Sunday, August 17, 2008
Sons, friends and lovers
There is nothing like spending time with an old friend to make you feel reassured and warm inside.
We have had a lovely weekend, with my dear pal from student days and her three gorgeous boys. Babe didn’t know himself and had the time of his life, running around after them. ‘Guys!’ he kept calling, and paddle-paddle-run-trip-splat went his little feet, in hot pursuit. Never before has he had three chums to play with from the crack of dawn. He was overwhelmed, loved every minute and cried his heart out when they left.
Apart from making life feel Great Fun and most holiday-ish for a few days, which is just what we needed, it also gave Other Half and I a useful insight into life with More Than One. Golly! I thought we were running a tight ship, or whatever the expression is, but she is running something of much greater depth and magnitude. Respect! (Generally-speaking, by the way, my use of expressions, similes and the like is down the pan, thanks to Other Half. In his country, you run like a horse where we run like the wind, swim like an otter, and a car in the hand is worth three on the road, or something like that. These days I talk of feathers in my bonnet, bees in my cap and top potatoes instead of top bananas…)
When they arrived and jumped out of the bus outside our house, my first thought was, ‘Three tiggers!’. Gosh, such a lot of bounce. You have to have eyes all the way round your head, not just at the front and back. I found myself wanting to nod in time with some kind of invisible human biorhythm, just to keep up with the life force and energy they exude. And do the hippy hippy shake on the spot, to keep up with their literal, physical, wonderful, being aliveness.
There was a time when I had bounce. Would be the first onto the dance floor and the last off; run home instead of catching the bus, impatient to be doing something else to fill the time between after work and bed, and spend weekends walking up hill and down dale, come wind or shine. These days, I guess it inhabits a different dimension. I bounce back more easily. Smile and laugh and lot and navel gaze a lot less. (Trust me, this blog is nothing by comparison.) But I would like to re-capture some physical sparkle. I am in fact saving up for some swimming lessons that will help motivate me to up the ante in my fitness stakes.
But back to the boys, and their joie de vivre. Such wit! Laughter and intelligence in buckets. (Is that expression right as well? I have a feeling it should be spades, or droves.) And so street-wise. I must do more to keep abreast of trends that will make Babe feel assured of his own street-cred as he gets older. I lost mine some time ago, I fear. If I ever had any - and I don’t want to be a mum he’s embarrassed to be seen with, as his dad is sure to humiliate him publicly all the time. If that sounds a bit mean, just go with me on this one. If he’s jumping over park fences instead of using the gates now, taking potatoes from home for the pigs at the city farm in spite of the notices forbidding this behaviour, and singing ‘I’m a Barbie girl’ as he walks round Tescos, just imagine what babe has lying in store for him, poor thing.
We were entranced and I could see Other Half thinking, ‘This is what I want. A houseful. To feel completely, all-consumingly alive.’ He is one of thirteen siblings and says he’d like us to have a similarly large brood. ‘In your dreams,’ I have replied tartly on the many occasions that he brings this up. But, as one of four, I know what he means. What is life about, if it’s not about family, love and laughter? (Ok, and kicking the living daylights out of one another at times as well.) Living well into the moment, instead of the past or the future.
I was thinking, ‘This could be what I want. But if I never get it, or decide not to go for it, I could be very happy sharing other people’s from time to time.’ This realisation has left me in a very calm and happy place. Taken the pressure off. Left me caring less that all my friends seem to be pregnant again now, just as I’m starting to enjoy life again, and get a little more sleep, and feel in no hurry to further procreate. Que sera, sera, and all that.
Really, it was quite the nicest weekend I’ve had in years.
We have had a lovely weekend, with my dear pal from student days and her three gorgeous boys. Babe didn’t know himself and had the time of his life, running around after them. ‘Guys!’ he kept calling, and paddle-paddle-run-trip-splat went his little feet, in hot pursuit. Never before has he had three chums to play with from the crack of dawn. He was overwhelmed, loved every minute and cried his heart out when they left.
Apart from making life feel Great Fun and most holiday-ish for a few days, which is just what we needed, it also gave Other Half and I a useful insight into life with More Than One. Golly! I thought we were running a tight ship, or whatever the expression is, but she is running something of much greater depth and magnitude. Respect! (Generally-speaking, by the way, my use of expressions, similes and the like is down the pan, thanks to Other Half. In his country, you run like a horse where we run like the wind, swim like an otter, and a car in the hand is worth three on the road, or something like that. These days I talk of feathers in my bonnet, bees in my cap and top potatoes instead of top bananas…)
When they arrived and jumped out of the bus outside our house, my first thought was, ‘Three tiggers!’. Gosh, such a lot of bounce. You have to have eyes all the way round your head, not just at the front and back. I found myself wanting to nod in time with some kind of invisible human biorhythm, just to keep up with the life force and energy they exude. And do the hippy hippy shake on the spot, to keep up with their literal, physical, wonderful, being aliveness.
There was a time when I had bounce. Would be the first onto the dance floor and the last off; run home instead of catching the bus, impatient to be doing something else to fill the time between after work and bed, and spend weekends walking up hill and down dale, come wind or shine. These days, I guess it inhabits a different dimension. I bounce back more easily. Smile and laugh and lot and navel gaze a lot less. (Trust me, this blog is nothing by comparison.) But I would like to re-capture some physical sparkle. I am in fact saving up for some swimming lessons that will help motivate me to up the ante in my fitness stakes.
But back to the boys, and their joie de vivre. Such wit! Laughter and intelligence in buckets. (Is that expression right as well? I have a feeling it should be spades, or droves.) And so street-wise. I must do more to keep abreast of trends that will make Babe feel assured of his own street-cred as he gets older. I lost mine some time ago, I fear. If I ever had any - and I don’t want to be a mum he’s embarrassed to be seen with, as his dad is sure to humiliate him publicly all the time. If that sounds a bit mean, just go with me on this one. If he’s jumping over park fences instead of using the gates now, taking potatoes from home for the pigs at the city farm in spite of the notices forbidding this behaviour, and singing ‘I’m a Barbie girl’ as he walks round Tescos, just imagine what babe has lying in store for him, poor thing.
We were entranced and I could see Other Half thinking, ‘This is what I want. A houseful. To feel completely, all-consumingly alive.’ He is one of thirteen siblings and says he’d like us to have a similarly large brood. ‘In your dreams,’ I have replied tartly on the many occasions that he brings this up. But, as one of four, I know what he means. What is life about, if it’s not about family, love and laughter? (Ok, and kicking the living daylights out of one another at times as well.) Living well into the moment, instead of the past or the future.
I was thinking, ‘This could be what I want. But if I never get it, or decide not to go for it, I could be very happy sharing other people’s from time to time.’ This realisation has left me in a very calm and happy place. Taken the pressure off. Left me caring less that all my friends seem to be pregnant again now, just as I’m starting to enjoy life again, and get a little more sleep, and feel in no hurry to further procreate. Que sera, sera, and all that.
Really, it was quite the nicest weekend I’ve had in years.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Spoons
I’m a happy bunny today! Babe slept all night, like a rock, and so did I. Too tired and rock-like to argue with Other Half about who was crossing the imaginary line down the middle of the bed, or whether or not it was fair of me to need to sleep in a star-shape or the recovery position (my two favourites). Grandad has been to stay for two nights, which means that Other Half and I have been sleeping in the same bed for three (clean bed made up in spare room night before of course :)).
Do real couples actually spoon, I wonder? Don’t they get as hot as hell? The most I can tolerate is other half resting his foot on mine – and that only works when I’m making like a star. If anyone so much as lays a finger on me when I’m in the recovery position I growl like a bear.
Anyway… it has been a joy to see Babe playing with my dad. He is the ultimate eccentric, beyond unorthodox and as funny and as annoying as you’d wish any person to be. I wasn’t sure how either would find the encounter. But seeing them together (dad lying on the cold kitchen tiles because that’s where Babe was sitting and shouting ‘book!’) has reminded me of many good childhood memories of my dad. Fun and laughter in abundance. Never, ever, dull:
Party games which stretched kids to their physical and mental limits; Christmas encounters with Santa’s dwarves on the top of multi-storey car parks; long car drives wiggling Vik inhalers stuck up his nose and waving at other drivers; ghost stories on holiday that had all us bundling in with him for the night (because he had scared himself witless) – and I’ve never heard another dad scream, ‘Run for your lives!’, drop his kids’ hands and hurtle himself into a parade of Rhododendrons at the approach of a flock of Canadian geese in the park. One day I will write a series of children’s books, full of these stories. They will be called ‘Adventures with Mr D’, and will make us both rich and famous.
It’s a shame that Babe doesn’t see more of his extended family. What child doesn’t revel in the attention? There’s no such thing as too much love. I realise how different things would be if we lived near Other Half’s family. Aunts, uncles, cousins in abundance. It would give me a nervous breakdown, as I’m typically English and like my own space, but there’d be no such thing as childcare worries, or lack of sleep. My sister-in-law gave birth a few weeks after I did, and the females of the family (females, yes, and they all work) took it in turns to sleep in a chair by her bed in hospital for the days she was in; her mum slept on the sofa for the next two weeks to make sure she got enough sleep and her sister now looks after the little boy every afternoon so that she could return to work. I don’t think she’s had to cook a meal since little Alexandro was born. As I say, it’s all swings and roundabouts, and there’s a lot more I could discuss on the subject, but it’s interesting that in this country you’re not allowed to have anyone stay the night with you in hospital. Great start.
Back to Babe and our sleep. Not only did he sleep through ‘til six, he then slept in bed with us for an hour until seven! Unheard of! Rejoice! This means he’ll be due his nap when I pick him up from nursery at lunch-time. Hoorah! Of course it also means that between six at seven I didn’t dare move, and at half past six had to wake Other Half without stirring Babe. Ten prods with my big toe did it. He slithered out and landed gently on the floor. Picked up his clothes and crawled around the bed, so that if Babe opened his eyes, he wouldn’t see him there and howl. We held hands briefly, and he was off.
So, you may have inferred that the deadlock at home is broken. I’m not sure if either of us gave in first - I think we just decided to have a good shag and then everything was ok again. Other Half immediately perked up (so to speak), and cleaned the house for me, as I was “feeling extremely poorly and unloved”, and then gave me a lovely massage, as I was “still fit to drop” and then Babe and I watched through the window as he hoovered the car.
We have yet to fully the resolve the issue of whether I am his ‘number one’ or not – aha! Now I remember, that’s how the argument started: when he said Babe was his priority, at which I hit the roof and bought a massive t-shirt with ‘Number 2’ emblazoned on the front – but I might let it go for a while as, at the end of the day, actions speak louder than words, and he’s being extremely nice at the moment.
Roll on, weekend! Aubergines ahoy!
Do real couples actually spoon, I wonder? Don’t they get as hot as hell? The most I can tolerate is other half resting his foot on mine – and that only works when I’m making like a star. If anyone so much as lays a finger on me when I’m in the recovery position I growl like a bear.
Anyway… it has been a joy to see Babe playing with my dad. He is the ultimate eccentric, beyond unorthodox and as funny and as annoying as you’d wish any person to be. I wasn’t sure how either would find the encounter. But seeing them together (dad lying on the cold kitchen tiles because that’s where Babe was sitting and shouting ‘book!’) has reminded me of many good childhood memories of my dad. Fun and laughter in abundance. Never, ever, dull:
Party games which stretched kids to their physical and mental limits; Christmas encounters with Santa’s dwarves on the top of multi-storey car parks; long car drives wiggling Vik inhalers stuck up his nose and waving at other drivers; ghost stories on holiday that had all us bundling in with him for the night (because he had scared himself witless) – and I’ve never heard another dad scream, ‘Run for your lives!’, drop his kids’ hands and hurtle himself into a parade of Rhododendrons at the approach of a flock of Canadian geese in the park. One day I will write a series of children’s books, full of these stories. They will be called ‘Adventures with Mr D’, and will make us both rich and famous.
It’s a shame that Babe doesn’t see more of his extended family. What child doesn’t revel in the attention? There’s no such thing as too much love. I realise how different things would be if we lived near Other Half’s family. Aunts, uncles, cousins in abundance. It would give me a nervous breakdown, as I’m typically English and like my own space, but there’d be no such thing as childcare worries, or lack of sleep. My sister-in-law gave birth a few weeks after I did, and the females of the family (females, yes, and they all work) took it in turns to sleep in a chair by her bed in hospital for the days she was in; her mum slept on the sofa for the next two weeks to make sure she got enough sleep and her sister now looks after the little boy every afternoon so that she could return to work. I don’t think she’s had to cook a meal since little Alexandro was born. As I say, it’s all swings and roundabouts, and there’s a lot more I could discuss on the subject, but it’s interesting that in this country you’re not allowed to have anyone stay the night with you in hospital. Great start.
Back to Babe and our sleep. Not only did he sleep through ‘til six, he then slept in bed with us for an hour until seven! Unheard of! Rejoice! This means he’ll be due his nap when I pick him up from nursery at lunch-time. Hoorah! Of course it also means that between six at seven I didn’t dare move, and at half past six had to wake Other Half without stirring Babe. Ten prods with my big toe did it. He slithered out and landed gently on the floor. Picked up his clothes and crawled around the bed, so that if Babe opened his eyes, he wouldn’t see him there and howl. We held hands briefly, and he was off.
So, you may have inferred that the deadlock at home is broken. I’m not sure if either of us gave in first - I think we just decided to have a good shag and then everything was ok again. Other Half immediately perked up (so to speak), and cleaned the house for me, as I was “feeling extremely poorly and unloved”, and then gave me a lovely massage, as I was “still fit to drop” and then Babe and I watched through the window as he hoovered the car.
We have yet to fully the resolve the issue of whether I am his ‘number one’ or not – aha! Now I remember, that’s how the argument started: when he said Babe was his priority, at which I hit the roof and bought a massive t-shirt with ‘Number 2’ emblazoned on the front – but I might let it go for a while as, at the end of the day, actions speak louder than words, and he’s being extremely nice at the moment.
Roll on, weekend! Aubergines ahoy!
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Sex in the city
I saw the Red Arrows today. My God, they're good. I swear there wasn't a woman in the crowd who wasn't thinking, consciously or otherwise, 'Get me a pilot for a right old rogering, now!'. Well, that's what I was thinking anyway.
There is something terrifically sexy about the control, tension and speed; those perfect formations - and the tinge of fear where they shoot close and noisily overhead. The atmosphere was subtly heightened by the general 'Ooohing and ahhhing' that was going on and I joined in with gusto, noticing from the corner of my eye that Other Half glanced at me suspiciously more than once. I must visit their website later.
I guess failing a pilot, someone dressed up as a pilot would do. Strong and silent and, I don’t know, powerful. (And wearing a helmet, or goggles and hat or thick scarf at least – this would have to be an anonymous encounter of course.) Other Half is strong (and particularly silent of late – more on that later). He’d be a liability to the red arrows, though, as is in no way a team player. He’d be the joker who gets expelled from the troupe for letting off orange smoke in the middle of their red, white and blue, and impersonating a solo flight of the bumble bee while they execute a perfectly-formed cupid’s heart. He’d hang back as they zoom forwards, then start to speed up as they slow down. I can see it now – an aerial version of the way we progress down the street.
I am generally several steps ahead of him (literally and metaphorically, and it’s not out of choice, you understand), and I just can’t bear to dawdle. He, on the other hand, walks at a snail’s pace unless I want to take in the scenery, in which case he will declare himself hungry or in need of a toilet and force us to move on quickly. I realise, writing this, that there was in fact a time when, despite our differences in tempo, we would walk around hand in hand. The closest we get to that these days is swinging Babe between us in an attempt to get him to speed up. Blinking heck, too much of life is spent hanging around waiting, or trying to catch up, but to escape it - how? Live in south-east Asia?
Hum. Back to the pilots. Much more fun and I’m not in the mood for nostalgia – I’m in a bad mood on purpose, original reason now forgotten, but cannot back down first as am on strike from being the first one to say sorry. Yes, that’s how grown up things are chez moi at the moment. And now, darn it, I just can’t get back into the swing of my earlier sense of frissance, as I’ve noticed my initial assumption that all pilots are male, and am also starting to feel worried by my use of the word ‘powerful’. I think I had better take some feminist theory to bed with me tonight.
So, any readers out there wondering whether I might be prepared to take it all the way with a red arrow can be reassured that no, of course I wouldn’t. Because it’s rare for me to go with flow and stop analysing what I’m doing and why. Plus it would, of course, be highly immoral.
You lot go to bed, and I’ll surf awhile…
There is something terrifically sexy about the control, tension and speed; those perfect formations - and the tinge of fear where they shoot close and noisily overhead. The atmosphere was subtly heightened by the general 'Ooohing and ahhhing' that was going on and I joined in with gusto, noticing from the corner of my eye that Other Half glanced at me suspiciously more than once. I must visit their website later.
I guess failing a pilot, someone dressed up as a pilot would do. Strong and silent and, I don’t know, powerful. (And wearing a helmet, or goggles and hat or thick scarf at least – this would have to be an anonymous encounter of course.) Other Half is strong (and particularly silent of late – more on that later). He’d be a liability to the red arrows, though, as is in no way a team player. He’d be the joker who gets expelled from the troupe for letting off orange smoke in the middle of their red, white and blue, and impersonating a solo flight of the bumble bee while they execute a perfectly-formed cupid’s heart. He’d hang back as they zoom forwards, then start to speed up as they slow down. I can see it now – an aerial version of the way we progress down the street.
I am generally several steps ahead of him (literally and metaphorically, and it’s not out of choice, you understand), and I just can’t bear to dawdle. He, on the other hand, walks at a snail’s pace unless I want to take in the scenery, in which case he will declare himself hungry or in need of a toilet and force us to move on quickly. I realise, writing this, that there was in fact a time when, despite our differences in tempo, we would walk around hand in hand. The closest we get to that these days is swinging Babe between us in an attempt to get him to speed up. Blinking heck, too much of life is spent hanging around waiting, or trying to catch up, but to escape it - how? Live in south-east Asia?
Hum. Back to the pilots. Much more fun and I’m not in the mood for nostalgia – I’m in a bad mood on purpose, original reason now forgotten, but cannot back down first as am on strike from being the first one to say sorry. Yes, that’s how grown up things are chez moi at the moment. And now, darn it, I just can’t get back into the swing of my earlier sense of frissance, as I’ve noticed my initial assumption that all pilots are male, and am also starting to feel worried by my use of the word ‘powerful’. I think I had better take some feminist theory to bed with me tonight.
So, any readers out there wondering whether I might be prepared to take it all the way with a red arrow can be reassured that no, of course I wouldn’t. Because it’s rare for me to go with flow and stop analysing what I’m doing and why. Plus it would, of course, be highly immoral.
You lot go to bed, and I’ll surf awhile…
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Apologies...
...for not updating this blog for the last couple of weeks. We are seeing a Sleep Specialist and I am focussing my every waking effort on getting through the day and hitting the sack as soon after Babe as I can.
I am also in a very dark and fed up mood, wondering where my life is going, how many years of my career (if you can call it that) are going to be interrupted by motherhood, how I can be more positive and put myself forward at work when the possibilities are few and far between, how will I ever be able to change jobs when I'm stuck in the trap of working part-time in an office down the road from nursery and where I live for quite a good salary, and when will I be able to afford to get my hair done. Etc.
In fact, now that I have just read that through I am feeling even more fed up. I fancy packing up the contents of our house and moving to live on the other side of the world. But as we generally rely on my salary that would hardly be a holiday for me. I need a new life, new aspirations, a change in focus, a new body, a new Cunning Plan.
I think it is time to start buying lottery tickets. And in the meantime perhaps I can flog Other Half's tap shoes on ebay to pay for my highlights.
I will endeavour to share the delights of sticker charts and power struggles with you all, dear readers, by this weekend. xxxxxxxxxxxx
I am also in a very dark and fed up mood, wondering where my life is going, how many years of my career (if you can call it that) are going to be interrupted by motherhood, how I can be more positive and put myself forward at work when the possibilities are few and far between, how will I ever be able to change jobs when I'm stuck in the trap of working part-time in an office down the road from nursery and where I live for quite a good salary, and when will I be able to afford to get my hair done. Etc.
In fact, now that I have just read that through I am feeling even more fed up. I fancy packing up the contents of our house and moving to live on the other side of the world. But as we generally rely on my salary that would hardly be a holiday for me. I need a new life, new aspirations, a change in focus, a new body, a new Cunning Plan.
I think it is time to start buying lottery tickets. And in the meantime perhaps I can flog Other Half's tap shoes on ebay to pay for my highlights.
I will endeavour to share the delights of sticker charts and power struggles with you all, dear readers, by this weekend. xxxxxxxxxxxx
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Belly buttons and shirt-lifting
The other thing Babe has noticed is belly-buttons. And he can more or less say that, too. Although it sounds a bit like ‘bliggy buttoms’. But he doesn’t seem to get that they are generally located on - aha! - your belly. Instead, he has become obsessed with trying to gain access to your back, so that he can lift your top and see if he can spot a belly button there.
At home, this seemed like harmless enough fun. But at nursery it is another matter entirely. He has made himself unpopular with all his little friends, by chasing them around, trying to lift their shirts. And was socked on the jaw by one little girl when he tried lifting her skirt. Clearly the carers have had enough of it too, as they’re constantly having to pull him off the other kids, and the implication is that this behaviour is both uncommon and odd. I feel obliged to reassure them that at home he has not witnessed Other half and I crawling around the floor, lifting one another’s shirts, and looking for new crevices we can stick our little fingers into, but you can feel their scepticism as you blather on, and the brains behind the raised eyebrows wondering where he’s learnt to behave like this if we haven’t taught him.
Yesterday, he upped the ante and played in a whole new way that has been recorded (so I was told in a private meeting) in the ‘abnormal behaviour book’. It seems he was simulating sex with a small plastic doll, rubbing his face into hers, and lifting his shirt and rubbing his tummy against her plastic one. Poor little mite – I must introduce more sensory pleasure into his routine. And double check that he hasn’t tuned into a pornographic channel that we’ve yet to discover, with the remote.
It would be nice if he could do something a little more normal. The folk at nursery already know we listen to Greek music at home, smash plates, roast lambs in the back garden and worship the television, decorating it with doilies and ornaments on top. I’m worried that we’ll get social workers on our case if we’re not careful.
If anyone has read a book on how to make your child kick and bite, please let me know.
At home, this seemed like harmless enough fun. But at nursery it is another matter entirely. He has made himself unpopular with all his little friends, by chasing them around, trying to lift their shirts. And was socked on the jaw by one little girl when he tried lifting her skirt. Clearly the carers have had enough of it too, as they’re constantly having to pull him off the other kids, and the implication is that this behaviour is both uncommon and odd. I feel obliged to reassure them that at home he has not witnessed Other half and I crawling around the floor, lifting one another’s shirts, and looking for new crevices we can stick our little fingers into, but you can feel their scepticism as you blather on, and the brains behind the raised eyebrows wondering where he’s learnt to behave like this if we haven’t taught him.
Yesterday, he upped the ante and played in a whole new way that has been recorded (so I was told in a private meeting) in the ‘abnormal behaviour book’. It seems he was simulating sex with a small plastic doll, rubbing his face into hers, and lifting his shirt and rubbing his tummy against her plastic one. Poor little mite – I must introduce more sensory pleasure into his routine. And double check that he hasn’t tuned into a pornographic channel that we’ve yet to discover, with the remote.
It would be nice if he could do something a little more normal. The folk at nursery already know we listen to Greek music at home, smash plates, roast lambs in the back garden and worship the television, decorating it with doilies and ornaments on top. I’m worried that we’ll get social workers on our case if we’re not careful.
If anyone has read a book on how to make your child kick and bite, please let me know.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Apologies
I'm sorry I didn't update my blog last week. I was at a wonderful festival, feeling utterly miserable as it dawned on me that looking after a toddler on a camp-site would be no less labour intensive than it is at home. Instead of meditating, ecstatic dancing and sitting in a late-night hot tob under the stars, I was tiptoeing around sleeping campers with a muddy, dew-damp Babe and his football at dawn; developing a terrible knee injury thanks to the wet conditions and the fact that I was carrying him everywhere instead of pushing him in the buggy; struggling to find vegan food that he didn't spit out in embarrassing disgust, and by the end of day one feeling generally pissed off with the World At Large.
Other Half came to relieve me on the last day, but the Thai massage I'd booked for myself was nothing short of agony, as my exhausted body told me in no uncertain terms that I am in need of complete and utter re-conditioning. Plus it seems that these days you're expected to undress completely without so much as a blanket to conceal your privates, ahead of your massage, and thanks to the fact that the masseur in question had a faulty zip on his tent door, quite a few people wandering by got a view of said privates when leg was raised in said agonising postures that not even Other Half has had for some years now. I thought it was ok to be modest, and not to want to reveal yourself to anyone you happen to be paying to lay hands on you? Is nothing sacred any more?
I feel ancient, out of touch and in need of six months at an expensive spa. Instead, I have emailed a local Buddhist group, asking if they will waive the fee they usually charge for drop-in meditation so that I can get a weekly fix of feeling calm and as though I'm coping. (Since when did it cost to pray? Am suprised and saddened by state of world.)
In order to bring love and good energy back into my home, I am going to build a healing pyramid on the decking in the back garden. (As it happens, the decking is our back garden and I think aformetioned healing vortex may enrage Other Half and result in temporary karmic deficit but hey, needs must...) You probably think this is a joke but it is not. I will keep you posted on my progress. Am off to find tape measure and string before practising yogic poses that will apparently get energy flowing through my body - whahay! - and then breathing pranic life force into my knee joints. The mind boggles.
Other Half came to relieve me on the last day, but the Thai massage I'd booked for myself was nothing short of agony, as my exhausted body told me in no uncertain terms that I am in need of complete and utter re-conditioning. Plus it seems that these days you're expected to undress completely without so much as a blanket to conceal your privates, ahead of your massage, and thanks to the fact that the masseur in question had a faulty zip on his tent door, quite a few people wandering by got a view of said privates when leg was raised in said agonising postures that not even Other Half has had for some years now. I thought it was ok to be modest, and not to want to reveal yourself to anyone you happen to be paying to lay hands on you? Is nothing sacred any more?
I feel ancient, out of touch and in need of six months at an expensive spa. Instead, I have emailed a local Buddhist group, asking if they will waive the fee they usually charge for drop-in meditation so that I can get a weekly fix of feeling calm and as though I'm coping. (Since when did it cost to pray? Am suprised and saddened by state of world.)
In order to bring love and good energy back into my home, I am going to build a healing pyramid on the decking in the back garden. (As it happens, the decking is our back garden and I think aformetioned healing vortex may enrage Other Half and result in temporary karmic deficit but hey, needs must...) You probably think this is a joke but it is not. I will keep you posted on my progress. Am off to find tape measure and string before practising yogic poses that will apparently get energy flowing through my body - whahay! - and then breathing pranic life force into my knee joints. The mind boggles.
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