The F Word

I finished reading How to Be a Woman by Caitlin Moran at the weekend. LOVED it. It resonated on so many levels, but one of the things that really hit home was what she had to say about being fat....

"Is the word 'fat' making you wince when you read it? Does it feel like I'm being rude, or indelicate, to say it? In the last two generations, it's become a furiously overloaded word - in a conversation, when the word 'fat' appears, it often alarms people, like a siren going off and prompts a supportive, scared flurry of dismissal  - 'You're not fat! Of course you're not fat! Babe, you're NOT FAT!' - when the person is, clearly and undeniably, fat, and just wants to discuss it"

If I had a pound for every time I'd had a conversation like that.... no, scrap that, if I'd LOST a pound for every time I'd had that conversation, I'd never have to have it again, because I'd no longer be fat. I mention to a friend that I'm on the wagon (again) and that I'm trying to lose weight (AGAIN) because I'm too fat. This is always met with a wall of denial. "Don't be silly Amy, you're not fat" "Oh pfft, you're fine as you are".

I've never been entirely sure whether people react this way because they think that's what I'm asking for. That I want them to reassure me that I'm not fat at all. But the point is that I AM. I am 5ft 7 and weigh in at 13 stone. I know that I'm not Biggest Loser material, I'm not looking to cut myself in half, but at the same time, there's no denying that both my health and my self image would improve enormously if I lost 2 - 3 stone. So, aiding me in my denial is really not want I'm asking for here.  If I mention the fact that I'm fat, it's because I want to have a conversation about it, to be open about it, to admit it and to try and move on from it.

Even before reading Moran's book I'd started to wonder whether a lot of people respond with denial because they feel uncomfortable that I have confronted them with my fatness or they're bored with me trying to lose weight (AGAIN!!) and don't really believe that I'll ever get there.  I've had a conversation in the past with one (size eight) friend where we were discussing my latest effort to lose weight and a few minutes later she OFFERED ME A BISCUIT. I'm sure she didn't mean to, but she may as well have said "Give up Fatty, there's no point in trying so you may as well stuff your face with a Garibaldi or two and stop going on about it".  It's like the F word had reacted with chemicals in her brain, creating an immediate ring fence to block it off and make sure that it didn't surface and try to mingle with her other thoughts. Was it a panic reaction? A frantic internal conversation "Oh God, she said the F word, what should I do, shit, what should I do?! OFFER FATTY A BISCUIT! Fatties love biscuits, it'll make her forget the whole thing". Or was it just a thoughtless throw away offer? I'll never know, I've never called anyone on these things, just let them slide.

And if you think that the F word is bad, how about I crack open the big one, the O word.  I'm overweight.  At one point in the not too distant past, I was obese.  That's the biggest O word of all, the one that you can't mention in polite conversation, like a fat version of the C word, you know the one I mean. It's still a giant taboo, even though it is quite literally a modern plague - why can't we talk about this?

There are only a very few people in my life that don't immediately deny my weight.  One is my friend B. She (unlike many of my friends) is not a natural size eight.  She has to work to keep herself to a size that she is happy with, and sometimes her desire for a glass (or three) of wine when she gets home from work is stronger than her desire to be a hot slim mama.  So she gets it.  She seems to understand that I'm not asking for sympathy and she therefore doesn't give it.  She understands that I'm asking for HELP and just drags me to the gym with her and gets me to crack on with it.

I'm not asking for sympathy.  I'm not asking anyone to help fuel a delusion that my weight isn't an issue, because it is and believe me I'm able to delude myself about it plenty as I'm reaching for the fourth packet of crisps out of the multipack.  It might not be an issue to you, I know you're my friends and you'd love me if I were the size of a house, but it is to me, alright?  

I don't have a conclusion to this post.  No magic bullet that'll stop me from being fat, or that will stop you from being uncomfortable when I mention it.  I'd be really interested to hear your thoughts on this subject, regardless of your dress size....

Tough Choices

Yesterday I got off the train at Farncombe, jumped straight in the car and headed off to pick up Murdoch as usual. Unfortunately I was unable to collect him, as the A3 was shut due to an earlier accident (which I think may have been fatal - gutted for everyone involved in that) so Murdoch stayed overnight at the Dog House.

I headed there this morning as usual for the 6.20am walk (don't want the boy to forget who I am!) and chatted to my dog guy (G) as we walked the usual route.

We discussed the fact that Murdoch is very very different when I'm not around.  We've had this conversation before, so this was not breaking news, but the conversation turned to the option of me changing how I am around Murdoch so that his behaviour doesn't deteriorate while I'm around.

Now I don't think that my treatment of Murdoch is anything out of the ordinary.  I'm not extraordinarily affectionate towards him - he gets stroked, he gets tummy rubs and he gets the occasional cuddle, but he's not allowed to jump up, he's not allowed on the bed or the sofa anymore, so I'm not sure what changes I could make that might make a difference.  G pointed out that if I took another dog home instead of Murdoch, I'd probably notice things that I don't do with that dog, but I do with Murdoch. 

Of course the flipside of this is the fact that I may spend the next ten years of my life with Murdoch (he's six) so do I want to (for example) never give him a cuddle on the off chance that it might improve his behaviour? How much would it need to improve his behaviour by in order to make it worth the sacrifice?

There is a big part of me that is so happy for what we've been able to achieve for Murdoch over the past few months, he is now (for the most part) merrily running around offlead with other dogs (still with a muzzle on, as he has his moments - usually when I'm around!) which was inconceivable to me even a few short weeks ago.

Then there is a small part of me that would like more for him - to be able to have him offlead, wherever I am and to feel confident that he will not try anything stupid.  In an unfamiliar environment, who knows how other, unknown dogs would react to my idiotic, boisterous dog?  It could all too easily end in tears and with Murdoch muzzled and unable to defend himself, he'd be the one that would come of worst.  In order to achieve a situation where unlimited offlead walks were possible, I'd need to look at modifying my behaviour.  Or I can continue to enjoy my dog's company as usual and know that while he can be offlead all the time that he is at the Dog House, whenever he is out and about elsewhere with me, he'll be on his lead.

Really tough choices and no answers from me as yet.......

Three reasons I love working in London

A couple of months ago I realised that my life had become pretty narrow so I left my safe little job in Godalming and headed for the Big Smoke. I feel like I'm still adjusting to the commute, but here is why I love working in the City.

1. When I can get the slightly earlier train, I have enough time to walk to work rather than taking the tube. This journey takes me along the South Bank and it is simply glorious in the sunshine.



2. Broadgate is a short walk from my office and you never know what crazy shit will be going on there in your lunchbreak. Last week there were old ladies linedancing

And yesterday there were people playing beach volleyball


You can't make this stuff up.

3. There are at least 3 branches of Starbucks within a 5 minute walk of my office. As a non coffee drinker, this took on far greater significance once my colleague introduced me to the delights of the (skinny) chai tea latte. It's a thing of delicious beauty..... *pops out for latte* Slluuuuuuuuuurppp.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

I'm Baaaaaaaaack!

I'm back! I jotted down some notes about my offline experience and here they are, somewhat in the form of disjointed ramblings.....

Friday (Day One)

Yesterday when I first thought up the idea of removing myself from my social media profile for three days, my first reaction was physical.  A fluttery feeling of panic in my belly.  And when I woke up this morning, my first thought was (as always) to grab my iPhone and check my Facebook and Twitter to get an update to start my day.  Instead, I hit the snooze button, rolled over and slept a little more.

So it's been 12 hours since I last checked my profiles and one of the things that I've noticed is that I now have the habit of noting little things about my day and thinking about them in terms of tweets or FB status updates, like "Feeling headachey and rubbish, think I might be coming down with a cold :(" or "Think I might run back to Waterloo today" or "God I'm tired". It all suddenly seems quite banal and boring - why do I need to share these things with the world?

I feel horribly disconnected.  Like all of my friends are at a party to which I haven't been invited.  And y'know what?  The party probably isn't that great, and I'll hear all about it on Monday, but until then, I'm filled with a panicky feeling of MISSING OUT. 

God it's like crack.  I can't stop thinking about it :(

There's no doubt about it, social media enhances my life. It adds interest and novelty to my day.

Wow, just read an article that contained these words.... “…a bit like sleep helps us to make sense of the day, it’s our time offline that helps us to make sense of everything online.”.  Well that about sums it up really.  I do feel as though I'm getting a clearer idea of why I like to be on Twitter / Facebook.  As someone who lives alone and sits in an office environment where my back is to the rest of my colleagues, connecting with people online makes me feel engaged and part of a wider community. It's a community that judges me on my personality (or rather those parts of my personality that I choose to share) rather than what I look like. I get a kick when someone retweets me or replies to me.  It's a SUPERkick if it happens to be someone that I don't know. It makes me feel like I'm interesting - like I'm the person at the party that has done the standout party trick.

Was quite happily getting on with my afternoon's work when I got a call from my dog guy asking if it was ok if he dropped Murdoch off at my flat, rather than waiting for me to pick him up.  This is fine, in fact it's great as it means that once I get off the train I can just stroll home and not have to worry about going to collect the dog.  But my first thought was.. "My flat is a mess!" and I really wanted to post about it, so my lovely friends and followers could reassure me that it didn't matter.  Instead, I am sitting here worrying that I may have left my pants on the floor :(

What a beautiful day.  Took the time to walk back to Waterloo from the office.  No rush, took it easy. Walked through the City and headed over the Millennium Bridge to the South Bank. It was vibing this evening, with an exciting mix of tourists and people enjoying a post-work drink in the sunshine.  The South Bank Centre in particular was packed and had loads of kids running through a sprinkler system.  We Brits know how to enjoy good weather properly!

Days Two & Three...... erm, nothing.  Not a thing occurred to me to write at all.  Didn't even think that much about what might be going on in my absence.  So I guess once you've gone through the shakes and panic of cold turkey, then it's plain sailing.

That said, I laughed an awful lot when I logged back into Facebook yesterday morning and saw what my lovely friends had been up to on my wall.... :)

A Social Experiment

I realised today that it has been more than a year since I blogged and I'm not really sure why.  I mean my last post was a cracker, covering exciting topics such as Cheryl Cole, Godalming Kebab Centre and badger news. 

Since that last post in February 2010, I’ve run two marathons, completed first a team triathlon and then a few weeks ago a solo one.  I’ve managed to find a first class dog training / walking team that have been able to put a lot of Murdoch’s problems to bed.  I’ve become an aunt, changed jobs and started commuting to London every day.  So it can’t be because I have nothing to say.

Is it because I'm used to condensing my thoughts into 140 characters for Twitter and boring people with the minutiae of my life on a more regular basis?  Is it because I already overshare on Facebook? 

Short answer: I don’t know. 

Slightly longer answer: Probably all of the above, but really I don’t know.

I guess there’s only one way to find out.  I’m going to do the unthinkable.  I’m going to go offline.

*GASP*Is this possible?  Is it wise?  Jeeeez, is it really possible?!?!?!

Short answer: I don’t know. 

But I intend to find out. It’s not forever; I’m just going to sign out of Twitter and Facebook for three days – Friday, Saturday & Sunday - and am going to see what effect it has on my life.  I’ll still be checking my email, but will turn off all notifications.

So if you see me wandering about wild eyed and twitchy over the next few days, please gently remove my iPhone from my desperately clenched hand and, if you’re feeling particularly kind, offer me a consolatory slice of cake or a cup of tea.

I’ll be back on Monday morning to see what everyone has been up to, but in the meantime, you guys are just going to have to get used to not knowing what I plan to have for dinner.

See you on the flipside….. 

Godalming

Several things have happened recently in this fair town of ours that have raised some interesting ponderings....

Firstly, how on earth is it that I didn't even know that Cheryl and Ashley Cole live here until I saw a million paps lurking outside their front gates yesterday morning?  Even being shown a picture (in Heat magazine) of Ashley coming out of the Godalming Kebab Centre didn't make me realise.  Clearly it is the most newsworthy thing to happen here of recent times - if you search for "Godalming" in Google News, most of the stories feature poor old Cheryl's marital problems.

Secondly, why the hell is it called Godalming Kebab Centre?  Most places just have a kebab shop.  I picture this place having Doner Workshops and seminars on the exact right amount of chillis and garlic mayo to put on a kebab.  Maybe Ashley wasn't texting girls asking to see their kebab, maybe he just wanted them to go get him one.

Thirdly and finally, some breaking Godalming news that is entirely unrelated to the Coles.  I was out running along Catteshall Road this evening when I came across a badger.  A freakin' badger.  Just strolling up the road without a care in the world - until it saw me stampeding up the road when frankly it froze.  I think it may have crapped itself, or that might just have been me.  I'd like to say that I calmly tipped this gracious nocturnal creature a nod but unfortunately that is not the case.  I found myself saying "Aaaaah, badger, badger, badger, BADGER, BADGEEEEEERRRRRRRR" until we both decided to run away.  I think that Cheryl may have handled it a bit better, although possibly if she'd spent a bit more time handling Ashley's badger she might not be in this mess in the first place.

More conveyancing fun

So much has happened, most of it not good at all.

Conveyancing rumbled on at the beginning of last week and by Tuesday we are the point where the only thing holding up exchange is my mortgage offer paperwork. I have been chasing Chelsea as much as possible and Mark has been liaising with the central office on my behalf. On Tuesday at 4.45pm, I am just leaving the office to go and order my kitchen from B&Q when I get a call from Mark. He wants to ask me a few questions about my bank statements. I politely point out that I have answered many, many questions about my bank statement already. In fact I spent half an hour on the phone to Claire answering questions about my bank statement. I’ve no idea why the underwriters care that I spent £7 in a kitchenware shop, but I did, and I don’t care so there *raspberry*. He then informs me that all is fine and the underwriters will now be processing the paperwork. However I’m not fooled. Claire told me the same thing when I ran through my bank statement with her WEEKS ago.

From Wednesday until Thursday I’m kept on the end of a bloody string – being given deadlines by Mark “Well we did to get this done by 10am or we won’t be able to release the funds in time” followed by “well we can still do it via telegraphic transfer, but it will cost you an extra £25” (I told him where he could stick his £25). All this time, apparently, the underwriters are chasing up with the compliance department, who for all I know have serious concerns over the fact that I once spent 99p on a lolly.

Apparently Chelsea could have got the paperwork, exchanged and completed on Friday, but in the end I called it off at 4.30 on Thursday when the papers were not through.

To add insult to injury. POP rang me on Friday to tell me that after I’d damn near given myself a stroke getting all the papers sorted out in time, my buyers couldn’t release the funds in time to exchange that day. At this point I strapped on my angry eyes and considered (for the first time, but not the last) going on a mad axe rampage.

The weekend passed, I did a bit of halfhearted packing (by this point, I have actually stopped believing that I will ever get to move) and before I knew it, we were at Monday morning. I feel quite cheerful. Today is the day. I will exchange and then everything is ok for completion on Wednesday. Easy peasy. I call my solicitor first thing to get him on the case. He tells me that he is waiting to hear from the buyers’ solicitor on whether they are able to release the deposit funds for exchange. I suggest that he chase them up on that – he says that he will if he hasn’t heard anything by lunchtime. Useless eejit. Does he have more hours in the day than the rest of us? Only thing I can think of to explain the complete lack of urgency attached to everything.

I call him mid afternoon when I have heard nothing. He tells me that he chased up (Not sure when – 1 or maybe 2ish, lalalalaaaa) and has not heard back from the other solicitor. A vein starts to slowly throb in my forehead. I stress the importance of exchanging today. In one ear and out the other. I’m starting to really hate this man.

At 5pm I get another call from him. He has received a call from the other solicitor and wanted to check with me if I was still ok to complete on Wednesday. WHAT THE F@CK IS HE WAITING FOR? A GOLDPLATED INVITATION???!!!! JUST EFFING EXCHANGE, I HAVE BEEN CHASING YOU ALL DAY! DON’T YOU THINK I MIGHT HAVE MENTIONED IT IF I WANTED TO CHANGE THE EFFING COMPLETION DATE???!!!! I then receive another call from him at 5.30 explaining that he has been unable to contact the other solicitor and there will be no exchange of contracts today. Frankly I lose it. I tell him to make sure the exchange happens tomorrow by 10am – no pissing around waiting till lunchtime – just GET THE EFFING JOB DONE! I point out that this is costing me extra money – we’re now looking at the telegraphic transfer, and given that there was no earthly reason why we couldn’t have exchanged, I am appalled at the abysmal service. He did not know what to say. I get off the phone, tell my dad the bad news, hang up and cry and cry and cry for about 10 minutes. Murdoch licks my face to try and cheer me up.

I fail to understand why this has to be so difficult? I think these people have law degrees written on the back of a McDonalds napkin in pink crayon. I cannot believe that anyone who has enough passion, commitment, drive and intelligence to get through law school could be so incompetent. It’s just a mystery to me.

So this morning I send Loveless an email to reiterate that I expect exchange to happen by 10am today. Frankly by this point I don’t care what he has to do to achieve this. If he has to run up Haslemere High Street with his chap hanging out, I don’t care - whatever it takes. I go into a meeting at 9.30am and come out to a voicemail message telling me that the buyer is now on board but they are having trouble contacting the people that I am buying from. Good job it was a voicemail or I would have gone ballistic. The vein from yesterday is still throbbing in my forehead and anyone that knows me knows not to mess with the vein. It is a harbinger of doom. I also have a message from my dad. He tells me that he has spoken to Loveless and instructed him to go ahead and exchange as soon as possible, no need to ring me up and check.

12:10 I get a call from Loveless. My heart beats faster in my chest. Unfortunately this only causes the vein to throb harder when Loveless tells me that they are ready to exchange and he is just ringing me to check that I am still ok to go ahead. WHAT THE [insert your favourite expletives here]. I calmly told him to just get the bloody job done.

12:22 I get another call. We’ve exchanged – about effing time too.