much more shameful – my gladiator was old enough to be Crowe’s father.
But then we are talking pre-pubescent passion here. I was about 11 when I first saw Spartacus. Kirk Douglas must have been pushing 40. If I press the right button in my memory I can still taste the excitement and hopeless longing of it all. Maybe you have similar memories? The first teenage crush that gets out of hand and threatens to drown you. A trial run for the adult experience. Sweet, terrible, obsessive love…
It all started in the front room of our house in London. When, at the end of his magnificent, doomed slave rebellion, Spartacus died on the cross, I cried for hours. Family legend has it that I was inconsolable.
When they repeated it again I cried from the opening credits – we’re talking a three-and-a-half-hour epic here – because I knew what was going to happen. My mother described it as high-voltage hysteria, but I loved every minute of it.
I didn’t see it as obsessive, of course. I probably didn’t even understand the word. But obsessive it was, in its own nauseous, teenage way. Within a week I had written a groveling letter to the film company, which duly sent me a set of stills from the movie. My room became a shrine to the doomed slave rebellion of 73BC.
I saw the movie a dozen times, until I knew Douglas’s scenes by heart. When I wasn’t watching it, I was reliving it. I sat in school daydreaming of Spartacus. I read and re-read the Howard Fast novel on which the film was based. At night I would fantasise about him in the cell where he was given a woman for the night, but is too chivalrous to touch her. “We’re not animals.” “Oh I don’t know, Kirk, I don’t mind.”
I wanted so bad to be Jean Simmons, his co-star, that for months I went to bed every night repeating over and over, “I have high cheekbones too”, because someone told me about the power of suggestion. Was anyone ever so young? It appears I was.
My passion seemed to last for ever. I think the corners on the photographs started to curl around the time Paul Weller tore into the early 1980s music culture, sweeping me and a generation of pre-pubescent girls with him. No false chivalry there.
Looking back, I feel a certain fondness for all that passion, all that lack of control. The sweet pain of unrequited obsessive love. Because that’s just what it was. A dress rehearsal for the real thing. A rite of passage as important as boys’ wet dreams.
By the time it passed I was exhausted and post-pubescent. If I couldn’t have sex with Kirk Douglas I could at least have sex with someone else. It’s a strange thing, obsessive love. On one level it’s a state to aspire to. Glamorous. Poetic. Dramatic. Technicolor – the stuff of art. While you probably wouldn’t want to end up under the 11:15 to St Petersburg, who hasn’t had just a touch of envy for Anna Karenina? Or wished to experience the kind of love affair where the voltage is so high you singe the world around you as you burn?
Except Anna was lucky in some ways – at least Vronsky loved her back, even if he couldn’t live up to it. But then, who can? That’s the built-in fault line of this kind of love. Where obsessive love is truly reciprocal it moves into another genre altogether.
Troilus and Cressida, Abelard and Heloise, Romeo and Juliet – not a lot of happy endings there. Equally obsessed, equally doomed.
In real life, of course, most of us experience the Mark II level. Not fatal but just as painful – the unrequited version. If you’ve ever been the object of it, you may hardly have noticed: the guy who doesn’t let up, the sad, even mad, idiot who can’t take a hint. An object of ridicule rather than tragedy.
When you are the one doing the loving it’s earth-shattering. Even the humiliation is epic. It’s not easy to admit to, even when time has grafted new skin over the wound. Writers, of course, have the art of fiction through which to process their experiences and those of others. Recognize any of the feelings in the following story?
“He was different from anyone she had ever met, a man of the world who had gone places and written about them. His eyes shone as he spoke of what he had seen and they continued shining when he looked at her. Understandably, perhaps, she mistook this glow for something special.
“After their second meeting they found themselves spending the evening together. One thing led to another, which in turn led to bed. Ask her now and she might admit it was a fairly routine coupling, certainly nothing registering on the Richter scale. But “it” must have happened afterwards.
“Maybe it came to her in her sleep, like Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Puck slipping through her window and staining her eyelids with the juice of some love drug so the first thing she sees when she wakes she adores. ‘Oh, Bottom, thou art transformed.’
“Obsession came upon her like an illness. Initially it was delirium. For the first few days she had trouble breathing, such was the sustained level of adrenaline. She could feel her own heart beating a base track to a million sappy love songs.
“It took a week for her euphoria to sour – something to do with how quiet the telephone was. She would pick it up occasionally to check the dialing tone.”
(The phone of course, is an exquisite instrument of torture in tales of contemporary obsessive love. If Tolstoy or Flaubert had them they would have written heartrending hymns to their cruel power. Imagine Madame Bovary’s relationship with a mobile – eat your heart out, Bridget Jones.)
“In the end, she broke down, called him and spoke to his answering machine, leaving a jaunty message – nothing heavy, no hint of obsession to put him off. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was away. Maybe he took it at face value. Whatever, he did not reply.
“She became mildly deranged, found excuses to drive down his road at strange hours. One night she dressed up and drove to his house. She parked nearby and spent an hour reading the street plan in the hope that he might see her and she could say she’d got lost looking for a party.
“Friends comforted, joked, became concerned and finally lost patience. It had – as one said to her – grown out of hand. Of course she knew that, knew that somehow she’d fallen victim to a capricious heart disease, though by now its symptoms were more like advanced emotional cystitis – all irritation and itch, with the very act of scratching bringing more pain than relief.
“She was moving from mania into decline when finally fate intervened. She was offered a job abroad and packed her illness in there with her clothes. But somewhere under different skies, meeting different people, the symptoms started to fade.
“When she returned, winter had turned to spring and none of the messages on her answering machine were from him. She sat in her living room and laughed before she cried, for there was loss as well as relief. She had left her job and bought a ticket to a continent she’d never visited. When she came back she wrote a novel about it. While it’s possible that none of these events were connected, she chose to believe that they were. But when you think you’re going to die, getting better is a serious as well as a joyful thing.”
The “she” of this story is not me, in case you were wondering, but she does come pretty close in many – mostly embarrassing – details. Reliving some of them for this column I was struck by how fresh their memory is, the taste of the pain unwithered by age or time…
You will of course be thinking Russell Crowe. Nice body, great special effects. But my admission is much more shameful – my gladiator was old enough to be Crowe’s father.
But then we are talking pre-pubescent passion here. I was about 11 when I first saw Spartacus. Kirk Douglas must have been pushing 40. If I press the right button in my memory I can still taste the excitement and hopeless longing of it all. Maybe you have similar memories? The first teenage crush that gets out of hand and threatens to drown you. A trial run for the adult experience. Sweet, terrible, obsessive love…
It all started in the front room of our house in London. When, at the end of his magnificent, doomed slave rebellion, Spartacus died on the cross, I cried for hours. Family legend has it that I was inconsolable.
When they repeated it again I cried from the opening credits – we’re talking a three-and-a-half-hour epic here – because I knew what was going to happen. My mother described it as high-voltage hysteria, but I loved every minute of it.
I didn’t see it as obsessive, of course. I probably didn’t even understand the word. But obsessive it was, in its own nauseous, teenage way. Within a week I had written a groveling letter to the film company, which duly sent me a set of stills from the movie. My room became a shrine to the doomed slave rebellion of 73BC.
I saw the movie a dozen times, until I knew Douglas’s scenes by heart. When I wasn’t watching it, I was reliving it. I sat in school daydreaming of Spartacus. I read and re-read the Howard Fast novel on which the film was based. At night I would fantasise about him in the cell where he was given a woman for the night, but is too chivalrous to touch her. “We’re not animals.” “Oh I don’t know, Kirk, I don’t mind.”
I wanted so bad to be Jean Simmons, his co-star, that for months I went to bed every night repeating over and over, “I have high cheekbones too”, because someone told me about the power of suggestion. Was anyone ever so young? It appears I was.
My passion seemed to last for ever. I think the corners on the photographs started to curl around the time Paul Weller tore into the early 1980s music culture, sweeping me and a generation of pre-pubescent girls with him. No false chivalry there.
Looking back, I feel a certain fondness for all that passion, all that lack of control. The sweet pain of unrequited obsessive love. Because that’s just what it was. A dress rehearsal for the real thing. A rite of passage as important as boys’ wet dreams.
By the time it passed I was exhausted and post-pubescent. If I couldn’t have sex with Kirk Douglas I could at least have sex with someone else. It’s a strange thing, obsessive love. On one level it’s a state to aspire to. Glamorous. Poetic. Dramatic. Technicolor – the stuff of art. While you probably wouldn’t want to end up under the 11:15 to St Petersburg, who hasn’t had just a touch of envy for Anna Karenina? Or wished to experience the kind of love affair where the voltage is so high you singe the world around you as you burn?
Except Anna was lucky in some ways – at least Vronsky loved her back, even if he couldn’t live up to it. But then, who can? That’s the built-in fault line of this kind of love. Where obsessive love is truly reciprocal it moves into another genre altogether.
Troilus and Cressida, Abelard and Heloise, Romeo and Juliet – not a lot of happy endings there. Equally obsessed, equally doomed.
In real life, of course, most of us experience the Mark II level. Not fatal but just as painful – the unrequited version. If you’ve ever been the object of it, you may hardly have noticed: the guy who doesn’t let up, the sad, even mad, idiot who can’t take a hint. An object of ridicule rather than tragedy.
When you are the one doing the loving it’s earth-shattering. Even the humiliation is epic. It’s not easy to admit to, even when time has grafted new skin over the wound. Writers, of course, have the art of fiction through which to process their experiences and those of others. Recognize any of the feelings in the following story?
“He was different from anyone she had ever met, a man of the world who had gone places and written about them. His eyes shone as he spoke of what he had seen and they continued shining when he looked at her. Understandably, perhaps, she mistook this glow for something special.
“After their second meeting they found themselves spending the evening together. One thing led to another, which in turn led to bed. Ask her now and she might admit it was a fairly routine coupling, certainly nothing registering on the Richter scale. But “it” must have happened afterwards.
“Maybe it came to her in her sleep, like Titania in A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Puck slipping through her window and staining her eyelids with the juice of some love drug so the first thing she sees when she wakes she adores. ‘Oh, Bottom, thou art transformed.’
“Obsession came upon her like an illness. Initially it was delirium. For the first few days she had trouble breathing, such was the sustained level of adrenaline. She could feel her own heart beating a base track to a million sappy love songs.
“It took a week for her euphoria to sour – something to do with how quiet the telephone was. She would pick it up occasionally to check the dialing tone.”
(The phone of course, is an exquisite instrument of torture in tales of contemporary obsessive love. If Tolstoy or Flaubert had them they would have written heartrending hymns to their cruel power. Imagine Madame Bovary’s relationship with a mobile – eat your heart out, Bridget Jones.)
“In the end, she broke down, called him and spoke to his answering machine, leaving a jaunty message – nothing heavy, no hint of obsession to put him off. Maybe he was busy. Maybe he was away. Maybe he took it at face value. Whatever, he did not reply.
“She became mildly deranged, found excuses to drive down his road at strange hours. One night she dressed up and drove to his house. She parked nearby and spent an hour reading the street plan in the hope that he might see her and she could say she’d got lost looking for a party.
“Friends comforted, joked, became concerned and finally lost patience. It had – as one said to her – grown out of hand. Of course she knew that, knew that somehow she’d fallen victim to a capricious heart disease, though by now its symptoms were more like advanced emotional cystitis – all irritation and itch, with the very act of scratching bringing more pain than relief.
“She was moving from mania into decline when finally fate intervened. She was offered a job abroad and packed her illness in there with her clothes. But somewhere under different skies, meeting different people, the symptoms started to fade.
“When she returned, winter had turned to spring and none of the messages on her answering machine were from him. She sat in her living room and laughed before she cried, for there was loss as well as relief. She had left her job and bought a ticket to a continent she’d never visited. When she came back she wrote a novel about it. While it’s possible that none of these events were connected, she chose to believe that they were. But when you think you’re going to die, getting better is a serious as well as a joyful thing.”
The “she” of this story is not me, in case you were wondering, but she does come pretty close in many – mostly embarrassing – details. Reliving some of them for this column I was struck by how fresh their memory is, the taste of the pain unwithered by age or time…
Friday 15 October 2010
Monday 11 October 2010
Sunday 3 October 2010
Wednesday 29 September 2010
L'amour
A colleague asked me today if I was still in love. All I could do was offer this: love is blind, love is relative, love doesn't let you pick, and love can be one of the most beautiful or most foul things in the world. We choose to believe. We've got to believe, because it matters so much to us. Take away the structure of it and then what? You get songs and poems and movies and stories about love gained, love lost, searching for love, looking for love. It's half biological function designed for two humans to stay together and raise children, half social construct, half part of the intangible matter of the universe...
Wednesday 15 September 2010
How to deal with Clingons
We all know people who get upset over life’s littlest hang-ups. They whine on and on about how people exist alongside them without even acknowledging their presence.
The degree of any such temperament determines how badly these people will try to leech off you emotionally before you have to reach for the shark repellent to fend them off.
Signs to look out for. The emotionally needy:
blame everyone else for their own mistakes. Zero responsibility: it’s so much easier to say that someone else made the wrong decision;
cannot move on when something ends, especially a relationship;
are incredibly selfish and clingy;
are unable to think ahead;
tell anyone who will listen how other people ignore them;
are incapable of taking charge in even simple tasks such as driving a car;
call their partner 20 or 30 times a day seeking absolution and justification for their actions.
There are so many signs, it would be too exhausting to list them all.
Emotionally needy people are selfish and suffer from an overdose of self-denial. They never stop moaning and offer every excuse under the sun to bang on about how incredibly hard life is for them. Like your own has been a stroll in the park!
The emotionally needy, as with the walking wounded, are alive but not well. If you are what is known as ‘a people person’ you are bound to know a few of them.
These people are economical with the truth. They lie about anything to anyone. It's their way of getting attention. It could be that they want to come across as more important or successful than they actually are, or to gain sympathy in order to create an attachment.
They will fib about all things, large and small. It gets to the point when the listener is loath to believe anything they say.
And they always resort to churning up some drama. It’s their way of saying “Look at me!” because, of course, that’s how they become the centre of attention.
If there’s nothing going on they will make something up. This can be done by starting rumours, sticking their noses in where they don’t belong, or ‘confiding’ a suspicion that may or may not have any basis in fact. Another way to do this is to act inappropriately and then rabbit on about it for days on end, boring others to death.
They will try to elbow their way into your life. They might blatantly ask to be invited to a lunch date that you have, even though they have never met the other person. They have no problem telling you that they want to come to an event they are clearly not a part of, like your son’s school play or ex-colleague’s BBQ. Or they may ask for your parents’ phone number, even though they’ve never met them.
These people continually refer to an alleged trauma from the past, and usually with a full audience present. It may just be the normal growing up stuff that we all went through, or a difficult friendship, but they still have to tell you how troubled they are by it.
They will replay and retell the same story for years without ever making any effort to resolve their feelings about that situation. The listener will generally show concern the first couple of times, before twigging that this is yet another attention-getting ploy.
They assume an inappropriately close relationship too soon. They are, after all, very needy, and are looking for someone to nurture those needs.
This is perhaps the most manipulative of their tools. If you show any sign of kindness, they will stick to you like glue and you will end up feeling as if you’re being suffocated. They will ‘open up’ to you, trying to create and affirm a bond by revealing dark secrets that quite frankly make you feel highly uncomfortable.
The emotionally needy are easy to spot but hard to shake off. The best thing you can do is stay alert at all times and exercise the utmost caution.
If you do become trapped by one of these people and can later extract yourself from the relationship, then run for the hills the first chance you get.
If you are tied to one of these people by family bonds, however, you must tread with caution. The best way to deal with them is to create an obvious and unmistakable distance while avoiding confrontation. They will eventually accept you don’t have time for them.
But if they do persist in looking to you to solve their emotional problems, let them know you are not equipped to deal with anything on that level, and suggest they get professional help instead.
And if all else fails, you can always change your phone number and announce on Facebook that you are leaving the country...
The degree of any such temperament determines how badly these people will try to leech off you emotionally before you have to reach for the shark repellent to fend them off.
Signs to look out for. The emotionally needy:
blame everyone else for their own mistakes. Zero responsibility: it’s so much easier to say that someone else made the wrong decision;
cannot move on when something ends, especially a relationship;
are incredibly selfish and clingy;
are unable to think ahead;
tell anyone who will listen how other people ignore them;
are incapable of taking charge in even simple tasks such as driving a car;
call their partner 20 or 30 times a day seeking absolution and justification for their actions.
There are so many signs, it would be too exhausting to list them all.
Emotionally needy people are selfish and suffer from an overdose of self-denial. They never stop moaning and offer every excuse under the sun to bang on about how incredibly hard life is for them. Like your own has been a stroll in the park!
The emotionally needy, as with the walking wounded, are alive but not well. If you are what is known as ‘a people person’ you are bound to know a few of them.
These people are economical with the truth. They lie about anything to anyone. It's their way of getting attention. It could be that they want to come across as more important or successful than they actually are, or to gain sympathy in order to create an attachment.
They will fib about all things, large and small. It gets to the point when the listener is loath to believe anything they say.
And they always resort to churning up some drama. It’s their way of saying “Look at me!” because, of course, that’s how they become the centre of attention.
If there’s nothing going on they will make something up. This can be done by starting rumours, sticking their noses in where they don’t belong, or ‘confiding’ a suspicion that may or may not have any basis in fact. Another way to do this is to act inappropriately and then rabbit on about it for days on end, boring others to death.
They will try to elbow their way into your life. They might blatantly ask to be invited to a lunch date that you have, even though they have never met the other person. They have no problem telling you that they want to come to an event they are clearly not a part of, like your son’s school play or ex-colleague’s BBQ. Or they may ask for your parents’ phone number, even though they’ve never met them.
These people continually refer to an alleged trauma from the past, and usually with a full audience present. It may just be the normal growing up stuff that we all went through, or a difficult friendship, but they still have to tell you how troubled they are by it.
They will replay and retell the same story for years without ever making any effort to resolve their feelings about that situation. The listener will generally show concern the first couple of times, before twigging that this is yet another attention-getting ploy.
They assume an inappropriately close relationship too soon. They are, after all, very needy, and are looking for someone to nurture those needs.
This is perhaps the most manipulative of their tools. If you show any sign of kindness, they will stick to you like glue and you will end up feeling as if you’re being suffocated. They will ‘open up’ to you, trying to create and affirm a bond by revealing dark secrets that quite frankly make you feel highly uncomfortable.
The emotionally needy are easy to spot but hard to shake off. The best thing you can do is stay alert at all times and exercise the utmost caution.
If you do become trapped by one of these people and can later extract yourself from the relationship, then run for the hills the first chance you get.
If you are tied to one of these people by family bonds, however, you must tread with caution. The best way to deal with them is to create an obvious and unmistakable distance while avoiding confrontation. They will eventually accept you don’t have time for them.
But if they do persist in looking to you to solve their emotional problems, let them know you are not equipped to deal with anything on that level, and suggest they get professional help instead.
And if all else fails, you can always change your phone number and announce on Facebook that you are leaving the country...
Friday 10 September 2010
Say Lah Vee
I have been disliked by many people. Perhaps some of this dislike may even have been justified, what with my multiple reported flaws. People I have met (and people I have never even been in the same room as) have found reason to dislike me, I have discovered.
And I’m really fine with that, in fact I’m very fine with that. Really, I am. I have long since realised that this is how the world works, how those people on it get around.
The practical reality of existing on a sphere full of people whose behaviour, feelings, opinions and words are largely influenced by ego, attitudes, fear, greed, insecurity and social programming is that there will always be those who find fault in someone else.
No matter how ‘nice’ we are, or how nice we try to be, people will always find (or perhaps create) a reason / rational explanation / justification for not liking someone else. And of course there will also be those amazing, incredible, positive people who will encourage, support and love you no matter what.
But remember this: compromise should not be an option for those who just want to be liked. That way, one may indeed end up being liked by others but also being loathed by oneself. And that way lies madness, sadness and badness.
You shouldn’t have to work at being popular; work at being yourself instead. This is a lot easier and requires far less energy and acting. Identify your core values, those things that are most important to you, and try to live a life in alignment with them.
And I’m really fine with that, in fact I’m very fine with that. Really, I am. I have long since realised that this is how the world works, how those people on it get around.
The practical reality of existing on a sphere full of people whose behaviour, feelings, opinions and words are largely influenced by ego, attitudes, fear, greed, insecurity and social programming is that there will always be those who find fault in someone else.
No matter how ‘nice’ we are, or how nice we try to be, people will always find (or perhaps create) a reason / rational explanation / justification for not liking someone else. And of course there will also be those amazing, incredible, positive people who will encourage, support and love you no matter what.
But remember this: compromise should not be an option for those who just want to be liked. That way, one may indeed end up being liked by others but also being loathed by oneself. And that way lies madness, sadness and badness.
You shouldn’t have to work at being popular; work at being yourself instead. This is a lot easier and requires far less energy and acting. Identify your core values, those things that are most important to you, and try to live a life in alignment with them.
If you can do this, you are being your authentic self rather than trying to satisfy somebody else’s needs, expectations, values, demands and rules. When your decisions and behaviour reflect your core life values, you will be able to live a life of synergy, harmony and contentment. The ‘need’ to be liked will be a non-issue.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
Thursday 9 September 2010
Here comes the bride ... there goes my dosh
Let’s admit it – we all love a good wedding. In Cyprus, though, our big fat Greek weddings are anything but enjoyable. Standing in a sweaty queue, dressed to the nines in my vintage kitten heels, just to exchange an envelope full of money for a piece of crusty cake isn’t my idea of a great wedding bash. The best wedding ‘do’s’ I’ve ever been to have been in London, Ireland and Italy, but even there, other people’s wedded bliss doesn’t come cheap. And according to a friend of mine who is single and therefore a popular ‘wedding guest’, other people’s matrimony can damage your savings account quite severely.
Weddings in England have become a lot more than somewhere where you don your best outfit and shimmy to crap pop music with utter impunity. Marriage is certainly back in vogue, with experts claiming the rush of celebrities tying the knot has convinced young couples that marriage is cool. But the downside to all of this is that weddings are an expensive business – and these days not just for the happy couple, either. Everything from the hen party to the bash itself has become a lavish production for which guests are also expected to fork out. An evening reception at the local golf club is now a four-day stay at a Scottish castle, a John Lewis kettle is now a Le Creuset casserole dish, and an M&S shift dress is now a Marc Jacobs frock.
Take the hen do. Forget the good old-fashioned piss-up in a nightclub. Even in London they have now become weekend breaks in manor houses, and New York shopping sprees and European city breaks are also ‘de rigueur’. Forget cheap flights – think about the cost of the hotel and the fact that you’ll spend your precious weekend trapped with a bunch of hens with whom you may not have anything in common, especially their 80k salaries. Keeping up with the City high fliers or aristo toffs is no joke when drinking and dining ‘en masse’ in London.
Then there are the wedding lists. One friend desperately scanned a particularly highfalutin list only to find the cheapest pressie was 68 quid for a serving spoon! Even having a starring role in the wedding can be a backhanded privilege. Ellen, a friend of mine in London, recently was looking forward to her American debut as a bridesmaid. Then she discovered that her Vera Wang ensemble was going to set her back 320 pounds – and that was after she paid for her return flight to Charleston, South Carolina. Particularly galling when you consider that it’s unlikely that she’ll have much reason to wear an organza wrap, silver faille bustier and ankle-length A-line skirt again in the near future (unless she wears it to her own wedding when she finally finds a husband...).
Meanwhile, there’s the fact that the Big Day can actually turn into a Big Week. Her Charleston experience apparently started with an Oyster Roast plus steel band and fireworks display. This was followed by a formal rehearsal dinner for 100, then the beach day with the wedding ceremony, grand buffet and live band in the evening. The finale was a prawns ’n grits Sunday brunch! Even in Britain, what was once a day out is now at least two nights away in a B&B. Whatever happened to Gretna Green? I complain about the cake and envelope dos in Cyprus, but judging by Ellen’s stories she’s become a full-blown wedding tourist. Travelling miles for love: other people’s, that is.
Despite all this complaining, I have to admit that I get invited to lots of weddings too (a few too many, judging by my empty bank account). I get invited to lots here (which I rarely go to as they are a complete farce) and in London, which is weird, considering that my recurring conversation-halting mix-up is to refer to weddings as funerals. As in ‘I had so much fun dancing to Abba at Uncle Tom’s funeral.’ Freudian, or what?
Mind you, there are similarities between the two. As with funerals, you can’t refuse a wedding invitation. Like Six Feet Under, they’re both essential viewing. No-shows are a no-no. This seems to me the only advantage of getting wed – I mean, how often do you actually succeed in gathering ALL your friends in one place to celebrate YOU? Next time it happens they’ll be dribbling sherry and you’ll be dead. I myself almost faked a wedding just to get a full house for my 21st, though in the end I settled for something close to pretty normal and I ended celebrating on my own in a hotel in the Carribbean (that's another story)...
The good news is that in London, and I hope that the Mediterraneans will follow suit soon, the big wedding backlash seems to have started and the new cool thing is to eschew the super-hyped bonanzas in favour of heartfelt lo-fi dos. I recently attended a ‘back to basics’ affair in a room above a pub which was great, and the sentiments were just as moving as those at a big bash. But the truth is, since I have sworn I would never do it again myself, I prefer to be a bystander at the more spectacular affairs – money aside. It’s rather like being a football fan, in that you don’t have to play the game to love it.
Saturday 4 September 2010
Friday 3 September 2010
Wednesday 1 September 2010
It’s hard work being a grown-up - Lou dedicates this to all her hard working grown-up friends...
To do something well you have to like it. “Do what you love.” But it’s not enough just to tell people that. Doing what you love can be complicated.
The very idea is foreign to what most of us learn as children. When I was small, it seemed as if work and fun were opposites by definition. Life was split into two parts: some of the time adults were making you do things, and that was called work; the rest of the time you could do what you wanted, and that was called play. Occasionally the things adults made you do were fun, just as, occasionally, playing wasn’t — if you fell and hurt yourself, for example. But work was pretty much defined as not-fun.
S
chool, it was implied, was tedious because it was preparation for grown-up work. The world then was divided into two groups, grown-ups and children. Grown-ups, like some kind of cursed race, had to work. Kids didn’t, but they did have to go to school, which was a diluted version of work meant to prepare us for the real thing. Much as we disliked school, the grown-ups all agreed that grown-up work was worse and that we had it easy. Teachers in particular all seemed to believe implicitly that work was not
fun. This is not surprising, since I’m sure work wasn’t fun for most of them. Why did we have to memorise King Henry’s six wives, instead of playing hockey? For the same reason they had to watch over a group of children instead of lying on a beach. You couldn’t just do what you wanted.
fun. This is not surprising, since I’m sure work wasn’t fun for most of them. Why did we have to memorise King Henry’s six wives, instead of playing hockey? For the same reason they had to watch over a group of children instead of lying on a beach. You couldn’t just do what you wanted.I’m not saying we should just let children do what they want. They may have to be made to focus on certain things. But if we make them work on uninspiring tasks, it might be wise to tell them that tediousness is not the defining quality of work, and indeed that the reason they have to work on the boring stuff now is so they can work on more interesting and exciting things later in life.
When I was 9 or 10, my father told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up, as long as I enjoyed it. I remember that precisely because it seemed so anomalous. It was like being told to use dry water. Whatever I thought he meant, I didn't think he meant work could literally be fun — fun like playing. It took me years to grasp that.
By senior school, the prospect of an actual job was on the horizon. Adults would sometimes come to speak to us about their work, or we would go to see them at work. It was always understood that they enjoyed what they did.
The main rea
son they all acted as if they enjoyed their work was presumably the upper-middle class convention that you’re supposed to. It would not merely be bad for your career to say that you despised your job, it would also be a grave social faux-pas.
son they all acted as if they enjoyed their work was presumably the upper-middle class convention that you’re supposed to. It would not merely be bad for your career to say that you despised your job, it would also be a grave social faux-pas. Why is it conventional to pretend to like what you do? The first sentence of this posting explains that. If you have to like something to do it well, then the most successful people will all like what they do.
That’s where the upper-middle class tradition kicks in. Just as houses all over England are full of chairs that are, unbeknown to their owners, imitations of chairs designed more than 100 years previously for European royalty, conventional attitudes about work are, without the owners even knowing it, imitations of the attitudes of people who have done great things.
What a recipe for alienation. By the time they are old enough to think about what they would like to do, most children have been thoroughly misled about the idea of loving one’s work. School has trained them to regard work as an unpleasant duty. Having a job is said to be even more onerous than homework. And yet all adults claim to like what they do. You can’t blame children for thinking “I am not like these people; I am not suited to this world.”
Actually they’ve been told three lies: the stuff they have been taught to regard as work in school is not real work; grown-up work is not (necessarily) worse than schoolwork; and many of the adults around them are lying when they say they like what they do.
The most dangerous liars can be the child’s own parents. If you take a boring job to give your family a high standard of living, as so many people do, you risk infecting your kids with the idea that work is boring. Maybe it would be better for children in this case if parents were not so unselfish. A parent who sets an example of loving his or her work might be of more use to the kids than an over-priced house.
It was not until further education that the idea of work finally broke free from the idea of making a living. Then the important question became not how to make money. The definition of work was transformed into how to make an original contribution to the world, and in the process not to starve. But after so many years my idea of work still includes a large component of pain. Work still seems to require discipline, because only hard problems yield big results, and hard problems literally cannot be fun. One has to force oneself to work on them.
How much are you supposed to like what you do? Unless you know that, you don’t know when to stop searching. And if, like most people, you underestimate it, you’ll tend to stop searching too early. You’ll either end up doing something chosen for you by your parents or the desire to make money and prestige — or end up wallowing in sheer inertia.
Sunday 29 August 2010
1,001 Things every woman should know…
Dressing your age...
Being over 30 is fantastic and it doesn't mean you can't follow trends and be fashionable. Here are some basic tips and advice so you can keep on looking great…
Age before beauty
It's the modern fashionista's dilemma. Ever-eclectic fashion means there are fewer rules and regulations as to what we can wear, yet in an otherwise anything-goes era, age remains a strict style divider. However open-minded we are where trends are concerned, there are still prejudices about what looks good depending on how old you look.
Updated classics
There's no reason why you should replace your creative style with mumsy-wear. On reaching your thirties, you tend to choose quality over one-season high-street buys and better earning power means you can afford to splurge on classics. In the wake of logo-mania, luxury labels have become trendy, which in turn means the signature pieces of high-end brands demand cult status. The Burberry trench coat and Hermès's Birkin bag are coveted by style setters young and old. While Kate Moss works the (albeit bashed up) Birkin bag with panache, '60s actress Jane Birkin looks elegantly youthful in a fitted trench. The key to adding a quirky twist is to search for the seasonal updates. If Chanel's quilted handbag seems too grown up, consider its modern incarnation in denim or bubblegum-pink leather.
Toon time
Luckily, designers of luxury items are making things easier by including kooky details in their upmarket wares. Case in point is the Louis Vuitton link-up with artist Takashi Murakami. If an unknown label had designed these cartoon-emblazoned bags they may have been deemed far too wacky, but the heritage of Louis Vuitton makes them highly covetable. Similarly, younger designers known for their sleek style are dabbling in humorous details. Both Markus Lupfer whose grown-up garments ooze sophistication and Helmut Lang have experimented with cartoon graphics. Lang's sweatshirts have a super-sized Felix the cat motif emblazoned on the front, while Cartoon Network's Powerpuff Girls are printed in glorious technicolour on Lupfer's ladylike dresses. What's essential is quality and simplicity. While any old Felix tee might look grungy and therefore too young, the same character on an expensive fabric that's well cut is, ironically, so much more acceptable. Simple shapes let the print speak for itself, whereas a fussier outfit can look as though it's trying too hard.
Less is more
With retro-chic the toned-down approach comes into play even more. Fifties-style winkle pickers, quiffs and prom skirts are all great items, but when they are worn one at a time your own individuality is more likely to stand out. This theory is best proven in the success of Marc Jacobs. His designs are popular with customers of all ages because his version of retro-chic is mixed up so you can't easily pinpoint the references. If you do the same with your best-loved pieces, you can't help but create a unique style of your own.
Age before beauty
It's the modern fashionista's dilemma. Ever-eclectic fashion means there are fewer rules and regulations as to what we can wear, yet in an otherwise anything-goes era, age remains a strict style divider. However open-minded we are where trends are concerned, there are still prejudices about what looks good depending on how old you look.
Updated classics
There's no reason why you should replace your creative style with mumsy-wear. On reaching your thirties, you tend to choose quality over one-season high-street buys and better earning power means you can afford to splurge on classics. In the wake of logo-mania, luxury labels have become trendy, which in turn means the signature pieces of high-end brands demand cult status. The Burberry trench coat and Hermès's Birkin bag are coveted by style setters young and old. While Kate Moss works the (albeit bashed up) Birkin bag with panache, '60s actress Jane Birkin looks elegantly youthful in a fitted trench. The key to adding a quirky twist is to search for the seasonal updates. If Chanel's quilted handbag seems too grown up, consider its modern incarnation in denim or bubblegum-pink leather.
Toon time
Luckily, designers of luxury items are making things easier by including kooky details in their upmarket wares. Case in point is the Louis Vuitton link-up with artist Takashi Murakami. If an unknown label had designed these cartoon-emblazoned bags they may have been deemed far too wacky, but the heritage of Louis Vuitton makes them highly covetable. Similarly, younger designers known for their sleek style are dabbling in humorous details. Both Markus Lupfer whose grown-up garments ooze sophistication and Helmut Lang have experimented with cartoon graphics. Lang's sweatshirts have a super-sized Felix the cat motif emblazoned on the front, while Cartoon Network's Powerpuff Girls are printed in glorious technicolour on Lupfer's ladylike dresses. What's essential is quality and simplicity. While any old Felix tee might look grungy and therefore too young, the same character on an expensive fabric that's well cut is, ironically, so much more acceptable. Simple shapes let the print speak for itself, whereas a fussier outfit can look as though it's trying too hard.
Less is more
With retro-chic the toned-down approach comes into play even more. Fifties-style winkle pickers, quiffs and prom skirts are all great items, but when they are worn one at a time your own individuality is more likely to stand out. This theory is best proven in the success of Marc Jacobs. His designs are popular with customers of all ages because his version of retro-chic is mixed up so you can't easily pinpoint the references. If you do the same with your best-loved pieces, you can't help but create a unique style of your own.
Till death us do part?
We all had our opinions about the marriage of Prince Charles and Camilla Parker Bowles all those years ago, but if you were female and over 35, it can’t have failed to have lifted your spirits. And I’m not going on about the enduring love thing. I’m talking about the miracle of an older woman registering on anyone’s sexual radar, let alone snapping up a chap with his own duchy. On the one hand there is Sharon Osborne, 58, always raving on about how a face-lift has turned her life around. On the other, there is Mrs. Parker Bowles, now 62, bon viveuse, a woman who doesn’t look a minute younger than she is, has hit the jackpot without so much as a glycolic acid peel.
Still, we have all been so conditioned to believe that fortune only favours the young; we can’t help but think of their union as a shadow of the youthful equivalent. What we haven’t stopped to consider are the advantages of tying the knot later in life. Once you do, you see that the late-life marriage (LLM) has more going for it than you might imagine. For example, there’s the baby factor. It’s well known that young children put a huge strain on a relationship, as do children from previous marriages. With LLM, there is no question of babies, and those who exist are grown-up and gone. This also means the couple can concentrate on each other and their own pleasures, which brings us to sex – another area where fiftysomethings score higher. They may not be as acrobatic as they once were, but they are less likely to be suffering from room spin, exhaustion (from the acrobatics), fear of getting pregnant or the physical complexes that plague everyone under 40, regardless of how good they look naked.
Fiftysomethings are usually way past caring what other people think. They are less likely to be on a diet and more likely to have stopped beating themselves up about their parenting skills, achievements or inability to give up smoking. They are also better off financially, have less stresses and are inclined to believe that attractions pass – and that there is no substitute for someone who is sympathetic about your bad back.
In turn, this means that, in general, they fight less and don’t fall out when they are on holiday – a crisis point in many marriages. The LLM has realistic expectations of its two weeks in the sun or snow, and each of the couple is happy to let the other do their own thing – unlike younger couples, who imagine endless beer and sex (him), and romantic swimming clinches (her).
The best thing about the LLM, however, is that it eliminates the ‘looking over the fence’ factor. A marriage is 100% safe only when it has past the point where starting afresh is a realistic possibility. If you plight your troth in your late fifties, you know you’re both signing up for the duration, and the pressure to keep your wits about you, your tummy firm and your undies fragrant is off. Sounds like heaven, now I wonder if I should go for duck-egg blue or black?
Saturday 28 August 2010
Me Parents
Being a parent can be a real obsession. Everyone has a view, a documentary or even a book. A friend of mine who felt she was far from being a yummy mummy – who calls herself a sloppy mummy, which I prefer and is also a category I probably fall into – was given a book recently called Making Happy People: The Nature of Happiness and its Origins in Childhood!
This book identifies what it calls four parenting types – authoritative, authoritarian, indulgent and uninvolved. According to Mr Martin, “authoritative” is the category that makes for happy children, while the rest are a disaster.
But I feel that the author fails to emphasize the most damaging approach of all – me-parenting. Me-parents can be authoritarian, indulgent and uninvolved, but never authoritative, all in the space of a day.
There is just one consistent rule of me-parenting, and it is this: the parents always come first. Me-parents want to be a best friend to their children, they rarely refuse them anything, and they shy away from conflict.
They read this as being liberal and non-authoritarian – ie, in the child’s best interests – when the bottom line is really all about themselves. Putting a screaming toddler to bed on time doesn’t make you feel half as good as letting your progeny curl up in front of a DVD of Toy Story with a bar of chocolate – and it’s way more time-consuming, too.
Feeling loved, needed and comfortable is the first priority of the me-parent. A single whisper of “Mummy, I love you” guarantees a gooey feeling of maternal compliance.
Me-parents have never denied themselves anything, or done anything that could be construed as self-sacrificing – unless you count Pilates – so they are certainly not best-equipped to pass on the basics. Me-mummy parks wherever she likes, shouts at the maid, and refuses to take criticism from her children’s teachers – and Junior absorbs it all like a sponge.
But the discipline issue is merely the tip of the iceberg. Me-parenting means assuming that whatever is best for you is also best for your child – that high-pace working life you thrive on, exotic holidays and late-night parties at which all the mums dance with their four-year-olds.
...The child of the me-parent is expected to be a rewarding hobby and an expression of his or her parents’ life philosophy. Pretentious names, precocious behavior, highlighted hair (at four?) and offbeat designer clothes are all things that make it harder for the kid in the playground – but are more interesting for the me-parent.
When the children get older, even more fun awaits. An excellent example of me-parenting – recently cited by many teenage girls in the western world as a cause of their unhappiness – is the tendency for mothers to seek advice from their daughters.
“Do you think dying my hair blonde will make me more attractive to men?” is the sort of question the poor girls get asked while me-mum is opening her Mother’s Day card. And they say we had it tough when we were young
1,001 things every woman should know...
1,001 things every woman should know…
Why is Guinness black?
It’s not. It’s a deep, ruby red because its malted barley is roasted before brewing (turning it dark red). But it’s so dark that the creaminess of the head makes it look black. So how come the head’s so white, then? Guinness taps have a special widget in them that releases nitrogen into the beer as it is poured, creating tiny bubbles. This, combined with the pressure of the tap, gives the head its ‘whipped’ texture.
Why is Guinness black?
It’s not. It’s a deep, ruby red because its malted barley is roasted before brewing (turning it dark red). But it’s so dark that the creaminess of the head makes it look black. So how come the head’s so white, then? Guinness taps have a special widget in them that releases nitrogen into the beer as it is poured, creating tiny bubbles. This, combined with the pressure of the tap, gives the head its ‘whipped’ texture.
Friday 27 August 2010
Thursday 26 August 2010
Tips from a married lady (part three): trigger control
Men are not attracted to women who let their emotions control their interactions. This is especially true when women act needy or overly sensitive to anything a man does or says. Overly needy women will never figure out how to get to that fun, playful, risky and passionate state with a man that takes his mind close to thinking “long-term girlfriend material”.
So why don’t men like women who are overly emotional? Because men never feel attraction for women they can control. The more control a man has over you, the less attraction he feels for you. The less of a challenge you are, and the more predictable you become, the less attraction he feels.
It’s very simple. To put it another way; if you are the type of woman who lets her emotions take over, then you need to learn how to “own” them. If you don’t, you’re going to have a very hard time succeeding with men after a date or two.
The first step in learning how to own your strong emotions is to realise how they’re created or triggered. Most strong feelings are sudden detonations. Something happens that pushes a button inside you, and Bang! Emotion floods in before you even have a chance to think about it. But the fact is that such triggers have a structure to them. All kinds of little things happen during a trigger moment. One of the greatest insights I’ve had about these triggers is that they are usually caused by making something that happens mean something negative. In other words, it’s not the actual situation itself that pulls the trigger or pushes the button... it’s what you think it means.
For example, let’s say that you’ve met a great guy, gone on a few amazing dates, and then he wasn’t as quick to call you and make plans as he was at the very start. You wait a day or two, and he still doesn’t call. What do you usually think if this happens? “Maybe he doesn’t like me... Maybe he has a woman. Maybe he’s trying to avoid me. Maybe he’s withdrawing like those other guys did in the past...” We make the fact that he hasn’t called mean all these different things.
Another major insight I’ve had in this area is that women allow their imaginations to take over and imagine the worst possible outcomes. Then they get nervous about that outcome actually happening and freak out. The point is that most of us (women as well as men) use our minds to imagine the worst possible outcomes for dating and relationship situations... and it pushes all the wrong buttons, getting us all nervous and upset. Which, of course, makes us screw everything up.
When it comes to men, it’s important that you lose the need to make everything mean something... and stop imagining the worst. Think about those situations when a man doesn’t call you back... or plays hard to get. Yeah, thinking that someone is playing games sucks, but the belief that there’s a “game” going on is exactly the kind of negative meaning I’m talking about. If you immediately start to wonder where he is... what he might be doing, and who he’s with, you create the game in your own mind. Then you make pictures in your brain of him with other women, doing fun things without you, and it’s really upsetting. Bad idea. this is the kind of thing that makes us do all kinds of stupid things that scare the other person away... like calling him 100 times a day, asking where he was and what he was doing.
Instead, start doing yourself a favour and visualise your ideal outcome, and make positive meaning out of the experience for yourself. If he doesn’t call you back right away, imagine that he is freaked out with his own life and schedule (maybe his boss just threatened to let him go...), and make it mean that when he finally does talk to you, he’s going to be even more interested because it took you so long to catch up with each other.
If he tells you he’s not ready for a relationship right now because of his past, realise that he’s first of all feeling that way because he really likes you and has had to think about being in a relationship because his feelings are so strong. He’s probably scared of his deep feelings for you and doesn’t know how to deal with that yet. Once he figures it out for himself, he’ll miss you and want you... and you don’t have to be there waiting around for him to grow up. There’s nothing wrong with you or how you are. And it’s great that you got to see this problem of his early on, and that it’s his to deal with.
Does all this sound strange? Let me tell you something: all of the women I know who end up in great long-term relationships, with great attractive men think this way. This is their mindset.
Have you ever noticed that confident people seem to get more confident? That optimistic people tend to become more optimistic? That people who believe in luck seem to get luckier? And that people who are negative become more and more negative?
It’s like a universal magic. The more we expect things to go well, the better they go. Try it — it works. Start noticing those particular situations that trigger your strong negative emotions. Learn to spot the warning signs, and then learn how to keep yourself cantered. If you can learn how to do this, the quality of your relationships will improve dramatically. Especially with men. But this is only the tip of the iceberg. It’s also important to learn how to improve your self-image, overcome fear, maintain your emotional and physical attractiveness, and communicate using your truest indicator of desirability to a man — your body language.
Then you can learn how to learn, grow and stay connected with a man.
So why don’t men like women who are overly emotional? Because men never feel attraction for women they can control. The more control a man has over you, the less attraction he feels for you. The less of a challenge you are, and the more predictable you become, the less attraction he feels.
It’s very simple. To put it another way; if you are the type of woman who lets her emotions take over, then you need to learn how to “own” them. If you don’t, you’re going to have a very hard time succeeding with men after a date or two.
The first step in learning how to own your strong emotions is to realise how they’re created or triggered. Most strong feelings are sudden detonations. Something happens that pushes a button inside you, and Bang! Emotion floods in before you even have a chance to think about it. But the fact is that such triggers have a structure to them. All kinds of little things happen during a trigger moment. One of the greatest insights I’ve had about these triggers is that they are usually caused by making something that happens mean something negative. In other words, it’s not the actual situation itself that pulls the trigger or pushes the button... it’s what you think it means.
For example, let’s say that you’ve met a great guy, gone on a few amazing dates, and then he wasn’t as quick to call you and make plans as he was at the very start. You wait a day or two, and he still doesn’t call. What do you usually think if this happens? “Maybe he doesn’t like me... Maybe he has a woman. Maybe he’s trying to avoid me. Maybe he’s withdrawing like those other guys did in the past...” We make the fact that he hasn’t called mean all these different things.
Another major insight I’ve had in this area is that women allow their imaginations to take over and imagine the worst possible outcomes. Then they get nervous about that outcome actually happening and freak out. The point is that most of us (women as well as men) use our minds to imagine the worst possible outcomes for dating and relationship situations... and it pushes all the wrong buttons, getting us all nervous and upset. Which, of course, makes us screw everything up.
When it comes to men, it’s important that you lose the need to make everything mean something... and stop imagining the worst. Think about those situations when a man doesn’t call you back... or plays hard to get. Yeah, thinking that someone is playing games sucks, but the belief that there’s a “game” going on is exactly the kind of negative meaning I’m talking about. If you immediately start to wonder where he is... what he might be doing, and who he’s with, you create the game in your own mind. Then you make pictures in your brain of him with other women, doing fun things without you, and it’s really upsetting. Bad idea. this is the kind of thing that makes us do all kinds of stupid things that scare the other person away... like calling him 100 times a day, asking where he was and what he was doing.
Instead, start doing yourself a favour and visualise your ideal outcome, and make positive meaning out of the experience for yourself. If he doesn’t call you back right away, imagine that he is freaked out with his own life and schedule (maybe his boss just threatened to let him go...), and make it mean that when he finally does talk to you, he’s going to be even more interested because it took you so long to catch up with each other.
If he tells you he’s not ready for a relationship right now because of his past, realise that he’s first of all feeling that way because he really likes you and has had to think about being in a relationship because his feelings are so strong. He’s probably scared of his deep feelings for you and doesn’t know how to deal with that yet. Once he figures it out for himself, he’ll miss you and want you... and you don’t have to be there waiting around for him to grow up. There’s nothing wrong with you or how you are. And it’s great that you got to see this problem of his early on, and that it’s his to deal with.
Does all this sound strange? Let me tell you something: all of the women I know who end up in great long-term relationships, with great attractive men think this way. This is their mindset.
Have you ever noticed that confident people seem to get more confident? That optimistic people tend to become more optimistic? That people who believe in luck seem to get luckier? And that people who are negative become more and more negative?
It’s like a universal magic. The more we expect things to go well, the better they go. Try it — it works. Start noticing those particular situations that trigger your strong negative emotions. Learn to spot the warning signs, and then learn how to keep yourself cantered. If you can learn how to do this, the quality of your relationships will improve dramatically. Especially with men. But this is only the tip of the iceberg. It’s also important to learn how to improve your self-image, overcome fear, maintain your emotional and physical attractiveness, and communicate using your truest indicator of desirability to a man — your body language.
Then you can learn how to learn, grow and stay connected with a man.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
Tips from a married lady (part two): drama nausea
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Have you ever heard a woman (or a man) say “I can’t help the way I feel”? Of course you have. We’ve even got terms we use to describe when we’re overly upset and just need to “get it out”. You can call it venting or dumping. I call it “drama nausea”.
So here’s my point. Is it OK it to be upset, to get emotional and to show exactly how you feel inside with a man? You create what you share to make things simple, so let's file emotions under two categories...
First, there are those you might call positive emotions or those based on joy. And then there are negative emotions, those based on fear. In other words, there are the emotions that make you feel good and emotions that make you feel bad. We all know that emotions are not self-contained. Isn’t it frustrating when you feel angry or down and all you want is the man to listen to you... but then he gets all wrapped up and intense just because you wanted to share?
If you’ve ever had this happen to you and you got frustrated or angry, then you have something important to learn: emotions are contagious. In other words, when you feel an emotion you can very easily pass what you’re feeling on to the person you’re sharing it with. And the stronger the emotion, the more it will over-ride the other person and get them on your emotional level. Even if their level is constructive and positive and yours is destructive and negative.
And when an emotion starts to become too strong, it literally takes over your mind and body. Then you’re driven by body language and your words to share that feeling. In some situations, this can be a very powerful and positive thing. Imagine your favourite actor or singer giving a world-class performance... you can literally sense the same emotions she or he is feeling. Or how about when a man surprises you with a romantic night with candle-light and he’s open, connected and sharing himself with you?
It can be an amazing experience when men allow their emotions to take over. And you get to go there with them. But it can also be a very powerful negative thing. Have you ever spent time with a guy and he became less connected to you as you became more connected to him? It probably made you so nervous, anxious and out of control that you made yourself sick. When an emotion becomes so strong that it actually “becomes” you, your behaviour and your sole motivation... then you are definitely out of control.
Emotions can actually trick you into trying to control others, just to get back to where you feel comfortable. And instead of simply communicating what it is that you’re going through and what you want, you actually try and make the other person feel the bad things that you feel. Ouch. And sure, the short-term payoff for this is usually some sense of immediate relief or resolution. You get your feelings off your chest and get to release them, which can feel great at the time. But the long-term effects are not so sunny. So let me ask this: what if your quality of life and your relationships could be better than the negative emotions and fears that hijack your mind? What if you made a man feel a deep sense of love instead of sharing the contagious negative emotions that arise from your fears?
And what if you broke out of those same old patterns that keep happening again and again? Fear and the unconscious power of emotions — strong emotions — create strong memories. We tend to remember things better if we were feeling a strong emotion at the time, especially if the memory came during or after an intense emotion.
I can remember so many situations in my life when I was dating and was too nervous and afraid to share myself completely. So I kept one foot outside the door and I’d never say much about what I really wanted and needed in a relationship. It was my secret excuse and my way of staying unhappy so I didn’t have to fully commit to creating a great life with a man and take any responsibility for my own experience or for his. I still vividly remember situations more than 15 years ago in which I was so nervous and uncomfortable when a relationship became serious that the emotion literally seared the image onto my mind. When this kind of thing happens often, as it has with me, it starts to create a feedback loop. In other words, most of the strong memories I have about relationships with men were situations when I screwed up and made myself feel unhappy, unheard and uncomfortable. This meant I had less and less comfort and confidence as the years went by, and could never feel happy in a long-term relationship.
Give me a nod here if you know what I’m talking about. The “emotional attraction” that makes a woman addicted to being close to a man. I’m sure you’ve already figured out that I’m going to suggest that you learn how to “own” your emotions in situations with men. Let me talk for a moment about the reasons why it is so important to do this. Remember, when it comes to attraction, all so-called logic changes. You have to stop thinking about what you think you’ve learned about being “in touch” with your emotions and realise that a man’s attraction isn’t triggered by you being everything that you feel.That’s a nice fairy tale, but it’s a lie. Your friends, your parents and your girlfriends might give you unconditional love and understanding in this way, but men won’t start to feel love, passion and connection with you if you’re playing out all the things you feel with him.
You need to learn how to own your emotions around men: if your emotions own you early on, you probably won’t even be able to talk to him or date in the fun and spontaneous way that men crave. You’ll just be too freaked out even to get to the good stuff with him.
Tuesday 24 August 2010
Thursday 19 August 2010
Thursday 5 August 2010
Wonder Woman: The Unfair Sex...
Every fashion event, as anyone who works in the fashion world will know, whether it is the London Fashion Week itself, or one of the post-show parties, is usually filled with bitchiness of the highest degree…
One of the things you must try ‘not’ to talk about at these places is your diet. I was caught recently at one of these parties stuffing a calorie-packed dessert down my throat in front of a well-known London socialite (who obviously spends most of the year ‘not’ eating) and was given the deadliest of jealous stares. This, as every woman who does not spend her life obsessing about her body, constitutes enough reason to be loathed by the women who do. If looks could kill, I would have choked myself on the sugar-laden delicacy and dropped dead, there and then. There is a universally accepted list of things that women obviously hate about other women, and scoffing goodies while others struggles to maintain their waistlines is definitely in the top 10. If you need to be reminded of the other nine unforgivables, I have devised a list:
Lying about dressing up. You ring on the afternoon of an important party and ask what Wonder Woman is going to wear. She says: ‘Oh, just something casual,’ then turns up in a slashed to the thigh, black bonk-me dress. Variations include the girl who says, ‘I’m so fat’, when she knows she has Madonna’s figure.
Behaving differently in front of men. We don’t mind ruthless and tough or helpless and winsome, but we cannot forgive switching from one to the other the second a man enters the room. Similarly, rewriting history for the benefit of men (‘Oh, I adore watching football’) is really irritating.
Being sexy during ‘chill-out’ time. I’m referring to those rare weekends in Troodos when you have an understanding that it’s to be dressed-down fleeces and well-worn jeans, but Wonder Woman brings her whole ‘casual’ wardrobe, plus ultra-tight jeans for the evening and a suitcase of ‘natural’ outdoorsy make-up.
Crying when the going gets tough. Sorry, but women who cry at work when they screw up, cry when their car breaks down, cry when they get criticized by their bastard of a boss, are just letting the side down and making it harder for the rest of us.
Lying about your age, cosmetic procedures, hair colouring. It’s okay to dodge these subjects in front of prospective partners, but to not be straight with your own sex is creepy. We like a girl who says: ‘Look! Feel these! Only three hundred quid.’
Always keeping the nicest present. There is no point of giving something if you always keep the slightly better version for yourself. We hate this more than not getting anything at all.
Being a one-glass drinker. You don’t have to be a lush, but we are suspicious of the skin-preserving, carbs-watching girl who sips on a glass of chilled white all night. Total control is alienating.
Not performing for women. We don’t dislike women who flirt, just women who only spark up when the opposite sex is present.
Attention-seeking mothers. These are the women who can’t stop reminding you that they have produced life. So they can only talk to you if junior is bouncing on their knee. If the subject should stray from junior’s little ways or routine, it’ll be back on course before you can say: ‘Did I mention I am a mother?’…
Lift me up ... can a feminist have plastic surgery?
I’m full of admiration for the credo that women should grow old gracefully and be proud of the wrinkles “earned” through experience. I’m not a full-blown feminist, but I couldn’t agree more – in principle.
I had quite a few friends at university who baulked even at the idea of make-up, claiming that adorning ourselves was playing to men. Liberationists such as Germaine Greer declared that women were oppressed babes, their strings pulled by male standards of beauty.
I even got into some nasty debates with girlfriends who saw me as a traitor to the cause because of a bit of lip-gloss. Surely, I argued, the point of feminism was that we could do as we wished with our appearance?
Twenty years on, the focus has moved from lipstick to lasers, but the arguments are all too familiar. We should stand up brave and bold, and confront a culture that defies the baby smooth face of youth. We have to alter perceptions so that we’re valued and seen in a new way.
That’s fine, but I doubt if it’s possible in my lifetime. And I really don’t think that when my face starts looking like an Ordnance Survey map the outside world will admiringly say, “What a fascinating and interesting life she has lived. She must be jam-packed full of wisdom to impart.”
No, I see them glancing away, failing to register me at all.
Today’s women want to work longer than they have traditionally, and they want to be seen as desirable at a life stage when their mothers had consigned all that to the past. Many women believe the best chance of having the confidence to achieve these things is the way they look.
One of the advantages of the technological age is that it offers women a nip and a tuck, a peel or a suck, to adjust some of the ravages of time and unwise living, thereby restoring a sense of the self that they’ve enjoyed living with.
I don’t mean taking off a decade or two, although wanting to wind back time to join our kids is pathological and doomed to failure. But some subtle cosmetic aid is mere damage limitation, I am assured. A friend of mine crossed a very difficult Rubicon for feminists and recently chose cosmetic surgery. Yes, it’s “Laura” again.
She first started with an eye job seven years ago. “My eyes seemed to be sinking into the slack flesh around them and this depressed me. I’ve always liked my eyes, and see them as one of my most effective tools for communicating.”
Laura was delighted with the results. People stopped saying she looked tired and told her she looked well. She was able to twinkle and flirt with her eyes again. When we met up in London a few months ago she admitted having not stopped at her eyes.
“This year my face seemed to have become dull, droopy and wrinkly. The ‘you look weary – are you all right?’ questions started coming back at work again.”
Although Laura wasn’t ready for a facelift she thought she would investigate face peels. She chose a “blue peel”, which is less drastic than the popular laser peel. While she was at it, she wiped off her forehead frown with a botox injection, boosted her lips with collagen and had her pale eyebrows semi-tattooed.
Phew! I didn’t criticize her one bit, I admired her. I haven’t even got the guts to pierce my ears. But I was probably the only friend who didn’t tell her she had sold out and that she must have really disliked herself.
The British actress Julie Christie was pulled to bits by the media when she had a facelift, but she merely said that if you want to work in Hollywood at her age, it doesn’t pay to show your face in all its wrinkled glory.
We don’t attack women for spending hours in the gym, using fake tans in moderation or coloring their hair properly. But once someone goes for a change administered by a cosmetic surgeon, the view is that we forfeit our feminist credentials.
There are a few feminists who have concluded differently. Kathy Davis, in a survey of women for her book Reshaping The Female Body, changed her views when she saw how cosmetic surgery helped them maintain an identity they valued. They talked of being surer of themselves, more able to be authoritative.
And while Rita Freedman argues in Beauty Bound that women should understand how the beauty industry oppresses them, she also sees that cosmetic surgery may be a pragmatic choice.
“The facelift is sought by many psychologically healthy females who… want to get rid of their preoccupation with a cosmetic distraction to turn their attention to more important things,” she says. Surely they’re then more able to stand up to the world, to make it stop and listen?
I believe feminism is about helping women. We have every right to choose how to negotiate the human condition if it doesn’t harm others. Laura is very open about her procedures, rather than treating them as a dirty secret. When someone asks her she just admits to having had surgery rather then lying.
I haven’t been tempted to dabble with the surgeon’s knife yet, but who knows how I will feel when I wake up one morning and discover more bags under my eyes than inside my wardrobe?
Tuesday 20 July 2010
Monday 19 July 2010
Sunday 18 July 2010
Saturday 17 July 2010
Friday 16 July 2010
Thursday 15 July 2010
Local entertainment...
Women (and men for that matter) who have this great need to be in the 'media' having not achieved anything more than a trust fund from the family or a rich partner, are extremely sad and underwhelming...being overly groomed (in the tackiest possible manner) and wearing over-priced shoes and clothes does not contribute in any way to their personas, intelligence, style, inner or outer beauty - actually it's pathetic...But then what else can they fill up the pages with? Amazing how a trip to the dentist can inspire 'columnistic criticism'...I should go more often!
Monday 12 July 2010
Saturday 10 July 2010
Wednesday 30 June 2010
Monday 21 June 2010
Who wants to be a millionaire...?
I am almost ashamed to admit this, but since hitting the start of my forties, I have to say that I have actually become conscious about money. You know the thing I mean, the root of all evil?
Like most people, I never seem to have enough of the stuff, what with the cost of children and everything that goes with it – housing, clothing, food, education... Yes, I am well aware that relative to 99.9 per cent of the planet, I am amply blessed. But the really sad thing is that I inhabit a fantasy world in which I genuinely imagine that any day now I am going to become absolutely loaded. How? Well, because the book I am writing will be published, it will be well on the way to becoming a bestseller, and before you know it I’ll be quaffing champagne cocktails with Colin Firth who, naturally, will take the lead male role in the film version. Just think of all those the after film award parties I’ll be attending.
I spend all my time thinking things like, “I know I’m a bit of a state now, but it doesn’t matter, because when I’m rich I’ll be really groomed.” Not that I’m not groomed now, of course, but what I mean is really groomed. I have even gone to the trouble of mentally working out that, to save time, I’ll spend one day a month at a spa getting my eyebrows shaped, a manicure and a Brazilian bikini wax done simultaneously.
Then there’s my wardrobe, currently a sorry mix of high street, by which I mean French Connection (do I have a choice?) and designer – by which I mean Oxfam and vintage clothing shops.
But any time soon, I’m going to be upgrading it. I was thinking Nicole Farhi for casual, Armani for smart, and it goes without saying that all my shoes will be handmade by Jimmy Choo and Manolo (Louboutin is so yesterday).
Other purchases I’ve planned are my runaround car, my modest little London flat overlooking the Thames (Richmond or Canary Wharf? It’s so hard to decide) and lengthy foreign holidays in Tuscany and the Caribbean. Dream on Lulu...
Please tell me that there are other people out there who also feel that wealth on a massive scale must be just around the corner, and that their current lifestyle is some kind of mistake. I know that these days we’re all supposed to be concentrating on the beauty within – balancing our chakras the way our mothers used to move furniture around – but I don’t believe anyone who says they don’t care about cash. They’re either totally irresponsible, like me, and shortly to be visited by burly men who will cut up their credit cards, or they’re too cashed up for their own good –in which case they should spread it around a little. The worst thing, though – and I’m sure this is true for many women in my position – is that if I’m honest, I have been relatively opulent. In my twenties I earned enough to develop a plane habit so expensive that if I could get all the money back now, it would have been enough to pay for my kids to go to Eton.
Did I appreciate this at the time? No I did not. Because, naturally, I expected that one pay rise would lead to another – even though I was my own boss – and that, in short, I would carry on getting richer. Only it hasn’t quite worked out that way. I really didn’t realize how much it costs to be an adult. I mean, once you’re in your forties there’s really no excuse for not paying your road tax or your mobile phone bill, is there? Not to mention the dry cleaning, kids’ birthdays and staying in hotels with indoor toilets.
Nor did I anticipate that becoming slacker – I mean creating a better work/life balance, or whatever this “in” phrase is this week – would inevitably mean seeing my earnings plunge into freefall. I just can’t reconcile myself to the fact that if you want serious loot you usually have to work bloody hard for it. Because in my case, without sounding morbid, I’m not going to hang around waiting for an inheritance.
My father is a retired accountant who has taken to growing olive groves, and hopefully he has a good few years of fresh sea air ahead of him to be getting on with. I just wish he’d been a dodgier accountant and cooked more books. When I told him (in jest) I was going to semi retire and become a full-time writer, his immediate response was an expression of horror accompanied by the words, “I haven’t got any money, you know.”
He did relent a few minutes later, adding, “But I do have this olive grove and 3 dogs. You can probably have them if the going gets tough.” He wasn’t lying. These days he probably thinks I’m the one who’s loaded. As if! I know that money is like potato chips – no matter how big your stash, you always want more. Richard Branson is probably sitting around right now daydreaming... “When I’m as rich as Bill Gates, I’ll go everywhere by balloon.”
I should just admit to myself that I may never become as utterly wedged as I am in my fantasies. What I should really do is count my blessings (yawn) and be thankful, as my mother would say (yawn). I suppose there’s always that promise of my dad’s dogs. And they certainly are very nice dogs. I wonder how much I could get for them?
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