The Question

It happened in the mist.

To the readers of Wuthering Heights, mist may seem romantic, but in reality, it feels like you're suffering from cataracts. Never good when you're climbing a mountain without a compass. 

Nevertheless, climb we did. (My bf's the outdoorsy sort. I pretend to be.)

After 5 minutes I'd had enough. 

Never one to choose hill-walking on a sunny day, the thought of plodding for hours up a steep incline, with not even the hope of a view at the top, seemed, well, pointless. Surely it would be more productive to programme the gym treadmill to 'extreme slope' and at least watch a Friends repeat whilst 'voluntarily' torturing your body? 

He didn't agree. On we climbed. 

10 minutes later we stopped again. Hyperventilating like a senior citizen with severe emphysema, I declared I could no longer continue without need of burial.

Ever the patient (and long-suffering) boyfriend, he pointed towards a small rock, protruding out of the grey, swirling clouds surrounding us. My salvation.

As I collapsed on the rock, he suggested we take in the view. A sheep wailed in the distance as we stared at the vague outline of small shrub three foot in front of us. 

Silence.

Until, that is ... he pulled a small box from his jacket pocket.

Time stopped. 

I became one with the rock, stunned into silence (a rare occurrence). 

Seemingly unaware his girlfriend had become a somewhat sweaty sculpture, he lowered one knee to the ground, opened the box, and asked me a question.

I said yes.

Turns out mist is actually rather romantic after all ...

After A Brief(ish) Interlude ...

Writing isn't difficult. We're practically experts age 5. Yes, I know that working out those first scrawlings can appear to take a degree in ancient greek translation, but the same can be said for the work of most doctors or university professors.

 You'd think, therefore, at age 27, that it would be like riding a bike. Stop writing. Start writing. Take a break. Pick up a pen.

Not so.

A blank piece of paper is a terrifying thing. Dracula, The Joker, even Paris Hilton would shudder in its presence. All you need to do is write one little word... yet, it defeats you.

'The' seems prosaic, 'Once' cliche, 'I' self-obsessed. What to write? What to write?

Subjects spin through your brain: ornithology, rain, the price of ham. Nothing Booker prize-worthy comes to mind.

It's not like composing a shopping list. They're simple.

1. Yoghurt
2. Chicken

But no one actually reads a shopping list, apart from yours truly. They're not given an ISBN and stuck on a library shelf. Neither Shakespeare or Victor Hugo were known for their ravings about beef mince.

So what are you meant to do when writer's block hits? I suppose, at the end of the day, you just have to:

Start. Again. Somehow.

Oh look, I just did.

Busting A Move

'I like your skin.'

That was the line he chose. We were on the bus, he wasn't wearing any shoes.

Whilst women are known for wanting men to make the first move, there's a time and a place ... and it's not the No.74. Buses do not a 'speed' dating venue make. Especially when you have forgotten to put on any footwear.

Unfortunately, daily commuting seems to regularly lead to personal space invasion; it's the travel equivalent of a packed nightclub or Sainsbury's on a Saturday morning. But that's why the majority of us abide by the code. The code that says, 'Yes, I may be close enough to kiss you or get arrested for inappropriate physical contact, but that does not mean we should make small talk. In my mind, I am currently on a desert island ... that unfortunately smells like farts.' The code is the one thing that keeps you going when you're squished under an armpit desperately in need of Lynx or held hostage in a South West London traffic jam with a gent who appears to suffer from an unusual fetish (it's skin, mate, we all have alot of it ...).

Like it or not, 'Do not interact unnecessarily' is written in invisible ink beneath 'mind the gap' on the underground map.

And yet, some intrepid travellers still try. And I'm not just referring to 'skin' man. Case in point: I was on a packed tube last week, when a woman fell against the commuter next her. When she apologised, he responded, 'don't worry, I'm used to women falling for me ...' Hilarious, yes. Effective? No, unless his aim was to receive a death stare and a sudden vaccuum of space in his general vicinity. Another friend had a dozen red roses sent to her workplace by an anonymous commuter, with a card saying 'your grace and beauty make public transport more bearable'. Perhaps romantic in a Disney film. In real life, it causes you to carry pepper spray in your handbag. And go to judo classes.

It's official: code-breaking is taking over the public transport system. London commuters are not only talking to one another, they're 'bus'ting moves.

I think it's time to buy a car.

Hard Core Rebel

While most teenagers rebel by dyeing their hair orange and drinking cheap cider from a paper bag, I ... read too much.

Indeed, it may well be social suicide to admit this in print, but the most dramatic row of my adolescence stemmed from my mother threatening to remove my bookcase from my room.

Seriously.

Apparently paper and ink is a highly addictive substance.

Until recently, I thought this was nerddom on par with playing amateur lawn-bowls and dressing up as Spock; something to confess on your death-bed to family members who can’t disown you because they’re too scared of being removed from your will.

I changed my mind when I saw The Help.

The fictional story of a 1950s community which is turned upside down when African-American maids are given the opportunity to tell their story for the first time, it reminded me again that printed words are powerful. Why? With an authority greater than the spoken word, they have the ability to give a voice to the otherwise voiceless.

Not too long ago, it was only the privileged that were able to read and write. Such power was deemed too dangerous for the masses. It sounds silly to a 21st century audience, but the fact is, today we are privileged. We can freely blog about anything we like, censored solely by our own sense of dignity. I often take this freedom for granted, forgetting that when ordinary people honestly communicate their own opinions in their own unique voice, it is overwhelmingly powerful.

Words unite. Liberate. Invoke change.

Whilst today most of us categorise the ‘book-worm’ as a shy, ballerina-bunned, twin-setting wearing, bespectacled woman who is dedicated to maintaining silence, that was never the point. Books by their very nature shout. Controversial, empowering, uncomfortable, they are written to say something. Communicating a rainbow of human emotion, they speak succinctly both the good and bad about the society in which they are created.

The written word was never meant to be safe.

It was meant to influence. For good or bad.

Why do you think book-burning and censorship are such common practices?

Perhaps my thirteen-year-old bookworm alter ego was more of a rebel than she gave herself credit for.

Yes, even minus the orange hair.

Life at 40 (From the viewpoint of a 10 year old)

Aged 10, after reading too many Babysitters Club and Sweet Valley High novels (what else could possibly explain the names 'Chad' and 'Jayleen'?) I apparently wrote the following. Pity my future children ...

P.S. Thanks for the reminder, Mum.


Life at 40

"Jayleen if you don't come down this minute I will drag you down by the ear and I'm not joking," I shouted.
"But Mum, that would ruin my new earrings and they were very, very expensive."
"JAYLEEN!"
"Ok, ok, I'm coming." Jayleen walked down the steps and my eyeballs nearly popped out of my head. She was wearing a short blue miniskirt just under her knickerline with a blue bikini top to match.
"Jayleen Kate Williams, what are you wearing?" I shouted.
"I'm wearing this," she said.
"Don't answer, young lady. Now go and change out of that ridiculous costume into something more proper."
"But Mum, this is the fashion and I have to look my best for Chad."
"Ok dear, but this is the only time you should expect something."

Jayleen hugged then walked out the door. Tears gushed down my face as my husband walked through the door. Maybe forty wasn't as bad as I thought it was ...

She's Dangerous

Wears all black. Good at kicking.

It’s a fitting description for most peak-hour commuters on the District line.

And ……… ninjas.

To be honest, it's not an occupation I've considered in the past. (Surprise, surprise.)

Admittedly, a monochrome wardrobe would be advantageously slimming, but what’s the point of blow-drying your hair just to don an itchy balaclava? Whilst vital for covert reconnaissance missions, I’m positive they’re also a causative agent for some kind of wool-induced facial rash.

Nevertheless, the recent news that more and more Chinese women are training to become bodyguards caused me to re-evaluate my stereotype (male, 6'2, buff). Maybe it’s time for a career change?

Unfortunately it’s not as simple as it looks.

After watching Salt, where Angelina Jolie leaps from car roof to car roof whilst simultaneously pouting (a skill, some would say), I slowly attempted a forward roll across our sofa. (Minus pout.) The TV almost suffered a life-threatening injury, as S bent over double in hysterics. Not what you would call a flying start ...

Thankfully AJ isn’t the only dangerous female to imitate.

Look at Jennifer Garner. She spent five seasons of Alias performing simple karate chops and sprinting around in pencil skirts and Jimmy Choos. In reality, how different is that from a Monday morning commute? Personally, I find running for the bus in six-inch stilettos is an almost weekly event, and it’s almost impossible to get off a packed tube train without accidentally jabbing someone in the eye. I'm practically a shoe-in.

And yet … despite being the archetype of a extremely dangerous female, I think I've changed my mind. See, when T decided to demonstrate some judo moves in preparation for my foray into the protective services (shin-kicking, thumb-snapping, nose-breaking and the like), he quoted his martial art mantra: This is not the time to be nice. Hurt them or they will hurt you.

… Is that really necessary?

Apparently so.

Indeed, many would say that is the point.

No thanks.

Probably wise to stick to that famous literary sword, the pen, instead.

And the occasional forward roll.

Just in case.

The Cold Pan War of 2011

It had been sitting on the stove for over a week.

Crusted with remnants of unidentified food matter, accessorised with a spoon, this simple pot proved a source of consternation and growing aggravation. Each resident eyed it with disdain.

As hostility grew, negotiations and accusations proved fruitless, not one accepting responsibility.

It was both the literal and metaphorical 'dirty saucepan' in the room.

Until, that is, one morning, when one incredibly sacrificial combatant had enough. Wielding a brush and some lemon-scented detergent, she swiftly ended the standoff with a soapy flourish.

The cold war was finally over. Celebrations commenced.

A treaty was signed, all parties agreeing to the installment of cctv cameras, to prevent any further skirmishes.

Please note: this incident is purely fictitious and bears no similarity whatsoever to recent events in my flat.

We are all extremely clean.

Out of Order

It's official: I have writer's block.

Don't Let Go

What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?

Would you write a book, climb a mountain, travel the world?

When I was five, I wanted to be a prima ballerina. It didn't matter that I had never taken a dance class, didn’t own a leotard, and only knew the words ‘pirouette’, ‘jetté’ and ‘plié’ as a by-product of reading Angelina Ballerina (a book about a dance-obsessed mouse). My heart was still set on joining the Royal Ballet. Obsessed by everything 'pointe', I even staged an avant-garde dance recital for my granddad, the finale of which was a graceful pirouette, accompanied by … a loud fart. Best described as Swan Lake on baked beans, it was a triumph of multi-sensory choreography.

Nevertheless, childhood overconfidence soon dissipated. I realised the obstacles in my way (no training, no talent, no technique). I grew up.

I kind of wish I hadn’t.

Many of us have stuffed our childhood dreams so far down that we hardly recognise them anymore. At best, we see them faintly, like a cast-off remnant of less cynical days past. Now grownup, endowed with a pragmatism birthed by previous disappointment, we convince ourselves that shutting the door to our deepest longings is better than facing the pain of never seeing them realised. Never making it out of the starting blocks, we've fallen victim to our own fear of failure.

Watching Soul Surfer (the true story of Bethany Hamilton) at the cinema last week, I recognised how unfulfilling that actually is. There is another option. Bethany was a talented teenage surfer, newly sponsored by Rip Curl and on track to hitting the pro circuit, when her left arm was completely amputated by a shark. Instantly, her surfing career appeared over. No-one would have begrudged her for giving up her dream. Indeed, many recommended it.

Yet, she didn't.

Despite the obvious disadvantages brought on by her disability (know many one-armed surfers?), Bethany got back in the water a month later and learned to surf all over again. Yes, she struggled; she fell over, got dumped, was dashed by the waves, but she still kept trying. Two years later, she was NSSA National Champion, and is now ranked 20th in the world. Bethany Hamilton faced an overwhelming, life-altering obstacle, yet chose to still try. And succeeded.

At the end of the day, that's all any of us can do: try. For most of us, our greatest obstacle is our own self-doubt. Could we really succeed? We'll never know if we never give it a go.

Failure or success, we only have one shot at life. Don't we want to say, 'I am doing what I was born for,' rather than just getting by?

I do.

What's your dream?

Why not try and make it a reality?

On that note, I'm off to practice my pirouette.

War Wound

I’m not the aggressive type.

I’d much prefer to read a novel than participate in a cage-fight, and I only recently discovered that winding up your arm is not correct punching technique. (I will not be representing Great Britain in the 2012 Olympics boxing.) Indeed, based on my current upper body strength, a jam jar would easily win in any attempt at lid wrestling. Unless we're talking a serious papercut, I’m the last person you’d expect to get a war wound.

Nevertheless, two weeks ago I found myself bleeding from the forehead.

Ever the accident prone, I was burning the floor (ie. boogying) at my friend’s hen night, when a piece of glass flew through the air and hit me in the head. Assailant unclear. Motive uncertain. Some have suggested that the perpetrator took a serious dislike to my version of the drowning man.

On a positive note, at least it wasn’t bird pooh.

Whilst I’d like to say that I reacted calmly, with an air of composure that would make Florence Nightingale proud, that would be a lie. Don't get me wrong, when I first felt liquid dripping from my forehead, I thought it must be raining indoors, until bystanders started to stare. Great way to give someone a complex. When someone yelled out, 'Ohhhh my word, you're bleeding really badly', I immediately clutched my hand to my forehead, like an extra from a Z-grade horror movie, and hightailed it to the bathroom. Dramatic. Turns out all it needed was pressure, an alcoholic swab, and ... a plaster. Personally, I think a gigantic mummy-style bandage would have been much more representative of the emotional injury caused. Though somewhat less glamorous.

For those who have never walked around with a plaster on your face, most people look at you like you've had a nasty shaving accident (It's on my forehead and I'm not male. Or hairy). My boss laughed, whilst other (more sympathetic) strangers' faces read like an autocue of dramatic scenarios, 'car accident, altercation with aggressive bull-elephant'. Most men just wanted to look at the cut underneath. It felt like being a small child with a semi-grotesque show and tell.

On the plus-side, at least it wasn't my eye (Thanks for the cheer, Mum). It was also MUCH better than the Phantom of the Opera-esque half-face carpet burn I had age 10.

Accident-prone, remember?

Besides, I do now have a very cool war wound.

If you squint or use a magnifying glass, that is.

Told you I was tough.

Speechless

Words aren’t enough.

Vowels and consonants are lacking.

What syllables do you use to comfort a grieving friend? What language can adequately console the suffering, the anguished, the broken? In a moment, the wordy platitudes we once deemed appropriate seem so trite, so incompetent, so clichéd.

Words are no longer enough.

I think that silence is sometimes the most eloquent orator of them all.

Apparently There's Rugby On The TV?

We were driving down the A316 when my housemate announced, 'Look, Twickenham’s on your right.'

I replied, 'I'm not into cricket.’ Cue awkward silence.

Apparently that’s a major sporting faux pas. Whoops.

I’m aware this is probably social suicide of epic proportions, but I’m not really into rugby. I can’t help it; cauliflower ears and excessive head bandaging make me shudder involuntarily. Scrums bring me out in hives. I just don’t get it.

Nevertheless, I've recently started to think that, as an Australian living in London during the Rugby World Cup, I should at least pretend to like it. Like Vegemite. Or any music by Kylie Minogue. It’s part of my antipodean heritage.

When you think about it, this is the one competition that causes the Kiwis to perform the hakka, the South Africans to seriously overplay the vuvezula (the most painful instrument in the history of the known world), and the English to sing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot and worship Jonny Wilkinson. It even causes Gavin Henson to be remembered for more than his fake tan and stint on The Bachelor. (Which I only watched once, for curiosity's sake ...)

Indeed, with rugby fever infecting London (including my three female housemates), I appear to have three choices: surgically implant earplugs and an eye-mask, move to the Amazon rainforest or … google the offside rule, buy a ridiculously over-priced jersey, and attempt to act interested.

The latter it is. Minus the jersey.

You’ve heard it here first, ladies and gents. I’m a temporary rugby fan.

At least until the 23rd October.

Thankfully, that’s only a month away. Well, 32 days actually … but who’s counting?

At least it’s an excuse to wave my Australian flag around frenetically anytime we win.

C’mon boys!!

Timing Is Everything

If you want to know the importance of timing, ask a trapeze artist.

Every time they leap, milliseconds lie between success (ie swinging through the air) and potential failure (plunging to the ground). It's not a career for those with an excessive sweat problem.

Indeed, whilst exploring my apparently not-so-inner orangutan at Go Ape last weekend, I personally discovered the perils of bad timing whilst 16 foot in the air. The consequence? Landing at high-speed, butt-first in a pile of wet woodchips. Three times. On camera. My jeans will never recover. For those who would blame it on poor coordination, at least I didn’t get a splinter in an awkward bodily location, like a housemate who will remain nameless …

Moving on to the actual point of this blog.

Although clearly not destined to be a circus acrobat, I am aware that waiting patiently for His perfect timing, whilst at times painful, can often mean the difference between landing on your feet and a splinter in the butt (sorry N. Too funny to pass up :)).

Nevertheless, knowing and doing are two very different things.

While I know full well that waiting is usually a good thing, I struggle to put it into practice, evidenced by the amount of microwaved Haagen Daasz and lukewarm soup in my diet.

The problem is, there's no such thing as a microwave setting for life. Unless we're the lone ranger, many of our daily decisions will also depend on the decisions of others. There may be times when we are ready to leap off the platform, yet the slow-cooker we're counting on is still powdering their hands. Suddeny, we find ourselves forced to put on the brakes, or face a swift descent to the ground below.

That's when we learn the importance of patience.

In the words of my friend N, patience is not simply waiting, it’s about learning to have a positive attitude while we’re waiting. (After rolling my eyes at her, I appear to have quoted her in my blog ... don't judge.)

That doesn't mean it doesn't suck sometimes.

In fact, sometimes the only way through the waiting period is to cling to the truth that although, ‘God is not usually early, he is never late' (Joyce Meyer).

Like an omnipotent metronome, He's in control of the beat. The timing's in His hands. And though it sometimes appears otherwise, it's perfect. Yes, even when He appears to be walking at the speed of a senior citizen in need of a hip replacement (It appears I'm still working on the attitude thing).

So, at the end of the day, when faced with the choice between waiting and a giant splinter in the bum ...

I'll wait.

Microwaves are overrated anyway.

Learning To Fall

Striding towards the pool like a second-rate Olympic athlete, I mentally prepared myself to do laps for the first time in six years. Piece of cake. After pausing briefly to stretch, I quickly slipped into the heated water and announced to J that 20 lengths would be adequate for a refresher.

Yeah, right.

Five minutes later, there were amused expressions all around the LA Fitness pool as I choked on a mouthful of water and dramatically flailed my arms and legs about in an attempt to avoid drowning. In a waist-deep swimming pool. That was before I even attempted butterfly. Or was lapped twice by a heavily pregnant woman.

It’s probably wise to stick to the treadmill from now on. Or wear floaties.

Unfortunately, stepping out of your comfort zone often means looking like a fool. (In my case more than average.) Nevertheless, life is a series of firsts. First day at school. First attempt to ride a bike. First job. First kiss. First time living away from home. All involve risk. The possibility of failure.

In the past, some of us have viewed these challenges with apprehension, preferring to stay within the safety zone of the familiar. We choose to approach life as a spectator, watching from behind a myriad of self-protective walls, all angled to protect us from danger, pain, regret. Recently, I’ve begun to realize how unfulfilling that actually is.

In the words of C. S. Lewis, “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal … avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

It’s the same way with life. When we simply go through the motions day by day, never attempting to step out of our comfort zone, we may well be existing, but are we really alive?

Life is made for taking risks. Being vulnerable and giving of yourself, without knowing how the story ends. It's about jumping off the precipice and learning to fall, knowing He'll always catch you.

Yes, sometimes taking a risk means we might choke on a mouthful of water or make a utter fool of ourself. Surely it’s still worth getting in the pool, chucking on the floaties and giving it a go? It beats sitting on the sidelines any day.

Besides, when the water's only waist deep, what's the worst that can happen?

London Will Survive

We're used to seeing news reports of looting and pillaging in war-devastated countries like Iraq and Afghanistan, where desperation breeds anarchy and violence.

Situated thousands of miles away, in the past we’ve sat and watched the flickering images on our television screens, thinking that this is a 'third-world' problem and will never happen to us.

Yet it has. It is.

Watching the Sky news footage of the carnage spreading swiftly across my adopted city last night, I, along with so many others, was overcome by a mixture of shock and abhorrence. For the first time, this was happening in my neighbourhood. At my front door.

As S and I huddled nervously in our lounge-room, we checked twitter and Facebook in numb silence, anxiously texting friends and loved ones in affected areas. Another housemate, N, was caught up in the chaos, stuck in Clapham Junction station while rioters plundered the high street only metres away. Quickly hopping on a train to Wimbledon, she nevertheless came face to face with a large group of masked thugs, nonchalantly wandering down the station platform like they were going for a Sunday stroll. It was terrifying.

As text continuously looped across the TV screen asking parents to call their children, we saw that this was violence largely perpetuated by the young. Pondering the apathy and hopelessness that could cause a child to destroy their own community, their own city, indeed, their own future, we questioned where their parents were. Did they care what their children were doing? Could they actually stop them?

Did they want to?

Today, we have heard stories of homes and businesses destroyed, livelihoods lost, and rumours of further riots tonight, this time right in my own borough. Leaving work earlier this afternoon, there was a palpable sense of fear amongst commuters, as people inwardly wondered ‘what will happen next?’

We are a nation touched by shock and fear, apparently at the mercy of a marginalized, disaffected few. Can there be a more poignant picture of community breakdown than people destroying the workplaces and homes of their next-door neighbours, simply to gain a plasma tv or a new set of trainers?

Some play the blame-game, accusing the police and authorities of not protecting our communities properly. This is unfair. These are men and women with families, risking their own lives for our safety. Many have already sustained serious injuries. We need to honour their efforts, not slander them.

So, what should we do?

What we can.

Already there are people rising up, using social networks such as twitter to band together and clean up the mess. Others of us simply pray, knowing that though we may struggle to see a long-term solution to this situation through our human eyes, there is one who has the answer.

Who is the answer.

With him, there is always hope.

London will survive this. I have no doubt we’ll be stronger for it.

In the meantime, let’s pray for peace, and that this NEVER happens again.

Nice Tow See You

Yesterday J, C & I were chauffeured home from our holiday.

By three separate tow trucks.

Admittedly, being driven from Mablethorpe, the home of shell suits, diamante encrusted hoop earrings and high GI carbohydrates, is not the most hollywoodesque of experiences. Especially when it comes via a small, practically suspensionless vehicle with Gallows emblazoned on the side. (A metaphorical death trap if ever I saw one.)

Nevertheless, as we watched the last of the South-Kensingtonites motor away and our RAC man pronounced J’s car ‘undriveable’, the caravan park suddenly begin to fill with people wearing vests (despite the freezing weather), carrying Iceland bags and pushing prams, the indoor arcade lit up with the sound of slot machines and screaming babies, and we began to fear that we had been left behind, with SPAR’s tinned baked beans and Walkers crisps our only possible means of sustenance.

It was terrifying.

Consequently, the arrival of that red, rust-studded truck four and a half hours later was a fist-pumping thing of beauty, on par with sighting land for the first time or winning the EuroMillions lottery.

Until we discovered it was only the first leg of a three-part journey.

J and I sat in stunned silence. C began to cry. We all started to hysterically scoff Galaxy chocolate. The next hour and a half (driving at the approximate speed of a eighty-year-old with a hip replacement) passed by in a semi-lucid haze, until we arrived in Lincoln, and swapped tow trucks next to a manure-scented paddock, the overwhelming stench making it painfully obvious that we were very much awake. On a happy note, this truck was bigger and went faster than 20 miles an hour, though was still emblazoned with the word Gallows. Ironic. The driver also appeared to be a huge fan of dance music. Doubly ironic.

Nevertheless, approximately two hours or so later, as we pulled into the car park of the Leicester Welcome Break, and saw the sign for Waitrose AND Starbucks (Hallelujah), London suddenly felt a little closer. It was time for the final leg of our cross-country marathon.

And then Action Man arrived.

Smoking with his window down, our chauffeur jumped out of his red and yellow truck, wearing trackie bottoms tucked into knee-high, brown leather boots, an army tshirt, several earrings and tattoos, a hand brace and… a buzz cut. We were tempted to make a run for it. Especially when we discovered he was a big fan of smooth fm. Played at such a volume a deaf person could hear it.

Thankfully, the thought of home won out.

To cut a long story short, we made it back to London. At midnight. Just ten hours later than expected. When we finally put the key in our front door and recognised the familiar scent of home (washing powder and cupcakes), I was tempted to fall to the floor and kiss the fragrant parquet. Until, that is, I realised I was not Robinson Crusoe and this was not a deserted island. Nor was I sure of the exact date the entrance hall had last been mopped.

In the words of Dorothy, there is NO place like home.

P.S. We had a great time at Focus too.

Cycling Isn't Just About Wearing Lycra

Most of us start with a pair of training wheels.

Awkwardly cycling down a local footpath, with a posse of parents trailing protectively behind us, our average speed is comparable to a turtle wading through quicksand. In spite of this, confidence slowly grows, little by little, until, weeks later, we are brazenly four-wheeling through the neighbourhood like a barbie-helmet wearing kid racer.

Until, that is, someone removes our stabilisers, and we have to start all over again. Unfair. You don't see learner drivers approaching the streets of London with metal-rimmed training wheels, or babies learning to walk aided by mechanical feet. (Just saying.)

The inept among us give up at this point.

Others cut our losses when we go careening down a 90 degree slope in the backroads of Provence, with no clue where the brakes are located. Ravine or brick wall? Ravine or brick wall? Ravine or .......

Fyi, I chose the brick wall.

Nevertheless, despite the apparent, thumb-skinning risk factors, some brave souls remain on the two-wheeled, pedal-powered bandwagon. Two such are Andy and Matt.

Whilst many consider it challenge enough to brave the peak-hour traffic on a rainy Monday morning, these two English blokes decided it would be a jolly good scheme (what what) to cycle from London to Sydney. All in the name of charity. Braving each other's company for a entire twelve months would surely be enough reason to throw copious amounts of money at the lycra-porting twosome, but every monetary donation will actually go to War Child, their community-transforming cause of choice. With a goal of £50,000 pounds, they've so far raised a fifth of their target, and I have no doubt that they will easily exceed their objective. (This plug is worth at least £20.)

Anyway, leaving on August 13th, we will miss them so so so so so so much (at least, Nics will), and obsessively follow their journey on www.thecyclediaries.com in anticipation of their undoubtedly follicle-enriched return. So, here's to The Cycle Diaries. Two boys and their bikes.

They taught me that cycling isn't just about wearing lycra. Or plunging down ravines.

Sponsor them, innit.

http://www.justgiving.com/thecyclediaries

So Long Independence

I used to live as though it was me against the world.

Whilst never one to burn my ‘undergarments’ (what the heck was Germaine smoking?), self-reliant was my middle name, ‘I can do it myself’ my catchphrase and Destiny’s Child’s ‘Independent Woman’ my mantra. Driving to work in my pimped-up Hyundai Getz (ie. it had air-conditioning), I would electronically wind my windows up, crank Beyonce and the girls to full volume and harmonise at a pitch only canines could hear, priding myself on the fact that I could indeed carry my own plastic bags full of hummus and carrot sticks, buy my own shoes and run my own life.

The only problem was, self-sufficiency isn’t exactly a group activity. Actually, it’s a very private club, with annual membership permitted only to me, myself and I (Not exactly pumping).

I don’t think we’re meant to live like that.

Whilst the demands of the twenty-first century seem to increasingly cater to individualism, self-determination and a focus on the letter that comes after ‘H’, the fact is, we need each other. Even the bravest super-heroes have side-kicks; Harry has Ron and Hermione; Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha; the animals on Noah’s ark went two by two. We’re not meant to do life alone. We need our crew, our gang, our lip-gloss wearing wolf-pack.

Yes, I admit that allowing a kind, somewhat built stranger to carry your suitcase up the tube stairs may often feel like a declaration of weakness (or tendency to over-pack), but by refusing, whilst clearly emphasising your feminine might, you might also deny pleasure to that person who wanted to help you. And strain your insipid back and arm muscles. Indeed, whilst it often seems safer to live behind our self-imposed walls of protection, never relying on anyone else in case they let us down, shielding ourselves from vulnerability, intimacy and exposure, we are in fact missing out on the joy of community life, allowing people in, trusting them, giving back to them.

We might be able to live an adequate life as a sole entity, but I’m learning that it’s a huge amount more fun when others are along for the ride. Yes, definitely a lot more messy, chaotic and full of diversions, but richer for it, in the same way that a symphony never sounds as good with a solo violin as it does with the full orchestra.

And with that, so long independence.

Can’t say I’ll miss you.

I Am Not Bear Grylls

I don’t get camping.

Why on earth would you actually choose to pee behind a bush, at the mercy of creepy crawlies, poisonous shrubs and errant, unwashed hikers, when the toilet was invented at least 200 years ago? I'm sure inventor Thomas Crapper would be turning in his grave if he knew people willingly chose to dig a hole and scout for onlookers, when there was a perfectly good flushing lavatory a couple of miles away.

Yes, there is the romance of sleeping under the stars, but once you have put up what is essentially an enormous canvas bed sheet attached to a complicated conglomeration of strange-looking poles (it makes IKEA wardrobes look like a picnic) and put out your ridiculously expensive roll mat and arctic sleeping bag, you’re basically spending the night indoors anyway. Just on the rock-solid ground, in the freezing cold, at the mercy of midgies and mosquitoes, with the only heavenward glimpse taking place during the miner’s headlight-clad midnight dash to the loo.

I think it’s a boy-thing.

Like hiking. And light-sabres.

Case in point; have you ever noticed that most men insist on wearing their most ripped, shrunken, mismatching and unfortunately stained outfits whilst in the great outdoors? I don’t get it. Indeed, last time I attempted to put on mascara in the wilds of Scotland, my brother stared at me like I had just drowned a kitten. Hmph. Yes, I know that the rolling hills of Great Britain are no place for a fashion show (no heels or hairdryers allowed - got it), but it’s not exactly like the run of the mill camping extravaganza involves chopping down trees or wrestling water buffaloes with your bare hands. Surely deodorant, a hairbrush and clothing that has seen the light of day post-1975 is all perfectly acceptable? (And maybe just a smidge of Maybelline…?)

As for nutrition, I would be extremely grateful for the presence of any foodstuff staples other than pasta, tuna and beef jerky. Personally, I do not understand why, although there is usually a Co-op, Sainsburys or farmers market within a ten mile radius, most campers I’ve met still seem to stock up on an abundance of trail mix(fancy bird seed), dehydrated meat and long-life milk for a two-day trip to the Cotswolds. This is Great Britain, not a physical re-enactment of the SAS Survival Handbook.

Sorry, Bear. There must be a reason it's 'Man' vs Wild.

Saying that, I do love my fuschia Hunter wellies … at least they're allowed.

Maybe there’s still hope?

Hindsight Does Not Mean Accidentally Ogling Someone As They Walk Away

Hindsight.

That moment when you look at an old photo album and suddenly realise, 'Yes, Gwyneth may have rocked the pixie crop in Sliding Doors, but I am neither blonde nor 6'2.'

It's a feeling quite similar to indigestion.

Personally, I'd much prefer it if hindsight didn't exist, and life was more like a 'Choose Your Own Adventure' novel. Accidentally turn to page 72 and get eaten by a shark? Never mind, just flip back 71 pages and start all over again.

Much less regret-induced stomach cramping. Or risk of blood loss from arm and leg amputation.

Nevertheless, even though our past decisions might be the cause of sleepless nights and epiphany-based 'duh' moments today, that doesn't always mean we made the wrong decision at the time.

Unless, of course you're referring to the ill-fated pixie crop. That's a no-brainer.

Life creates growth. We are different people to who we were yesterday. We will never again wear matching jumpers, floral leggings and puffy socks. Or shave off our left eyebrows.

Sometimes even the decisions we made a few months ago would have different conclusions if we re-made them today.

But that's what hindsight is for.

It helps us see how we've grown. Moved forward. Changed. Discovered a better hairdresser.

I'm learning to appreciate it. Not always enjoy it.

But definitely learn from it.

And hopefully, make better decisions for tomorrow.

Here's to not getting eaten by a shark.