Curtain Twitchers

Waaaay back I used to get asked why I left sunny Belfast for English shores - sure, didn't Ireland have the sea and the mountains and the beaches and the green green pastures and er... endless rain? What's not to love?

Back then, I didn't appreciate the beauty of Ireland, the charm of it's sometimes parochial ways and the friendliness of the people. Instead, I loathed the politics of the place - sick to the back teeth of the never ending war, the narrow minded attitudes of the Catholic church and most of all the nosiness of one's neighbours. People commented on everything, passed their time staring over the fence and spreading gossip like wildfire. In fact when I was only 6 a woman who lived at the top of my street spread such venomous and frankly insane rumours about me to the point my Father had to take her aside whispering talk of lawyers and slander. Her loud mouth finally shut. Looking back, who trashes a 6 year old - just because she has happened to join the same school as your daughter?

So, post school aged 18 I fled to the big smoke, delighted to be anonymous and forgotten amongst the millions. There was no more gossip and comments about my Mother living in sin with a man, no more checking on who drove what car, could afford what house, was seeing which man. In a moment it stopped. I felt free, optimistic and above all inspired by the busy buzzy streets around me, the multi-cultured lifestyles and people. I felt at home.

Loathe as I was to do it, I left London in 2008. House prices and lack of decent schools drove me out. Only the mega rich can afford to live there any more - it is a sad indictment of our times that 50,000 families have been shipped out of there in the last three years and a third of the entire population there want to move out - as 54% feel their mortgage or rent is creating untold stress.

So I found a leafy pretty little market town that my best friend had moved to a year previously. It ticked all the boxes and we moved into a 3 bed Victorian semi and spent the first year regretting it. Had I moved into a Daily-Mail-reading Tory-loving up-their-own-arses village? The first function I attended there, I was ignored by most of the pressed-linen wearing women, or grilled about my job by the men to the point I could see them putting me into my 'box.' I was the only woman wearing Converse and drinking beer from a bottle. The folk at that tedious BBQ hosted by the people we bought our house from, were at best insipid and at worse dull and money/status fixated. I wheeled my 2 year old home in his buggy and cried.

But eventually I met some like minded folk, especially in the last year - and they have raised my spirits enormously; they drink too much, swear like sailors and like me, feel they have yet to grow up.

On a whim we put our house on the market the week before Xmas. I know. Who does that - right? Insane-o people obviously - because no fecker wants to buy a house before Xmas. Thing is, we saw one we liked - kind of by accident and so we rushed to move forward with the whole selling/buying nightmare. My house had not been on sale for more than 12 hours when I walked up to school on Friday 11th December through the rain, with a mere day to make my home 'sellable.' On route to and from school I ran into 3 people I know and all 3 said 'I see your house is up for sale.' There wasn't even a sign outside the front door! Clearly they had discovered this from the might Rightmove... One commented that they knew the house I was hoping to buy, but I probably 'wouldn't get it' and 'you never do.' Whatever hope and positivity I had was lost by the time I made my breakfast that day.

Husband took our son to a couple of sporting events over Xmas and had more than a dozen people accost him with questions on 'where are you planning to go?' Etc. With the advent of Rightmove - I am certain that everyone I know has now had a good look at my loo, bedroom and 'oh I don't like the rug in her lounge do you? Too garish...'

People don't even wish you a happy new year or ask how your Xmas has gone - no, they just launch into such chat as 'I considered seeing the house you are going for but no... don't want it' with a wrinkle of their nose. Or 'Have you had an offer yet?' *fake sympathy* 'Oh that's a shame...' Then - 'Has the one you want had offers?' If you say 'no' they roll off a list of why then it isn't a good buy - otherwise why hasn't it been snapped up? If you say 'yes' they are wide eyed and reply 'yeah, you probably won't get it then...'  Such joy! Such warmth! Such supportive attitudes!

The curtain twitching brigade, or rather the Rightmove junkies, are in their element. They know what you house is worth 'over priced if you ask me...' and know what you can afford, 'I mean really, it's a 1960s horror...' and have opinions on all. It feels like the nightmare where you are naked at school and you can't wake up.

What does it remind me of? The blatant nosiness, the barely concealed jealousy, the judgement, the speculation? Yup Belfast. The place I wanted to leave behind. I'm suddenly back in 1986 but with the internet to divulge even more information about my life. (I know this has a twisted logic when I do in fact blog about my life - but in doing so I feel I choose what I share - and in that, it gives me my own control in a bizarre way).

Maybe if we don't sell our house, if we don't buy across the canal, then the writing is on the wall and it is time to go back to the place with the sea, the mountains, the green green pastures and the endless rain. At least there it's better the devil you know. Curtain twitchers, be damned. 

Hello 2016....

It's January so the papers and rags are filled with obligatory shots of gym bunnies and relentless articles on hot 'new' diets that pledge to revolutionise our bodies if we eat some seeds and nuts and drink vegetable smoothies until we are a walking colonic.  What I find hilarious about them all - is essentially they are all saying the same thing, dressed up in fancy new ways: eat more veg, drink more water, run around more and you will feel better. Any fool can see that a diet of cake and burgers isn't going to shift the tyre around your middle.

I'm not stupid enough to limit myself for eternity to eating no carbs and ignoring the call of a freshly baked carrot cake - so I'm going Bear Grylls. No, I'm not going to drink my own piss and forage for snails in the garden - I'm doing the 80/20 idea. So Mon - Fri I will be virtuous and Sat/Sun show me the pizza! Husband says that with my daily Nutri bullet shake (TIP - add protein powder for a creamy fab shake - and less water) and my lunch of courgetti and crab with lemon and chilli - I have a fairly balanced diet anyway. So why is it so hard these days to shift 6 pounds? Because dear readers, I am over 40 - when your metabolism slows down as well as everything else.

My main rule of eating is this - cook it yourself. So bar the odd Thai curry paste, I make every sauce and dressing and meal and snack myself. Fresh local produce - bar the odd avocado. When I say odd, I mean I eat 2 a day... The only issue - is a healthy 'Eat Nourish Glow' life takes time and £££££££££. All that fresh fish (monkfish cost the price of a second mortgage) and nuts and oils and chia seeds cost so much more than a white loaf and a packet of cheese. I spent a whopping £30 on two packs of Chia seeds the other day - and actually screamed for joy in the shop when the cashier announced it was 'buy one get one for a penny.' It was almost workout carrying the 4 packs home. Protein powder, flaxseeds and fresh fruit - not cheap either. Is the idea we all are so skint we can't afford to eat and thus lose weight?

Anyway, this blog wasn't meant to be about food - it was meant to be about hopes and plans for 2016.  Because you have to have them, right? The minute Big Ben chimes, you've got to know EXACTLY what you are giving up and taking up for the next 365 days. Most of which you will have taken up again/given up trying by Jan 11th.

So I aint giving up any vice - bar alcohol for Jan. Not to help my liver - but just to prove to myself I can go 31 days without a drink and not kill my husband and give away my kids. Stayed tuned.

But having read Caitlin Moran's column yesterday - I decided I am giving one thing: anxiety. I have spent so much of my life worrying what every fecker thinks - worrying am I 'good enough,' worrying that I will fail - and you know what? The worst - what I am expecting to be the worst - never ever happens. It is the things you NEVER expect that blindside you. A dear writer mate also said that after year and years of stressing because he felt his muse, his ideas would never appear - only for them always to appear - he has stopped stressing. It doesn't help - it isn't a necessary part of the creative process. I spent most of last year with stomach churning angst - especially over the summer - thinking I simply couldn't write. While I'm no Sarah Treem - I am me. And I can do it. I have just remind myself of this and try not to stress over it all so much.

So like Caitlin and like my mate Chris, I am giving up anxiety. It will be the hardest challenge of my life I reckon - so ingrained in me is stress - but I've got to - as it makes me ill. I had a wee read of this guy Gerad Kite (an acupuncturist)'s advice for a calmer life in yesterday's Times mag - and I have to say - I'll be employing as many of his tactics as I can. (The man is a revelation).

Because dear readers, I am anything but calm. I am a stress head, insaneo worry wort when it comes to all things stress. I am OCD. I am a control freak. I need to sort this before I take myself to an early grave. Headspace app here I come.

So my plans are thus: I'm stepping away from as much social media as is possible. I never really indulged in Instagram - and am bored of Facebook. For all it's joys and sharing it is also a performance and we are all guilty of dancing to that tune. Who cares if 56 folk or 560 like my glam pic - it doesn't change the fact I have dinner to make for the kids and 6 Ikea bags of laundry to fold...  Twitter is informative, so I'll cast an eye on it, but all else - including the sidebar of shame - must be gone.

I'm going to fear less. The greatest joy of my last few years has been striving in a new career and whilst it put the fear of god into my every step - I am now in my happiest ever place. I have life balance and it has taken me FOREVER to get here. Now I need the head balance to match it. Fear holds us back - makes us doubt ourselves when in fact we all got to where we are now, because we are so freakin' great. Deep down, we all know we can - we just need to have faith.

One of the happiest ever times of my life was on a beach in Devon. Diving through the roaring waves with my friend's daughter, looking up at the sun, the salt water momentarily stinging my eyes. I was utterly in that moment - not wishing for or being distracted by anything else. My motto of this year is to be more in the moment. Appreciate my Husband's great dinners, the walk to school on a crisp cold day, the first coffee of the morning, the view from my dining room table, the log fire at my side. I'm going to watch TV only - not sit on a laptop as I do. I'm going to go for more walks. Listen more than talk. (I know - I know - this one may be a lie... but I'll try) and not be thinking about the next thing on my endless to do list. Life is flying by at a hideous rate so I'm going to try and savour it that little bit more, in the hope it will last longer.

I am going to drink more water. I really am. I must remember to. My 40 year old mate M drinks tonnes of water and has the skin of teenager. It is something I must train myself to do.

Finally, I'm going to be nicer to myself. Husband says I am incapable of relaxing - that I just cannot shut down - I am always thinking of things that need done, writing lists and giving him tasks. That is true. I am incapable of going to bed if the cushions on the sofa are not straight - that - and other slightly cray cray behaviour have to go. I have to train myself to give less of a f*ck.

I always feel I must achieve every single day. That I should be doing XYZ - as 'look at what ABC is doing. I won't get to XYZ if I don't do ABC within the next day'. Well, to hell with that. Enough with the self flagellation. I'm dancing to my own little merry tune - and I need to slow it down to a tango instead of keeping up a foxtrot. Life is pretty great. Happiness isn't if we move house, go on hols, lose 10 pounds, meet Mr Right - it is right now. In each of us.

So here's to 2016. May you enjoy every moment.

Things I have learnt this year... #375

And so we say goodnight and goodbye to 2015. How was it for you?

Bizarrely, although 2014 was infinitely more financially challenging - it just radiated brilliance. Surprise trips and a summer of sunshine made it memorable, with 2015 somehow trailing in it's wake. And yet, I made more in roads in my career than I had ever hoped for; I shared many brilliant moments with people I love and I had the joy for being able to be much more present for my kids than in any other year before.

What I have leant without question is that whilst money doesn't make you happy - it sure is lovely not to have worry over every single pound. That whilst eating well and exercising do no harm to the body - the place they help the most is the mind. That opportunities abound - if you start to create them for yourself. Most of all, I have realised - take no one for granted - even yourself and your health.

What else?

- I have also learnt that I am no baker - but that is why Waitrose make fairy cakes that you can add a topping to and a choc button and voila! Home baking CM stylee.

- That you are lucky with kids to get 5 minutes to yourself. Which is why next year I must step away from more social media and go for long walks instead. Headspace is an underestimated joy....

- South Cross is the best gin I have ever had the joy to taste - and if you ever wonder what to buy me - look no further than it....

- That a trip home to Ireland and a walk by the sea sorts out any head...

- That letting go of hate makes you lighter than any diet...

- A spirilizer creates endless possibilities... as long as you like courgettes...

- Most folk who are wealthy are simply so because they never buy a round...

- That if you can't quite do it - FAKE it until you MAKE it...

- There are no friendlier folk on earth than the Irish - but sure, you knew that anyway...

- Series 2 of The Affair was even better than series 1

- Most of all listen to your gut - if it don't feel right, it aint.

So, I must away and start swallowing gin like prohibition starts at midnight - and all that is left to do is wish you all a wonderful, inspiring, challenging and enlightening 2016.

Keep her lit!

CM xx

New box

Every time in my life I've had to tick one of those damn boxes: are you '25-29' '30-34' '35-39' '40 - 44' etc I've just ticked and not really given it much thought. A friend on my 30th kindly pointed out I was 'in a new box' but it didn't phase me - age is just a number.

Really, in my case it has been. Often I find myself shocked to wake up and discover I am responsible for two other lives on this planet; I read my 17 year old diaries and feel exactly the same sentiments; I  go for prosecco with the 23 year old Uni graduate next door and think we have loads in common... And yet, in the past month I feel I have entered a new box. A new zone.

I can put it down to 2 things - the first being my upcoming hysterectomy. Yes, everyone else gets a new year hangover and I get a hysterectomy. Yay me! The hospital sent me the leaflets and on the cover are all these grey haired older ladies laughing - obviously just tickled pink at the thought of being womb-less, and I thought 'Christ, is that me now?' My Mother had the same op when I was 11 and I remember thinking it was for OLDER women - like REALLY old - and yet, she was younger than me when she had it. Similarly my Aunt had one aged 41. So here I am, in the era of untenable periods and gynaecological surgeries.

Obviously I'm thrilled about no longer having to suffer for 3 weeks of every month - but there is a part of me that mourns my fertility. That though I don't want any more children, I'm saddened that the child bearing years are over. That I'm done. There is something so finite about it all - that is hard to swallow. Most of all, the knowledge that that era has passed... and the new one makes me... old(er).

The other reason is a sadder one: in the past month I have had so many friends lose their parents or receive devastating news about their health. This Xmas, as I sat next to my Mother as she drove around Ireland, shopping for her perfect Xmas, I looked at her with new eyes - simply grateful to have her in my life. I'll confess I take my parents for granted, expect them always to be around - have only in the past few years put my childhood grievances to bed, and embraced this new dynamic.

Are we really here - at an age where our parents are not the robust over-bearing energetic folk that we once knew? Even, are we?

This Xmas, though it is far from my favourite holiday (too much stress and pressure and expectation for the good of anyone's health) I jumped head first into the celebration pool - made time for all my family, flew home to Ireland, though it was far from the easy option. Rather than eating out as I preferred, I respected that my Mum loves a home cooked turkey instead. It's time for me to be less selfish - to just accept my folks for who they are and relish what I have.

Because of the new box. The box that says I'm not 23 any more, and make up isn't going to hide the morning after the night before sins. That I no longer paint the town red, but cosy up inside friend's houses with all our children running feral way past bedtime. That conversations with my 17 year old niece suggest I am the older tragic adult who thinks they are still cool but is far removed from the word as is possible. That exercise isn't a choice any more, but a necessity. That a size 4/8 may no longer be within my grasp - and that is OK. For the first time in my life, I'm in a new box. But I'm here and that is all that matters.

Planets colliding

Rarely if ever do I find myself looking for astrological guidance - but today I googled Astrology zone just to see WTF is up with them there planets.

Why? Because since mid November things have been turbulent to say the least. There was the operation that never was - or rather it was an op, but just not the one I thought I was going to have. Followed by the news I have to have another, more serious one. NO SMILEY FACE HERE.

Then after that it all went a bit tits up really: people misconstruing things I've said and taking it all wrong; people I thought I knew well behaving in a wildly different manner; and all and sundry having horrifically bad news. Not a day has gone by in this past week where I have not heard a tragic story - it seems the world has gone a little cray cray.

Sadly I could find no rhyme nor reason to all this presumed celestial angst. Perhaps it is also the loom of bloody Xmas and all the exhausting expectation it demands - not to mention exhausting efforts. Every year I swear I will be on a plane for the next one - and at last in Dec 2016 I think it will be so - as we finally head to Aussie shores, for my Husband's return - a first in 15 years...

I don't know, I thought life got LESS complicated the older we get - not MORE. And yet, it seems as if so much more is at stake. Plus, in this digital ace - when we communicate by text, snapchat, email and Facebook - the nuances in our sentences, the tone - the meaning is all but lost. People read into our words as if we had never written them. The room for misinterpretation is enormous - and the result? EVEN more emails and texts and snapchat and Facebook conversations to resolve them. *Sighs and yearns for a simpler time*

I've even been misinterpreting things myself: on a night out in London last week, with a group of amazing drunkards women, after consuming a lot of fizz and jagarbombs and shots and dark and stormies - we all had to make like Cinders to jump into our waiting carriage minibus. I arrived at said bus and then remembered I had left my nice scarf behind in the club. So I dashed back and retrieved it (after almost coming to blows with a doorman who was about to refuse me entrance - see what I mean about everything being difficult??). then I came out - and... No bus. The had left without me. I paced along Camden, verging on tears, with no coat, no phone, no money - nothing - panicking at what to do. I searched along the street, screaming for my group - when about 15 minutes later - a LONG 15 minutes I add - one of them called to me. I jumped into the bus and raged at the crew - 'I am so fecked off with you lot! You left me! Deserted me! In Camden! How could you have???!!!  I then leant my head on the window and tried to keep awake on the journey home.

Once home, I dropped my spare jeans in the street (my daughter found them the next day) and stormed drunkenly into my house. Only later did the ladies tell me, the bus had never moved. I however had walked in try wrong direction and in my state had been unable to find them. Where they stayed, waiting patiently and wondering where the feck I had got to.

SHAME FACE.

Planets, hurry up and speed up and stop this retrograde nonsense I tell you. Roll on 2016....

Goodbye Flo you old bitch...

I want to say it was an unseasonably cold May, back in 1987, but in Ireland, summers rarely began, if ever, before June. I stood at the top of the stairs in a flimsy white tennis skirt - barely covering my derriere. My Mum's partner shouted up to me to get tracksuit bottoms on, that it was freezing and there was no way I could go to tennis practice dressed like that. Deciding I couldn't be bothered to argue, I obliged.

Never have I been more grateful - as that day, I got my period, aged 14 and one month, for the first time. For some reason I thought a period was a moment of purge - and that I would only have to wear the brick like sanitary towel for all of a day. Then, yes, only then, did my mother break it to me that it lasted longer. I was devastated. But not as much as I was 3 days later, when I was certain Flo had left the building, only for her to return with a vengeance, just as I played a competitive game of squash in the same flimsy white skirt.

From that day on, I decided on two things: 1. tampons were the only way forward and 2. Flo was my enemy. And she has been ever since. Let me count the ways? The jeans she has ruined on her tidal days; the carefully chosen delicate lace underwear destroyed upon her early arrival; the sheets she has  coloured - on holidays, at friends' houses, on a first 'sleepover' in a new relationship, on camping trips in sleeping bags (my favourite); the nights of passion she has refused to allow; the moments she has shown up - in meetings, on dates, at weddings, in job interviews - completely unexpected. The stress she has caused to find myself out of tampax and the shops all shut; the embarrassment at her over-flow (once on a tube, another time on a bus - and let's all forget the airplane drama). Nothing has ruined my life quite like Flo.

Her best buddy PMT hasn't exactly made life a walk in the park either. The sheer force of my hormones has rendered me suicidal, psychotically angry, desperately needy and wildly violent - all in the space of ten minutes. Husband says he too 'suffers' my PMT. Not a month in my life has ever gone by without breast pain, aching stomach, bloated belly, back pain and cramps. Except when I was pregnant. The only 2 times I have ever been grateful to Flo. Yes, my 2 kids have been worth every second of all that hell. But weighing it up - God is having a freakin' laugh isn't he, if this is what women have to endure just to have children one day?

But come January, me and Flo are divorcing - for good. It has been a bizarre pill to swallow - that my child bearing years are over; that my womanhood will forever be changed - but I am more than ready. Surgery is my only choice - after two operations this year I cannot keep going under only to wake and discover more surgery is needed.... I may have a tampax bonfire to celebrate. My lovely 'luxury items' that I guess at 3.50 per month for towels x 13 times a year (every four weeks people!) equals £45.50 plus tampax at £50.70 a year (lets not include all the prescriptions for transexamic acid and stain removal etc) is £92.20 a year for 28 years - is almost £2,700 I have spent in my lifetime. That is a freakin' holiday there... Anyway, whilst I am not jazzed on the thought of surgery at all - and the recovery - I think I will be a new woman - Flo-less. The PMT will stay - well I have to give my husband something to keep him on his toes, no?

Halloween is my Xmas

If only I had more time to blog... So what is moving and shaking around these parts?

No. 1 The quest for the PERFECT winter boot continues. I have tried on Uggs (SO comfy but the nicest ones are the biker boots and I have a pair of bikers already - not Ugg ones - so can't see the point in forking out for another pair). I've tried on the fluffy Ugg trainer thing which made me look like an ostrich and I have spent more hours online than I can mention hunting - but at last, sitting in the hairdresser the other day as my daughter got her blonde locks chopped, I spied these babies in an advert:

OH MY GOD COME TO MAMA. But they are a fecking fortune. I'm going to torture myself by trying them on anyway. Then if I really love them I may ask a friend going to the States to get them as they be WAY cheaper there. But will I look fabulous in them, or somewhat Yeti?

No. 2 I have only just discovered The Jinx - which I know I know, is like saying 'These Oasis lads are onto some decent music aren't they?' Anyway I have only a second to blog as I have 2 eps still to do on it and away I must.

No. 3 I'm off into hospital again next week - and I can't wait. Apart from the going under bit and having surgery and all that - I'm excited as it is a night away from the kids. Plus, after it I shall never have a period again. How goddamn exciting is that? Those 'luxury' items cost me £££ every month not to mention the fortune I spend in prescriptions for Tranexamic acid tablets. Honestly women get such a bum deal in life - teens blighted by unexpected period arrival, twenties trying not to get pregnant, 30s desperately trying to get pregnant and 40s suffering for having had children. God was most definitely a man.

No. 5 WHY OH WHY are we even talking about Xmas? I fecking HATE Xmas. Did I mention that before? All that money and greed and trying to keep everyone happy and waste of paper - I wish to god it was bi-annual. All it says to me in big letters is 'STRESS.' Oh yeah the run up is fun - all festive dos and red cups and mince pies and frantic meet ups, but the actual day itself? Anyone who enjoys it is lying. This year - thinking my family would want to see me on Xmas day, I booked to return to Northern Ireland - but it turns out folk make their own plans and I'm not included after all. Or I am... when it suits them. Slot in. Fly all the way to Ireland to slot in? Thank god some good buddies are around - their festive cheer would light up Oxford street, so all is not lost. But in general, the event brings me out in hives. All that expectation -for what? Wish we all slung money in charity boxes and went to the pub instead. Call me grinch, or bah humbug - and I accept. Halloween is my Xmas, we all know that.

No. 6 Halloween was epic this year. I think the best by far. Husband, who started drinking as he made his famous chilli at 11am, was hammered watching the rugby at 4 (a devastated Australian). Why we let him near fireworks with kids around at 8 is beyond me. He was safely tucked up in bed by 9. Meanwhile I made more lychee martinis than you could shake a stick at... My neighbours called in at 9:30 and no one was making any sense, so they promptly left. Oddly we all made sense to one another... Still, at 11:30 my Mum told me to keep the music down and I forced everyone out like Cinders at midnight. It was memorable. Well until 9pm anyway...

I am just SO pleased with my pumpkin bag, aren't I? #style #youknowyouwantone