Let's Play Tag!

So....there I was, just innocently lurking about the interwebs, catching up on the celeb gossip pages researching Very Important Scientific Stuff, when... ba da bing ba da boom!... the lovely but devious Leanne at From Chaos Comes Happiness tagged me to do this meme.

Now that you all know who is to blame for the following mind numbingly boring fascinating facts about me, you can pop over later and thank Leanne in person ...but right now you need to focus on Me, Me, Me, just Me (isn’t that what a meme is all about?)

Anyway, pour yourselves a drink, preferably something alcoholic or caffeine-reinforced (you’re going to need it), and let’s begin...

1. if you have pets, do you see them as merely animals, or are they members of your family?
Hmmm....have you read about the antics of our 247 tropical fish on here? Would you want those incestuous little cannibals in your family? I think not...

2. if you can have a dream come true, what would it be?
OK, this is probably going to sound a bit contrived, but right now I just wish that everyone important in my life was healthy and happy.

3. what is the one thing most hated by you?
Arrogance...people thinking they’re better than anyone else, based on their social status, looks or education.

4. what would you do with a billion dollars?
Lay it all on the floor and roll around on it shouting... “I’m rich! I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams!” Seriously, I’d try to be ever so sensible...statistics show that most lottery winners die poor and alone, and are eaten by Alsatians - or is that something from “Bridget Jones’ Diary”?

First, I’d put one-third of it away on high investment returns, and pay a good accountant to look after my funds. Then I’d make sure that everyone in my family was financially secure. I’d set up a trust account for each of my nieces, nephews, goddaughters and the little ones of a couple of my good friends...to offer them a future, be it university or art school fees, or money to start up their own business. I’d sell our house and buy a bigger one (not a mansion but somewhere damn nice in the country yet still close to town, with an indoor swimming pool, sauna and home cinema)...and a couple of holiday homes (one in each hemisphere so that we could always escape to the sun). I’d tell B to quit his job and re-train as whatever he wants (he’s so bored with what he does). But before then, I’d tell my boss I’m taking the year off (I'd want to know I still had a job waiting for me), book two ‘Round The World’ first class air tickets and we’d head off to explore...

5. what helps to pull you out of a bad mood?
Chocolate, or a long walk....to go and buy chocolate.

6. which is more blessed, loving someone or being loved by someone?
Being loved by anyone is fantastic...loving someone is only exquisite when that love is returned.

7. what is your bedtime routine?
A soak in the bath tub (no matter how late I get in), then my face, eye, arm and hand creaming session, and a few minutes of reading before lights out.

8. if you are currently in a relationship, how did you meet your partner?
Through a mutual friend at university (now the dad of our goddaughter) – we exchanged insults from afar for about a month then decided to go out....

9. if you could watch a creative person in the act of the creative process, who would it be?
A Master Chef like Michel Roux Jr, creating a new signature dish for his twice Michelin-starred London restaurant, “Le Gavroche”.

10. what kinds of books do you read?
It varies widely depending on my mood, and I tend to have a couple of books on the go at any one time. I have to read a lot of high brow medical journals for my job, so when reading for pleasure, I look for some light relief. I read a lot of travel books, and I do like a gripping thriller, like something from Douglas Kennedy, or anything with a slight historical edge (early 20th Century). I have to confess to indulging in some mindless chick lit at times...

11. how would you see yourself in ten years time?
Ten years’ older... but hopefully fifteen years’ wiser and still looking five years’ younger than I am right now. I’ve got a lot of living to do between then and now.

12. what’s your fear?
Just about everything frightens me...but I probably fear flying the most, and I fear that I will meet my demise in a flaming ball dropping out of the sky. It is a fear that I have had to learn to deal with (using pharmaceuticals).

13. would you give up all junk food for the rest of your life for the opportunity to visit outer space?
I wouldn’t give it up for one day...there is no way in this solar system you’re getting me inside a space shuttle...did you not read number 12? Wake up! Pay attention!

14. would you rather be single and rich or married, but poor?
I’d take the married and poor only on condition it’s married to my very own hubby (I’d say “current” but that sounds like I have another one lined up)...I wouldn’t want to be poor and married to some prize asshole too – I’d shoot myself (or him rather!)

15. what’s the first thing you do when you wake up?
If it’s Monday to Friday, I think “Crap! It’s Monday to Friday!”...Saturday or Sunday, I delight in the thought that it’s not Monday to Friday.

16. if you could change one thing about your spouse/partner what would it be?
Nothing....B, in the words of Bruno Mars, “You’re amaaaazzzzing, just the way you are!” [Even though you still haven’t worked out that no matter how much channel hopping you do, you are never ever going to avoid the ad breaks...you see the TV bosses time them just right to catch the likes of you]

17. if you could pick a new name for yourself, what would it be?
I’ve actually grown used to my name...hated it as a child, and wished my folks had named me Yvette, as they’d planned until my precocious older brother decided Nat was a better option. He must really like it, as it’s my niece’s second name.

18. would you forgive and forget no matter how horrible a thing that special someone has done?
That’s a tough one to know as I am lucky enough not to have been in that situation. I’m not sure...I have a very long memory.

19. if you could only eat one thing for the next 6 months, what would it be?
Pasta with basil pesto, pine nuts and shavings of parmesan (Ha! You thought I was going to say chocolate!)

Right, that's me done with. Now for the best part...I get to select four other bloggers to answer the same questions. So, I am tagging...

The talented TK, at Postcards from Malaysia

The sagacious Sid, at Verbal Diarrhoea

The verbally astute Vegetable Assassin

The ever-popular Pat Tillett

The wondrous Wandering Saffa Chick

The eloquent Eloise in NY, and

The brilliant Bossy Betty

Yes, well spotted...there are actually more than four people on that list! That’s because I like to have a contingency plan....a little extra in reserve....but I still hope that everyone I tagged can participate.

On Penis Pumps, Incest and Cannibalism

Faithful readers, fear not....Nat’s blog is not descending into a cesspit of debauchery just yet (that cowboy picture of yesterday aside of course!). Today, I’m going to tell you about the slightly unsavoury goings on in my household....or rather, in our tropical fish tank.

A Den of Iniquity

Tropical fish make excellent pets....they’re pretty to look at, calming to watch, and can just be left to their own devices most of the time. No need to walk them or entertain them, no vet bills and when one of them decides to pop their clogs and swim off to the great big aquarium in the sky, there’s not much standing on ceremony...a quick flush and they’re A for away, although I do insist on a short rendition of The Last Post, ‘air bugle’ style (it’s a bit less naff than an air guitar and more subdued). Going on holiday, which you may have noticed we do fairly often, is no hassle... they could probably survive quite happily without fresh food for at least 2 weeks, but we do have a nifty rotating auto feeder and a friend who is happy to pop in a few times to feed them, in exchange for a couple of bottles of wine.

And the greedy little chaps are very fond of their food....so much so in fact, that I’ve renamed them “The Pigs”. People say fish have a memory span of a few seconds....rubbish! Our fish quickly learnt that someone coming up to the tank invariably means food is imminent, and they will start amassing at the surface, slapping the water with excitement and gasping greedily in anticipation of the falling flakes of fish food (now say that last bit again quickly!). Sometimes, just to wind them up, I first pretend to be dropping food, and watch them flailing about and fighting over invisible food...yes, I do have a cruel side!

Funny fish 'foto' found here

But that’s nothing compared to the antics the fish themselves get up to... incest, infanticide, cannibalism....you name it, they’re into it! Woe betide any fish feeling a bit under the weather...I think the technical term is “green about the gills”... as the other, more robust ones will quickly spot a weakling and hasten it on its way to the aforementioned great aquarium in the sky. They have a real taste for sushi too...often not even waiting for the poor fish to gasp its last before they start snacking on its sorry carcass. Unless we’re home to rescue the corpse in time, we could be left with just a skeleton and tail....that’s provided the bottom-feeders and scavenger shrimps don’t find them first. Sometimes a fish just vanishes...

Incest...it’s been said it’s a game the whole family can play, and it’s certainly not a taboo topic when it comes to tropical fish. We started with a group of Mollies – a couple of males, four females. They had some babies (yes, Mollies are born live, not hatched from eggs). Some of them survived, the rest were a tasty snack for the flamboyant Siamese fighting fish (Elvis)...and then the two alpha males died. The fry grew up, the sons started making eyes at their mommies and sisters... and hey presto, we had a whole inbreeding experiment going on. We also had a population explosion in the tank...Elvis ate himself to death (quite literally he ate and ate baby fish until he died), but even he couldn’t keep up with the rate the fry were popping out. Now we’ve just decided to let natural selection take its course...inbreeding will eventually out, and there are already a couple of wonky-looking fish in that tank. Unable to swim very well, they are not long for this world....

'Elvis' - found here

But in the meantime, that many fish means an awful lot of fish poop....and someone’s got to clean that up...which brings me nicely onto the headlining act of this sordid little tale: the Penis Pump! Mind in the gutter I may have, but I bet you would have been thinking exactly the same if you were presented with what is apparently a siphoning pump for cleaning the surface of the gravel, that looks something like this....

Dubious contraption found here

But which I reckon is more like this....
 

 

Not My Bag Baby - found here

 
Whatever, all I know is that once a fortnight that “Penis Pump” comes out of storage, there’s an awful lot of sucking and blowing going on... and sometimes there’s a big wet patch left on the lounge floor.....

Everybody Was (Not) Kung Fu Fighting

I don’t condone violence, but I do think it’s probably a good idea to be able to defend yourself, if the need ever arose.

Just before Christmas, a distasteful little episode involving some rather pushy carol singers on my doorstep made me realise how unpleasant it can be when you’re placed in a vulnerable situation. Now before you start thinking I’m the sort to want to beat up innocent Salvation Army carollers, just because they’re a bit out of tune....let me elaborate. Contrary to my usual cautious approach of first finding out who was a-calling, I stupidly just opened the front door one snowy evening and spied four young lads (aka The Foul Four) lurking outside. Actually, I smelt them first....a lovely combo of cheap booze, cigarettes and the Great Unwashed. They promptly broke forth into a half-hearted rendition of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”, then stuck their paws out, fully expecting me to hand over my hard earned cash. I toyed with the idea of chucking a quid at them....then thought sod it! While I’m happy to donate to carol singers who are collecting for charity, and always get in sweets for the local kids’ Halloween candy scrounge, I take objection to funding some louts’ vices. So I merely said, “Thanks for that!” and slammed the door in their pimply faces.

I had a really bad feeling about the outcome of this little scenario and snuck to the upstairs window, to check if they had left my property. What did I see? One of the youths appeared to be fiddling with the door of my car parked on the driveway, while another was peering with intent into the driver’s seat. Enraged, I threw open the window and yelled... “Oi, you lot! Clear off!” I think the sheer volume of my voice startled the bejesus out of them, as they started moving off...then one of the them turned around and spat, “You should’ve given us some money then, b*tch!”, while his mates taunted and jeered, showing me the finger. The final insult came when the uglier one of the motley bunch pulled down his trousers and exposed his somewhat paltry bits. Tempted as I was to request that the poor lad (who was clearly labouring under the misapprehension that his undercarriage warranted a public showing), wait where he was while I reach for my handy telescope, I refrained from further comment and silently watched them eventually lose interest and crawl back under their rocks.

After this delightful experience, I started to think seriously about doing some type of self-defence course. Up until then, I’d always felt really safe in our village, and frequently take long, lonely walks through the woods and farmlands around here. The sudden knowledge that there were nasty bits of work like the Foul Four living within slithering distance gave me the heebie jeebies.

B has always been keen on martial arts, and studied two styles of karate in his youth....he was never happier than when “sparring” in the dojo, with his partner in bloody noses and cracked jaws. He’d showed me a few basic defence moves....like the thumb-to-cheek bone-agony-inducer and the bend-fingers-back-bone-breaker, but it’s not quite the same as training in the arts oneself. So, when we came across an advert for a beginners’ Aikido course starting at our local sports centre, we decided we’d both give it a go.

Created by Morehei Ueshiba (known as ‘O Sensei’ or ‘great teacher’), the guiding principle of the Japanese Martial Art of Aikido is harmonisation, not confrontation. It promotes winning over one's self, rather than fighting with others, to develop a deep sense of peace and calmness. Aikido is performed by blending with the motion of the attacker and redirecting the force of the attack rather than opposing it head-on. The Aikido practitioner "leads" the attacker's momentum using entering and turning movements, completing the techniques with various throws or joint locks. Aikido has a simple ethic: if attacked, offer a sincere, robust defence but without hurting your aggressor. This attitude has been at the core of criticisms of Aikido and related arts.

For some pre-class preparation, B insisted on us watching 'Under Siege 2', which was coincidentally being shown on TV (as part of the Kick Ass Season), the night before the first lesson. While my mind did rack up the potential benefits of being able to defend myself against a multitude of knife-wielding baddies à la Steven Seagal, I didn’t really learn much from this particular homework.... apart from realising that the film stars a very young Katherine Heigl, more recently seen in 'Grey’s Anatomy', 'Knocked Up', '27 Dresses' and 'The Ugly Truth'.

So there we were in the first Aikido class (all 19 of us), lined up and barefoot on the mats....and the first thing I noted was that I was outnumbered 18 to 1 by persons of the male variety. Not a problem, I figured.....if I can practise with sturdy male opponents, I’ll be fit to face the burliest attacker. After a thorough warm-up, we were first taught how to fall.... a kind of controlled collapse by means of a folded knee and diagonal roll. Next, the tankan (a pivotal move on the ball of the foot) and tsugi ashi (moving the front foot forward, drawing the rear foot up behind)...before we progressed onto a combination of wrist twisting and arm gripping moves that would be useful for disarming an attacker bearing a knife or sword (this session included a bit of wooden sword action). Lastly, a series of smart moves, intended to disengage an attacker who’s grabbed you by the lapels.


All in, it was a fun evening and quite a physical workout. B is already smitten...he just has to unlearn all the karate stuff that he kept reverting back to and he will no doubt soon be well on his way to mastering the art. I know that I will be a slow learner, but I have decided that I will at least give the classes a trial month.

So, watch this space...I may well be Ninja Nat in the making....

Crimes of Plastic

I recently came across this quote that I thought I would do well to try and live by, in an attempt to curb my highly neurotic personality trait....

“The chief danger in life is that you may take too many precautions.” ALFRED ADLER (1870-1937) Austrian psychiatrist.

Huh! What did ol’ Alfred know? Clearly I didn’t take enough protective measures when flashing my credit card around cyberspace....some conniving little toe-rag out there has been using my details to fund their own dodgy transactions. Serves me right for extolling the virtues of online shopping on here last week...it’s come back to take a mighty big chunk out of my fat rump.

Luckily my credit card company were on the ball and put the brakes on before the Lunch-Is-On-Nat brigade could get out of the parking lot. Hassle, hassle, hassle....it’ll take a good 10 days before my card is restored. I’m thankful that I’ve done all my Christmas shopping and shopped till my fingers dropped, stocking up on thermal socks and undies to ward off the subzero temperatures of Norway. Otherwise, how would I cope?

Life's about film stars and less about mothers

It's all about fast cars and cussing each other

But it doesn't matter cause I'm packing plastic

And that's what makes my life so f***ing fantastic

And I am a weapon of massive consumption

And it's not my fault it's how I'm programmed to function

I'll look at The Sun and I'll look in The Mirror

I'm on the right track yeah we're onto a winner

[Lily Allen, The Fear]

'Tis The Season To Get Fit

OK, I really need to up my fitness level with immediate effect. One month today we fly to Norway for a week of snow-related activities...we’ll be snow-shoeing most days, but there’s the chance to try cross-country skiing (at which I’m fairly confident I’ll be pathetically rubbish) and (most excitingly!) dog sledding. There’s even the very slim chance we may see the Northern Lights.

I’m not the most athletic of persons, but I do a fair bit of walking most days and have been on some quite hectic hikes in recent years (most notably the Alpine treks with the sadistic Swedish guide back in 2007 described here). I accidentally discovered snow-shoeing when the skiing part of the Christmas 2003 holiday with J and M in the French Alps didn’t really go that well for me. Might have been something to with having to be rescued off a mountain...in a blizzard...with suspected concussion...on the first day we actually hit the slopes.

Never one to do things in half measures, I was pretending to ski when I fell on the piste, whacking my head rather hard. I’d already fallen over a dozen times...even once forwards onto my face, which is apparently almost impossible to do on skis, but I did it! This was a particularly hard thwack on the back of my head, though, and, as I lay on the frozen ground, dazed and wondering which way was up or down, it started snowing very hard. That was it! I completely lost my nerve and could not face the trip back down to the chalet on my own steam. The ski lifts were now closed due to the inclement weather and everyone was hurrying to get off the slopes. We were going to have to get help or things could get scary....so experienced skier J shot off down the mountain, and soon came back with Rescue Man and his orange ski stretcher. He asked me “Do you have travel insurance?” [stupid question for a paranoid, pessimistic planner!] “Bon! Because this is the most expensive taxi ride you’ll ever take!” And at 300 euros for a few hundred metres, I should hope it was!

Rescue Man: Just lie down here

Me: You gotta be shittin' me!

To the great amusement of B, J and M (and to my mortification) I was strapped and tightly bound, like an Egyptian mummy, into the stretcher, and then dragged down the slope at high speed, behind Winter Olympics Downhill Skiing Champion aka Rescue Man. If I didn’t have concussion before that ride, I definitely had it afterwards, as my head hit every stone and tree root hidden under the snow on the way down. What was worse, the vibrations from our rapid descent caused my ski goggles to work their way up my face and the frame dug into my eye sockets....but with my arms tied to my chest, there was nothing I could do. The ski stretcher came to an abrupt halt in trendy Courchevel resort, where the Dior ski suits mingle with Prada. Everyone stopped and stared....orange stretchers usually meant broken limbs. I staggered to my feet. I was in a right state by now.... shaking from adrenaline, only partially sighted from the eye gouging of the goggles and frozen to the core, with icicles forming in my hair.

Rescue Man took me into the first aid office and proceeded to quiz me (in French) about the school my father attended and how many cats my great aunt Doris had...I later worked out he was checking me for memory loss. Luckily J was with me and she’s fluent in French (and Spanish) so she could interpret. I’d forgotten how to speak English, never mind any French I’d acquired at school. By now I was rapidly defrosting in the heat of the office, leaving a pool of water on the floor. I had to complete a form...wish I’d made a copy of it as a souvenir before I sent it to my insurers as it was filled out in the shaky, spidery writing of an octogenarian, with the watermarks of a dozen drops that dripped from my hair and onto the page.

I decided there and then that downhill skiing was not my bag, and that I would have to find some other winter activity to fill my week. And thus I discovered snow-shoeing...what a pleasure! Forget the rat run of the ski slopes.....snow-shoeing is the civilised way to enjoy snow. Breaking trails through virgin snow, trekking silently over crisp fields and through fairytale forests, pausing to sip wine and nibble cheese provided by the snow-shoe guide, while surrounded by absolute calm and breathtaking scenery. Best part: you can go downhill on your butt when faced with a hairy descent....

A slightly undignified descent!

I reckon you need to learn to ski when you’re young and fearless and have a flexible body, say around 7 or 8.....not the wrong side of 30 when the sense of mortality has kicked in and when hurtling downhill on a pair of skis not much wider than a ruler does not seem like a particularly sensible way to travel. Looking back now, I realise skiing is a lot more dangerous than I’d thought and I was crazy to be anywhere but on the nursery slopes until I’d had many more lessons. Every year, people are seriously injured when skiing (I personally know 3 people who have had long-term hospital stays and been off work for months after a slip on the slopes). Tragically, earlier this year, Natasha Richardson died following a head injury sustained when she fell during a skiing lesson in Canada.

But on that sad note, it’s time to whip my cold, lethargic butt into shape....dust off the exercise bike and do daily squats.

I’ll let you know how it goes...

"Grumpy Legs"

I have two nieces - J aged 9 and M who's 4. My brother and his family live down in East Sussex, so as we were going down that way for the Christening last weekend we'd arranged to have lunch with them en route. I hadn't seen J and M for months, and was quite suprised to find how much they'd changed.

J has become quite the young lady ("madam" some may say!)... when we arrived she was busy "doing her hair", which seemed to entail introducing lots of tiny plaits and ribbons into her poker straight, curtain of hair. She was quite shy at first, but after a few minutes asked B (who she relates to well) if he would teach her some more chess moves...the last time they'd been over at our house we'd brought out the board games to try and keep them occupied on a dismally wet day, and she'd shown a suprising interest in learning chess.

M latched onto me, insisting on showing me her bedroom, her books, her cut-out cardboard pirate ship covered in stickers of all sorts of things, including mermaids and cacti (desert island anyone?)...and 'her' Barbies. Turned out they are her sister's and she was not supposed to be playing with them...but "Grumpy Legs" took them from J's room and put them in hers. So, not her fault then...

I soon realised that "Grumpy Legs" (also known as "Grumpylex") is M's imaginary friend....he'd just turned up one day and has been making mischief ever since...

Did you eat the last biscuit, M? No...that was Grumpy Legs.

M, did you spill your water over the floor? Nope, Grumpy Legs was playing with the taps.

Who made a bad smell? Grumpy Legs farted! [Said with the great glee that all children dedicate to toilet humour... and followed up with the "belly-button does a fart trick" her not-always-so-ladylike older sister taught her]

Made me think I could sometimes do with a "Grumpy Legs" of my own, a kind of alter ego that could say the things I really want to say or do, but I know I have to bite my tongue and clench my fists close to my side....because I'm supposed to be a mature and responsible adult.

Take for example a little scenario that arose later that evening. B and I had decided to treat ourselves to a hotel for the night before the Christening. We'd ended up booking a beachfront hotel in Hastings...not our first choice but there was not a room left in Eastbourne as the pre-Wimbledon tennis tournament was underway.


After a good walk along the seafront and through the Old Town, we decided we'd go back to the hotel for a relaxing drink and dinner in their restaurant/bar. The other patrons seemed predominantly French...indeed we'd encountered quite a few in the town already and wondered why the place was so popular with our cross-Channel comrades. We'd speculated they must like Hastings, as it was the setting for former conquests (1066, The Normans and all that). Turned out most of the staff on duty were also partial to les escargots.

Not long after we'd settled down with a glass of red wine, we heard a slight altercation at the table close to ours. It transpired that Le Garcon had served his compatriots' wine....not in a wine glass....quelle horreur!...but in a tumbler! Turns out the staff had had a bit of an early run on wine orders and the dishwasher was on overtime. Not one to let such a gastronomic crime go unrebuked, the outraged Frenchman stormed up to the bar to protest...loudly..."I am French...and to serve me wine like that is an offense!"

Of course it would have been fine to serve it to a 'rosbif'(Brit)....hell, we're happy with a straw in a bottle... or even a trough on the floor!

All right mate, keep your hair on...

Quite a bit later we realised that we'd been waiting an awfully long time for our food...and that there was a plate of something that looked suspiciously like one of our meals rapidly cooling on the side of the bar. Even later, after finally managing to lock eyes with Le Garcon (who was scurrying about no doubt looking for more wine glasses) said plate was brought to our table...but without cutlery and without my food order. The darn dude made a rapid retreat before we could even query the absence of either. I was itching to go up to the bar and say loudly (purely for the benefit of Les Francais)....."Excuse me old bean, hate to bother you and all that...but I have a slight problem....you see, I am English and I eat with cutlery...and typically, I enjoy my meal at the same time as my husband!"

But of course, I didn't....instead B went up to the bar and discreetly queried what had happened to my meal and whether cutlery was supplied. Apparently there had been a mix-up with the order (they'd assumed I wasn't eating....wonder if that's a subtle hint I need to go on a diet)... and I only got my food well after B had devoured his (I did tell him not to wait!).

Did we cause a fuss? Course not....we're English! Stiff upper lip and all that.....

Where's Grumpy Legs when you need him though?

9 Till 5

I am completely hooked on “The Apprentice”....watching Sir Alan Sugar systematically deflate the massively overblown egos of the wannabe employees provides me with great amusement. Each week, contestants are faced with a fairly substantial task, and thanks to some clever editing by the BBC, you are left guessing till almost the end of the show just which of the two teams is going to fail and will have to face the infamous Board Room grilling.

"You're fired!"

The show inspired me to look back over the jobs I’ve had in my career so far, and the bosses I’ve encountered. I am very happy in my current job... I have a fantastic boss, great team mates (I suppose working from home and only dealing with them by telephone and email, with bimonthly office visits does help keep the relationships friendly), a peaceful working environment that’s conducive to concentrating on what I do (writing medical reports for the pharmaceutical industry)...plus there’s the added bonus of not commuting and always being home for deliveries and tradesmen calling.

But, I’ve not always been so lucky...

My very first ‘job’ entailed working for my dad's printing company during my school holidays, from about the ages of 12 to 15...don’t be fooled into thinking that he was an easy boss - no ways! My dad is a perfectionist and a real taskmaster.... he fired my older brother from the same job as he was considered to be slacking and disrespectful! Horrible, eye-straining, back-breaking work, bent over a light table ‘spotting’ imperfections (light spots) in the negatives used to typeset books back in the ‘80s and covering said spots with opaque paint using a fine brush to prevent black smudges appearing on the printed pages.

Once I got to about 16, my mom found me holiday work in her office... typically answering phones, filing, making tea for the sales department and fielding lost souls who wandered into the office looking to buy VERY expensive farming machinery....this was back in the days when Zimbabwe had a functioning farming sector, an economy and a currency that was not riding on the back of 100000000% inflation. As a job, it was a very cushy number, well paid and not too demanding...and everyone in the office treated me like a princess, as they were terrified of my mom!

I also did a few stints as a receptionist in my dad’s office (by then he was working for a publishing house), including a highly lucrative 2-month stretch during my first long varsity vacation, as well as a month in data capture for an insurance company - they used to pay me weekly and on one Friday overpaid me by 100%. Tempted as I was to hang onto the extra cash, my conscience won over greed and I reported it to the boss first thing Monday morning. He was astounded by my honesty... kind of makes you wonder what type of fly-by-nights he’s encountered previously....and later, when the work dried up at the insurers, found me another data entry post at his mate’s office.

At the end of my second year at varsity, I was summoned to fulfil a 3-month work experience attachment in the food industry section of the corporation that was funding part of my undergraduate degree. In fact, I was supposed to be bonded to that company after graduating, something I’d reluctantly resigned myself to as it was the only way I could afford to go to university. I managed to avoid the placement as long as possible by going on to study at postgraduate level, self-funded...and in the interim, the company fell victim to the collapse of Zimbabwe’s economy. The day they informed me that, with regret, they could not afford to employ me was one of the happiest of my life, albeit a bit selfish given the dire economic state my homeland was now facing. At the time of my attachment, however, the company was still doing quite well... the food factory made breakfast cereals, extruded snacks (puffy-cheesy-corn things), potato crisps and dog food...and they had a coffee processing plant, run by a chap who laid eyes on me and immediately thought I was his future Mrs. This made things a bit uncomfortable, as the feeling was most definitely not mutual. In fact the whole experience was as awkward as being the only woman in the midst of 3000 male factory workers can be.... but I did learn a lot, got to test funky food samples and the factory workers hands for microbial contamination, to work out if the salt content in the crisps’ flavour was correct, to try and come up with a new breakfast cereal taste sensation... and to eat an unlimited supply of extruded corn snacks.

Once I got to postgraduate level, I was offered the chance to fund my studies by working part-time on my university’s commercial clinical trials team. I started at entry level, as a ‘runner’... it was my job to ferry the blood samples from the hospital ward as quickly as possible back to the lab in a box of ice. Given the distance between the two buildings, the reliability of the lifts in the hospital and our lab building (the ward and the lab were both on the top floor of their respective buildings) and the frequency of the blood sampling (every 15 minutes for the first few hours), this was a task that did wonders for my leg muscles. I ‘ran’ my way up the trial career ladder to ‘sample handler’... this involved measuring the volumes of piss passed by the volunteers (often very stinky thanks to the drugs they were taking), and decanting a small sample for the labs to analyse.

After about a year, I became a salaried trial administration staff member, which meant I got to help with the organisation of the trials as well as working on the actual trial days. In the run-up period to the trials, this meant keeping contact with the volunteers (largely medical students from my campus), arranging catering for the trial days, making beds, setting up medical supplies, sending samples to the pathology labs and keeping data records. On the trial days, I was timekeeper for the blood sampling, stand-in phlebotomist (blood taker) and general dogsbody. Very, very long days - often a 6 am start and pretty much on the go till after 9 pm - but it was a well paid job by student standards and there was stiff competition to try and get on the so-called ‘Phat Pharm’ team (“not coz we 'was' rotund but coz we 'was' so cool”) headed up by our very own 'Iron Lady'. I have very good memories from those days....lots of laughs, some chaotic and frightening episodes of volunteers reacting badly to the drugs, but all good experience that would come in handy later in my career.

Tough Boss

After graduation, B and I moved to the UK, and I soon began my first ‘proper job’, as a ‘Formulation Development Scientist’ at a contract research company that was a spin-off of a London university. The first woman to join the company... and boy, what a chauvinistic one it was! My boss was an appalling man...aggressive and downright rude, with a fondness for a particular word that rhymes with ‘muck’ - no sentence was complete without it. A diabetic, he would regularly fly into hypoglycaemic-induced rages, telling us all how completely useless we all were and asking why he has to tolerate such a bunch of morons.... only that’s the watered-down version of what he would normally have to say. Formulation development involves a lot of work with skin... human skin....harvested from the blubbery remains of the plastic surgery industry, typically tummy tucks. In an attempt to break my spirit, my boss put me in charge of the infamous skin freezer. Fit to adorn the kitchen of any budding Hannibal Lector, it was stocked full of lumps of frozen flash awaiting boiling and then skimming to harvest the top layers of the skin, that were then stretched out on cork boards awaiting experimentation. Lovely! I bided my time and stuck it out for 2 years, just long enough to get a bit of real experience on my CV and work out that I wanted out of the lab! And away from the stench of boiling flesh...

Medical writing is not really something anyone really sets out to do... you kind of end up in it when you’re fed up with working in a lab but still want to use your science background...and if you enjoy writing. Seemed like a good option for me...but getting into it was not easy. Potential employers want you to have the experience but in order to get that experience you need a job...the never-ending circle. After many applications, several writing tests and a lot of rejections, I finally got my foot in the door at a smallish data management and statistics company that was looking to expand into medical writing. For a while it was a great job... a young, enthusiastic crowd, great manager and the chance to set up a new department. We took on our second writer about 15 months after I’d started and were gradually building up a client base. Boss was a bit creepy... fond of dipping his....er...toe...into the extramarital pond and was completely devoid of tact, but thankfully my dealings with him were minimal.

Then things started to go awry when, under tragic circumstances, we lost our business development manager...she’s been raking in the work and had the drive and enthusiasm needed to grow the company. The work slowly stopped coming in, staff turnover in all departments trebled... people who’d started long after me were upping sticks.... and then, most devastatingly to me, my manager left after 7 years’ service. Her replacement was a disaster. She spread herself way too thin, professionally and personally, and the ensuing chaos made office life very difficult. With no solid work flowing in, us writers were shunted onto any odd job....from ordering stationery to typing company letters (coz medical writers are "really just typists, don't cha know?!") I’m not averse to helping out as needed, but when that’s all you do, you soon realise your career is not going anywhere fast. The final straw came in my third year at the company, when my boss, angling for a piece of work with a Big Nob client, suggested that we could cut costs and outsource the writing aspect to India, as ‘after all, any one can do it’.... not sure if that was more insulting to the population of India or medical writers...cringe, cringe, cringe...

The Cringe Factor

My expectations of my next company were fairly low to be honest....it was a very large, global version of the previous company, but I figured it would bring me much needed writing experience as the work would be aplenty. And it was! No shortage of writing work there.... it was just the most horrendous place to work in with the boss from hell! There are bitches, there are mega bitches (beeeeiatches is the technical term, I think) and then there’s the fiend that I had the misfortune to call my boss for a year. She was the ultimate control-freak, yet failed to provide any managerial support in any way, shape or form. She’d avoid you for days, refuse to answer your emails... then when you were forced to make decisions beyond your remit, she’d jump into action to reprimand you for stepping over the line, fire off emails to all and sundry to apologise on your behalf for your unacceptable behaviour....and summon you to her office to explain why you did not “respect her authority”! Clearly she’d had a difficult childhood....




My health was taking serious strain....the stress of the workload coupled with an unsupportive manager gave me the beginnings of a stomach ulcer, constant sinus infections and migraine headaches. I was working very long hours and many weekends, without so much as a 'thank you' from my charming manager. Luckily, however, I had an escape route planned...soon after I’d left the previous company, my fellow writer chucked it in there too....only she’s wisely gone to a small, specialist writing consultancy company and was loving her new job and new boss. Hearing how miserable I was, she put in a word for me, and before long I was interviewed, tested and offered the job. It gave me great pleasure to inform the Beeeeiatch that I would no longer be tolerating her tantrums....

Bohemian Rhapsody

Sometimes called "the mother of cities", "city of a hundred spires" and "the golden city", Prague came highly recommended...and did not fail to live up to our expectations. Since the fall of the Iron Curtain, Hlavní město Praha (Prague) has become one of Europe's (and the world's) most popular tourist destinations, and is the sixth most-visited European city after London, Paris, Rome, Madrid and Berlin. I’d been hankering to visit the city for ages, so B and I decided to treat ourselves to a long weekend there to jointly celebrate reaching our mid 30s in fairly sound states of mind, if not body....B was plagued by a nasty cold (borderline ‘man flu’) the whole weekend, but soldiered on regardless.

After an unpleasantly early (3 am) start, we found ourselves in the middle of the MMFTW (Mass Migration For The Weekend) that is Stansted on a Saturday morning, put our heads down into the polite - yet verging on aggressive - jostle onto our easyJet flight...and were thankfully soon winging our way towards the Czech Republic. Public transport in Prague is reputed to be excellent, but we’d opted for the luxury of a private car transfer to our hotel....the fabulous, Art Deco style Radisson, which was ideally located just off Wenceslas Square (centre of New Town Prague and scene of mass demonstration during the Velvet Revolution that bade farewell to Communism in 1989). Luckily, although we were early, we were able to check-in, unload our bags and have a quick freshen up before setting out for an orientation walk.

Hotel room

Bathroom

Our first stop was the historic Old Town Square (Staroměstské náměstí), which features various architectural styles, including the gothic Týn Cathedral and baroque St. Nicholas Church. At the centre of the square is a statue of religious reformer Jan Hus, who was burned at the stake for his beliefs. Mounted on the southern wall of Old Town City Hall is the famous Astronomical Clock or Prague Orloj (Pražský orloj), a medieval astronomical clock that comprises three main components: the astronomical dial, representing the position of the Sun and Moon in the sky and displaying various astronomical details; "The Walk of the Apostles", a clockwork hourly show of figures of the Apostles and other moving sculptures, and a calendar dial with medallions representing the months.

Staroměstské náměstí

Pražský orloj

The square was filled with the smoke and smells from wooden stalls selling all sorts of Grilované Klobásy (Grilled Sausages)....very tasty when smothered with ketchup and eaten in a soft white baguette, and a handy lunch on the go...but one that would keep reminding me of its presence all afternoon and wishing I’d packed the antacid! We were in the square to watch the 2 o’clock “Walk of the Apostles".....not the most exciting parade I’ve ever seen...basically the skeleton (‘Death’) pulls the bell cord, and the apostles proceed from the left window to right... but hey, for the 14th century it must have held the equivalent wow-factor of any Hollywood blockbuster movie today.

By now B was taking strain and we decided to head back to our hotel for a rest before the evening’s activities...a medieval night at a restored tavern in the Old Town. We were met at the door of the tavern and escorted downstairs to the banqueting hall, where guests are seated at dark wooden tables, on chairs draped in rugs.

With the room lit by candlelight, the atmosphere was quite rough and romantic....hard to see anything really, but I could make out ropes and metal instruments hanging from thick beams overhead. We were served wine in thick goblets and nibbled on the not-so-medieval-looking salad platter and hunks of bread already waiting on the table. A hooded monk was strolling around, more guests began to arrive and quite soon the place was full.

Serving ‘boys’ and ‘wenches’ came around with the first of a seemingly never-ending supply of food....over the course of the evening we were served roast pork, pork knuckle, pork ribs, sausage, chicken, duck, beef goulash on rice, potatoes, spicy potato cakes, dumplings and cabbage. In true medieval style, you could eat with your hands.....but knives and forks were on the table for the more conservative diner. But the meat fest was not the best part of the evening... it was the entertainment!

As the food was served, a loud drum began to beat.....musicians came into the hall and moved up and down among the diners, playing bagpipes and drums. Then the exotic dancers made their entrance...first a belly dancer, then a series of luscious ladies accompanied by ever more dangerous ‘props’...a sword, a snake and then fire. Between the dancers' performances, sword fighting knights, and a dice-playing dwarf provided entertainment. And the platters of food kept appearing...culminating in dessert, a cake made with dates and honey.

We’d arranged a walking tour for the next morning, and we met our guide, Jiri (George), in front of the Astronomical Clock....another chance to watch the Apostles walk...or rather whirl mechanically through their parade. Accompanied by a never-ending stream of information on the history of this great city, Jiri took us through the Old Town Square, into the narrow streets leading off from it and then onto the old Jewish quarter. We stopped for an early lunch at a traditional Czech restaurant...where I sampled the local speciality, Svičková, a somewhat interesting combination of meat with a sweet, fruity sauce and whipped cream, served with dumplings. B opted for the Guláš (goulash), a wiser choice.

Svičková

Refuelled, we headed down to the Charles Bridge, which spans the River Vltava and connects the Old Town with Prague Castle. Construction of the bridge started in 1357 under the sponsorship of King Charles IV, and finished in the beginning of the 15th century. The bridge is protected by three towers, two of them on the Malá Strana (Lesser Quarter) side and the third on the Old Town side, and is decorated with 30 statues and statuaries of saints and religious scenes, most of them baroque-style. Charles Bridge famously made an appearance in the action films Mission: Impossible and XXX. Although possibly not looking its best as it is currently under repair, the bridge with its gothic towers was an impressive sight.


We crossed over to Malá Strana and began the ascent to Prague Castle...more of a palace these days, after large parts of it were destroyed in a fire in 1541, and subsequent wars. The Castle includes the spectacular gothic St Vitus Cathedral, the Romanesque Basilica of St. George, a monastery and several palaces, gardens and defence towers.

View from Prague Castle

On the way back down from the Castle, we passed the monument to the liberators of the country (1938-1945):

Our tour ended with a boat trip on the Vlatava from under Charles Bridge...not sure if it was the mulled wine they served on board or the fact that the boat was overheated, but I found myself nodding off to the soothing tones of the boat captain's voice. B was pretty much finished too after a full day out, so we crawled back to our hotel for a nap...and ended up staying in and getting room service - very expensive club sandwiches and strawberry and chocolate pyramids, but worth it for the luxury of eating them in your comfy hotel bed. The next day, there was just time for us to return to Charles Bridge and climb to the top of the Bridge Tower for some spectacular views of the Castle and the River Vlatava. A last wander through the alleys and streets of the Old Town, some quick shopping for souvenirs and then it was time to bid farewell to the beautiful city of Prague.

View from Bridge Tower top

Prague Castle and Charles Bridge

A Transylvanian Tale

Recently, B and I spent a few days in Romania....mainly in Transylvania, which was really picturesque in the snow, if a tad nippy at around minus 9°C. Romania only joined the EU in 2007, and has yet to cause a blip on the mass tourism radar. The infrastructure still leaves something to be desired, but the beautiful mountains and forests, fairy-tale castles, and medieval towns and churches of this East European country provide plenty for visitors to see and do.

We travelled as part of a small, organised group - there were 14 of us in total – and we’ve been finding this to be a relatively stress-free way of touring, usually in the company of fairly like-minded and easy going people. After a three and a half hour flight from Heathrow, we were met at Bucharest airport by Christy, our local tour guide and knower of all things remotely Romanian. We immediately drove north for about two hours to the Transylvanian village of Moeciu, which would be our base for the next three days. Our accommodation was a family-run guesthouse...fairly spartan in appearance, a bit like a ski chalet, but VERY warm, and the host was excellent, with a great sense of humour. It was late by the time we arrived and we were grateful for the hot dinner provided...a sour (but tasty) vegetable soup, followed by a pork, beef and sausage stew and apple strudel....washed down with generous quantities of homemade wine and țuică (a clear brandy, about 40% proof and typically made from plums, apples or pears). A shot of țuică is traditionally drunk in Romania before every meal, as it is reputed to increase appetite. Not being a fan of beverages that burn the living daylights out of the back of your throat while quite possibly conferring permanent liver damage, I gave it a fairly wide berth...but there were some members of the group who developed a taste for the fire-water and were happily lugging it down before, during and after meals.

The next day (New Year’s Eve) we drove to nearby Sinaia to visit Peles Castle, which resembles a Bavarian Schloss, richly decorated with stained glass, ebony and mother of pearl, and houses an impressive collection of weapons and coats of armour. Adjacent to Peles is Pelisor Castle, with its Art Deco and Art Nouveau interior.

Peles Castle

The day was rounded off with a countryside ramble in the snow to a ski base that afforded panoramic views of the surrounding mountains. After that bracing walk in subzero temperatures, we were glad to get back to the guest house, where, as a special New Year’s Eve touch, our host had lit an enormous bonfire outside and now invited us to join him by the flames for snacks and mulled tuică (warmed with sugar and pepper, and very drinkable....so drinkable, in fact, that I had two large glasses and was soon very full of festive cheer).

Glowing from the fire (that burnt from within), we staggered inside to get dressed up for the New Year’s festivities. This started with a meal around 9 p.m. that stretched until almost midnight, and comprised several courses of bread, cheeses and spreads, soup, lamb mince in cabbage parcels with sour cream, and assorted cakes. The wine and tuică were flowing freely and everyone was getting along famously, considering we had only known each other 24 hours. Just before midnight, the host asked everyone to get their coats and join him outside, where we toasted 2009 with champagne...teeth chattering as it was now a fresh minus 16°C out there... and watched the fairly spectacular displays of fireworks breaking over the neighbouring villages. Back in the warmth, someone had the bright (and no doubt tuică-fuelled) idea that we should all stay up till 2 a.m. to see in the UK’s New Year too....

After a late breakfast the next morning, we set off to meet a local forestry dude/resident expert in large carnivores who would be taking us on a forest walk...he soon arrived, complete with gun, and clearly looking as though he’d been enjoying a bit of tuică himself the night before. Romania's notorious dictator, Nicolae Ceausescu, who ruled for 25 years before the collapse of Communism, outlawed bear-hunting for all but himself and his friends. As a result, when Ceausescu was toppled and executed in 1989, the country's forests were teeming with brown bears, wolves and lynxes.

Forest Walk

We trekked through a thick, dark forest in dense snow, stopping frequently for the forester to point out signs of animal activity and regale us with tales of tourists being attacked by bears....there was no need to panic, though, as apparently it was almost always their own dumb ass fault [Here Mr Bear! Smile for the camera.... oh, look at the cute littl’ baby bears with their mommy bear....can I stroke one? Shall we give them some sandwiches... no you can't have THAT one!] It was also reassuring to hear that it was highly unlikely that we would ever get mauled by wolves....I probably heard too many fairy stories as a child, but I have always been nervous of ‘big bad wolves’....and I was convinced that I’d been hearing them howling demonically in the woods near the guesthouse the previous two nights (well, to be fair, not so much the second, but that was perhaps thanks to a deeper sleep induced by the mulled tuică-wine-champagne-more wine combo).

We learnt that, today, there are an estimated 5,500 brown bears in Romania, and that population is growing by 10%, or about 500 bears, every year. Consequently, Romania is one of the very few countries in Europe that permits limited bear-hunting during seasons that span half the year. In exchange for this rare hunting privilege, hunters pay a licence fee of between $15,000 and $25,000 per bear, depending on its size, which has been good for the tourist industry, and has brought badly needed revenues to this poor country's coffers. But the hunting policy hasn't produced adequate results. Romania allows just over 300 bear licences each year, which isn't enough to keep the population in control, and the bears are increasingly descending from the Carpathian Mountains and raiding local towns in an effort to find food. This has led to a series of unfortunate encounters between humans and bears....

Luckily, however, the only bears we encountered that day were the stuffed and mounted ones on the walls of the game restaurant where we later had lunch...and, of course, the medallions of bear on B’s plate. Sensitive vegetarians look away now...he is gradually working his way down the edibles on Noah’s list, and has so far munched crocodile, frog (legs), escargot, kangaroo, goat, horse, wild boar, springbok, kudu, ostrich, pigeon, pheasant, guinea fowl.... and now bear. Apparently the taste of the meat that day was ‘bearable’.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the medieval city of Brasov...most attractions were closed for the holiday, but we ogled the outside of the magnificent gothic Black Church and the orthodox St Nicolas Church, explored the icy cobbled streets and watched locals skating on outdoor rinks.

The Black Church, Brasov

The next day it was time to say good bye to our wonderful guesthouse host and head back to Bucharest, via Bran castle. It was a gloomy day...snow was starting to fall, and the castle, perched atop a rocky peak, was looking every bit the ‘Dracula’s Lair’ described in Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel.

Bran Castle

In truth, Bram Stoker never came near Transylvania...and the real ‘Dracula’, the 15th century Wallachian prince, Vlad Tepes, better known as Vlad the Impaler, did not reside at Bran. Although never accused of vampirism, his methods of execution....spread-eagled victims were bound and a stake hammered up their rectum, then raised aloft and left to die in agony....quickly earned him a certain notoriety. Romantic myths dispelled, it is still a fascinating castle to visit and contains some unusual artefacts, including a menu inscribed with Winston Churchill’s handwriting, drafting the divvying up of Eastern Europe with Stalin post World War 2...in the process, 90% of Romania fell under Soviet control.

'Vlad The Impaler'

The drive back to Bucharest took far longer than expected. Thanks to a horrendous traffic jam that highlighted the current inadequacies of the Romanian roads, we only got into the city by nightfall. However, our ‘ever-cool and collected’ guide did his best to still show us the main sights, notably Ceausescu’s excessive palace (now the Palace of Parliament) and Revolution Square, which is dominated by a monument known locally as 'The Potato On A Stick' and pays homage to the impaling of Communism during the most dramatic and bloodiest of all the revolutions that took place during the dismantling of the ‘Iron Curtain’.

Ceausescu’s Palace

"Potato On A Stick" Monument

There was not much time to relish the luxury of our boutique hotel - a lengthy group dinner and the walking tour of Bucharest afterwards meant we only got to bed in the early hours of the morning. We had to be up before sunrise to catch our early flight back to the UK.

All in all, it was a great way to spend New Year, in a fascinating and much underrated country.