Trainers in Nightclubs

On not sleeping,

2012-01-31T05:49:00.000-08:00

I stopped sleeping one balmy night in 2007. My relationship with my boyfriend was failing, or starting to fail pretty badly by this point. I had started to notice other people and crucially, they had started to notice me. I stopped socialising around this time, conscious that the pretence of being "a couple" was challenging even my finely honed acting abilities. And so, I would sit up, night after night, playing music and talking to friends on MSN. I would create elaborate projects that would eat into my evenings, time previously spent talking to the man I once thought as my other half became silent, him on the X Box, me on the laptop. Tapping and sighing, pausing for cups of tea or a passing comment about the day, neither one of us really taking in the others response, just acknowledging the noise with a polite "hm".

He worked night shifts, that boyfriend. A lot of our time was spent dancing around the cold spaces of the bed as he, weary from work would slide in beside me, my eyes would snap open with a start, before a kiss or a touch on my shoulder could be received, I would slide out of that bed almost simultaneously as he slid in. Nobody is that keen to get up at 7am. My body was betraying me, I didn't want to be there.

"I'm going up" he would say, yawning and balancing a glass of water on top of his study books. He didn't ask if I would join him, by this point we had accepted the unspoken issue, I wasn't sleeping. At least not in bed and certainly not with him. Lying in the dark until I could hear his breathing slow to a steady rhythm I would get out and go and sit in the armchair that was now a permanent fixture in out bedroom. He never asked me why it suddenly appeared one day, but he knew. I think we both knew.

You probably think I was doing a lot of thinking in that chair, hour after hour as the light cast funny shapes on my folded limbs, but I don't recall any of it. Sleep deprivation consumes pretty much all your energy in allowing you to simply function. You feel fuzzy, leaden, like you failed at something so intrinsically human and natural that the frustration makes you feel itchy and uncomfortable. Anxiety becomes intermingled with peace and tranquillity and slowly starts to conquer everything. A disrupted sleep cycle is more damaging than poor diet or a lack of exercise. My eyes were permanently bloodshot, with the skin around them translucent and lilac, pallid cheeks with the texture of paper. Lips so dry, I could peel the skin from them with my teeth. My hair, Oh my hair! my beautiful mane of thick, dark, hair started to abandon me, shedding itself from my ruined body in alarming quantities as I cried quietly in the shower, unsure of it was day or night.

When I did manage to snatch some sleep, it was fitful and unsatisfactory. A brief blackout that was never enough and never deep enough to recharge me. I felt the whole time like I was drifting on the surface of sleep, never immersing myself fully in it. My limbs felt achy like I had flu and people started to notice as I made mistake after mistake in my work and at home. Like pouring half a kettle of boiling water over my stomach, just because I was too brain dead to remember if I had boiled it or not.

We tried everything, my boyfriend and I. I think in some ways him trying to fix me was a last ditch attempt to save the unsalvageable. I think he knew, from the moment my body started to deny his company even in sleep, he knew the real reason why I couldn't relax. No amount of hot water bottles, lavender spray or herbal sleeping tablets can fix something that broken. We never slept in the same bed again.

A few years and a couple more relationships down the line I am still prone to those terrible periods of time where I feel I will go mad through lack of sleep, I still sit up until the small hours, trying to calm myself sufficiently, listening to music and over thinking things that I know I cannot change thought the power of irrational thought. I take sleeping tablets at times like this, though I prefer not to. I always find the sleep is not worth feeling like a Zombie the next day for, no matter how much I want it.With less to worry me, I trust my body will override what my head says and that I won't need an armchair in my bedroom again. At least not until I am married, perhaps.

Makeup Artist package.

2012-01-27T04:54:00.001-08:00

I have been using Pinterest a lot with clients lately. Having someone create a pin board for me really helps when translating what they want into a set of images for their work. Today I am (as we speak) blogging from a shoot I am doing with Mark, a freelance makeup artist who is just starting out. I met Mark when I was shopping and he stopped to snap me for a street style project. He recently got back in touch and asked me to shoot some looks for him. For the last few weeks we have been creating Pin boards for each other on Pinterest which eventually translated into a concept for this shoot.

While we were waiting this morning for the model he had booked to show up, he did my makeup! I've modelled before and do not know why people do it! I am so impatient!I also really don't like other people touching my face. But I am glad I let him.

The look below was created using Becca foundation, liquid bronzer, touché éclat and a highlighter by Clinique. He then blended the constructivist eye cream by Mac into the eye, buffing a stronger matte brown powder to create depth. Taking the colour under my eye he blended the whole thing with a soft brush to create this smoky look. Lips were evened out with concealer and given a lick of mac colour in myth. I am wearing my own Rimmel mascara and eyebrow pencil which is by Clarins. Finally, Mark blended out any blemishes or shadows with studio sculpt concealer, also by Mac. If I put this much on, my face would surely crack but the results were really good. I guess this is why he is a makeup artist and I am not!

He did a fantastic job and this is more product than I would consider wearing ever, but the finished result looks fabulous. I like a strong eye and this one in brown is something I can get on board with. I will be able to post sneaky perks of the shoot once I get permission and also once they are posted to his site!

I am a little afraid of Love.

2012-01-26T06:11:00.000-08:00

If I write it at the title to this blogpost then maybe it will largely go unnoticed. Like an aside, like a whisper, like an afterthought. If I write it like that, then I will not have to admit that I have made this statement based on evidence supplied by the entire canvas of my existence to date. I am as scared of Love as I am of the gap on The Tube. I am as nervous of surrendering to the feeling as Priest is about navigating a Lingerie department. Of course, "Love" does not simply mean the Romantic type, I'm not exclusively talking about the "Knock the air from your lungs, walk about in a daze" kind of feeling, commonly confused with Lust. I am, like perhaps a lot of people, scared to love because of the threat of loss.

When we give ourselves over to Love, we also embrace its sickly and malevolent bedfellow, Loss. This is a notion not lost on me, as someone who lost her (house) Cat for about 5 hours yesterday and experienced the full gamut of human emotion over a tiny Burmese-tabby cross. I love my Cat as much as a human can form an attachment to any kind of inanimate object, or pet. I convince myself her demands for food are affection and thus translate them into my amorously-deficient brain as "Love". When I want to, I convince myself my Cat Loves Me. She actually just loves the food and access to a warm duvet. In writing this last, I am forcibly reminded of more than one ex-boyfriend, only less cute and minus arse licking.

It is funny, the lies we tell ourselves just to feel "it". When we entertain Love, we also entertain Loss. Because there is always a possibility that those and the things we love will leave us. Having lost several things I love, or thought I loved in my life, I was left, as most of us are in such circumstances, bewildered, quiet, shell shocked. The pieces in my head, and in my heart took a long while to fit back together and even now, I am not sure they were repaired properly. The heart does not come with a warranty and love, at least for me, is a bit like taking out an iPhone contract without insurance. You are always a little bit afraid to let someone use it because there is a chance that person may drop it and smash it. We invest a lot of ourselves in Love, in loving a husband or a wife, the implication is that we become a "half"- whilst it is easy to consolidate all that we are with another person when we love that person, it is excruciatingly difficult and almost impossible to flesh out what we so willingly sacrificed to that person, in the event that person betrays or leaves us. It is like growing another limb, as we writhe in the inflicted pain, we vow not to do this again, not to make these mistakes. We wander in a featureless landscape, numb and reeling with the enormity of the task, unable to see potential in anything and trying, trying so very hard, to get our heads around the fact that Love did this.

Who in their right mind would ever do it again?

I might be afraid to love and you might be thinking that my issue is with getting hurt, but about two years ago it dawned on me that I was also afraid to love the people I have lost. Not talking about the dead, choosing instead to keep them locked inside your heart is a natural thing. Some memories are too precious to go diluting them in their retelling, after all. For this reason, I do not wear a heart on my sleeve, but an Angels Wing, in the hope that somebody will ask me what it means and that proudly, I will be able to tell them about the people I am proud to have loved.

I talk about "It", Love, the BIG L, like a person who has never experienced it. But I have, at least I am pretty sure I have. Over the years I have flirted with Love in all of its intoxicating and tempestuous forms; First, Unrequited, Platonic, Cat. I have had it taken from me, I have lost it and I have bestowed it far too willingly. I have had it sneak up on me, grow like a cancer and finally die like a mangy fox. I have held my breath in limbo, terrified and anxious to feel and thrown my expectations at the feet of people who are entirely unable to pick them up and make sense of them. I am a fully paid up member to the love club. I just don't attend meetings all that often. And other members don't seem to notice me.
-Incidentally, if there were (and as I type this I fervently hope that such a thing does not exist) such a thing as the love club, how VILE would it be? I imagine it manned entirely by cherubs with lots of red velveteen and swags everywhere...

Yes, like a Slimmer who's fondness for biscuits stops them attending a regular weigh in, I am similarly reluctant to perch my derriere upon a (plush, red, velvet) banquette in "the Love Club" I guess I used to wonder why this was, I used to think that a relationship was what I really wanted in life, but with age, we learn that the club rules of "the Love Club" are ultimately too complex and demanding and, like posh London nightspots achieve nothing more than make me look about, wondering what all the fuss was about. The best we can do is be patient, smile, laugh and trust that obstacles will clear away so that Love- the one that is right for us and is of our own design, will find us at last.

7 Deadly Sins (2009 Flashback)

2012-01-24T13:58:00.000-08:00

I have been going through some old projects I have done over the years and wanted to share this again, becasue it does not really fit into my current portfolio and is not really something I think represents what I do. I did the 7 Deadly Sins to give my ailing 365 project a boost. The editing is closer to digital art in a way, either way, it was a lot of fun and it was good to have a set theme for a week!

2009.

Studio Shoot.

2012-01-22T12:17:00.000-08:00

Some sneak peeks at some images taken during a studio shoot today. The model is my gorgeous friend Simon and I was lucky enough to mess about with some styling too. More to come- I just like these B&W's best. I will be updating abibansal.com ASAP with this new work.

Let's Go Outside....

2012-01-13T12:52:00.000-08:00

Today I had a little jaunt up to Ashton Court Estate to scout for a possible location for a photoshoot I have booked next month. I make it sound like I travelled over hill and dale but really I don't live very far away and it only takes about 20 mins to walk there from my house.

I had my graduation ball at Ashton Court and aside from a run in with Timmy Mallet and being sick in my mouth on a bus, I don't really recall the splendour of the surroundings. A visit to the Balloon Fiesta in the Summer really made me appreciate how lucky I am to live so near to this amazing space.

Not being a Wildlife Photographer, I thought I would try to get some shots of wildlife, there are deer on the estate as well as a lot of birds. What should follow are some lovely photos OF said wildlife.......

..except I can't do that because the shots I did manage to get were DIABOLICAL. I think I lost my confidence when I convinced myself the ~~Buffalo~~ Deer were charging AT me, ran out of the way, tripped over a log, slipped on some loose ground and ended up on my backside infront of some ramblers. Oh, and I also pulled a German Shepherd off a horse, stopping it attacking its back legs. The owner had no clue.

Done with nature, I managed to get some portraits in the lovely midday sun, despite which was butt-clenchingly cold up there, so next time I shall take gloves.

Brilliant light at Ashton Court Today.

Still, we stick to what we know.

I have never loved someone.

2012-01-11T09:55:00.001-08:00

Creating the Positive.

2012-01-09T10:13:00.000-08:00

An image from my shoot this weekend. Re edited for personal portfolio.

Things started going downhill, as is perenially the case, in December. A time of year when things are supposed to be perfect, shiny, full of hope and anticipation is often, for me at least, not the case. At best, when in a mindset of depressive angst, things tend to snowball (pun unintentional) to a point where you end up lolling on the sofa, compulsively eating After Eights and weeping at things involving sentimental family reunions. Christmas is not a time for the lonely.
I have a lot of amazing friends, I am blown away by their awesomeness on pretty much a daily basis, but when the dark cloud decends, nothing and no one can penetrate the fog that settles around your brain, nor the icy hands around your heart.
I am alluding to weather here because I just read the frankly brilliant letters of note blog, which features a missive from Stephen Fry to a depressed young girl. It really struck a chord with me. My Christmas was terrible. As is typical of either the very depressed, or simply Abi-in-refusal-of-help mode I am not proud of how I handle my loneliness. I wallow, pathetically on the one day of the year where nobody wants to hear it. Attention seeking in my grief, I say things I do not mean to people I care about so they turn their back on me when actually all I need to do is be honest. My inability to be honest when I am falling apart disgusts and disappoints me.
But you may have noticed, it's January. I am still here and I am writing this blog. Which means I must have survived Christmas. However bad it gets and however much I feel like I'm losing the battle to stay afloat. I always get through it. This alone gives me confidence and hope.
Magically, a New Year, full of hope is what many of us need after the emotional melting pot of Christmas is over, though this in itself often throws up a lot of weird feelings. In my case, who I should be spending it with. This year, I didn't go out on New Years Eve, for the first time in years. I stayed at home with my cat, thinking about someone I shouldn't and fighting the icy hands around my heart feeling again.
It wasn't as bad as I make out. A bad Christmas is nobody's making but my own, next year I am going to suck it up and be impossibly jolly, next year I won't be missing someone so much I can't breathe. Next Year I won't fall in love. Next Year I won't be counting my losses.

Loss is a particular theme of December, at least it is for me. We are bang slap in the time of material gain and all I can think about is the fact I lost my job, my sense of get up and go and a person I really cared about all in the same week. Then to cap it all off, a New Years Day Walk ensured I lost the ability to walk without a limp. Happy New Year!

We are now knee deep in January and my sense of get up and go returned on the 3rd of this month when it made me get off the sofa, have a shower, put some makeup on and face the world. Working for somebody is not the be-all and end all, I can work for myself and people will pay me. Missing the deceased does not have to be bottled up for 11 months of the year only to incapacitate me for the entirity of December, a daily pang will suffice. The actions of a person I let get close to me may have broken my heart, but hearts mend and pain is temporary. I start the new year with a new business venture, a new outlook on things and hopefully, in time, the rest will follow. Nobody is drawn to negative energy, am I to blame for the good things abandoning me? Did my own negative state of mind cause all of this? I hate to think it did, and although nothing is entirely simple as apportioning blame I can, for my part accept that I can drive people away. To those people, I am sorry.

But as I said, it's January. We have another 11 months until the rot sets in.

Sakura Jewellery.

2012-01-09T03:45:00.000-08:00

When I made the decision to go freelance, I had no idea that my third day on the job would yield not one, but two jobs. This weekend I have been in Surrey, working with my friend, the tremendously talented Anna Stassen, shooting new images for her Sakura Jewellery line. Anna has just had a new website designed and so, to compliment this, we discussed some ideas for some images that would reflect her brand aesthetic and showcase her most popular pieces. As Anna is a close friend of mine and her brand is very established, I found it very easy to translate her brief. Sakura Jewellery is clean, modern and classic, with an Asian influence. Unfortunately, as Anna also knows ME so well, she insisted that I was a good fit for her brand and that I not only style and shoot the images, that I also model for them as well. This was an unusual request but I hope I rose to the challenge!

Anna was a joy to work with and I hope I did her beautiful work justice. Check out more of her work here. And a blog about the experience here.

Every New Beginning.

2012-01-09T03:17:00.000-08:00

Hi!
I have been incredibly bad at updating this blog, I intend to update then life and work gets in the way and it all start to seem like a chore. I should probably stop guest posting elsewhere and sort out what is happening on my own doorstep, huh?

The observant among you will have noticed the logo I subtly posted atop this post. Yes, it's true- after parting ways with my employer, I have decided to take the plunge and go freelance. This is not totally new to me, I have been freelancing in some for for about 5 or 6 years but this truly is the first time I have sat down, thought about the services I can offer and done_something_about_it.

Aside from Photography and Copy writing, I am now also offering a service, based upon what I used to do in my 9-5. I have given it the title "Brand Communication" because it encapsulates everything people usually require assistance with when promoting themselves or their business. I offer packages based on what the individual may need, be it a logo, a web presence or a full photoshoot and descriptions of their products. Having run my own handmade business, I was very aware of the importance of a professional web presence and how good branding can improve something. I have worked for several high street names as well as successful independent so can provide real commercial advice along the way. I now have a dedicated website which has been updated with all the services and will soon have more work added to my portfolio. If you are reading this and thinking that your business could do with a re brand then I might be your girl!

This is my first Monday, I got up, made a cup of tea and went to work in my spare room. It is a huge leap and the support I have received has been overwhelming and already I know that it is the right descision for me. Thank you to everyone who reads my blog, follows my photography or follows me on Twitter. You have all blown me away with your enthusiasm and encouragement.

Watch this space!

"When will I Laugh again?"

2011-12-04T12:47:00.000-08:00

"When something is really, really funny"

Two years ago, I asked my friend Amy (pictured above, where I am doing perhaps the fakest smile ever to play across my lips) if I would ever be happy again. Because at that time, I really didn't think I was ever going to be. I was broken hearted, barely eating and desperately unhappy with the path I had chosen. One day, I was just unable to carry on. I'm not proud of it, I was hurting and self indulgent and wallowing in self pity. Every small decision was too much for me to handle and every disappointment was a personal failure. Hauling my ass to the other side of the world sort of helped, but I only came back to the same problems.

I still do fake smiling in Singapore.

I am not able to pinpoint a turning point exactly, talking with the friend who saw me through the worst patch indicates I did most of the hard work myself, though I did spend a very lonely Christmas in a freezing cold house crying under a duvet and pretending I was fine to anyone who contacted me. I think we all have to have one of those Christmases to really put things into perspective.

It is not like I can even say "and then suddenly it was all OK" Being OK involves the elimination of several negative aspects, and a simultaneous break of sorts. I got a new interim job, moved in with some boys who were really good to me and slowly, the vice around my heart got looser and looser.

People ask me why I still shot self portraits at this time, I wanted to prove to myself I could still create something good, even though it was a single photo a day. Looking back two years, I am damn glad I kept a record of all of it because this far down the line I know, without hesitation, that I came through it and if nothing else I have solid proof that things DO get better.

The picture taken by Anna at the lowest point in my life. I wish i was kidding. I'm not.

We are back on an even keel now. I know that things might get rough again but I will know how to tackle them. Bring it on. I wanted to write this as proof that things don't always totally heal but they do improve, even if you can't see it at the time. Christmas is a horrific time for so many people, it might be possible you know someone who is struggling just to get through the end of what might have been the biggest battle of their life.

Before and after Photoshop..

2011-11-28T06:40:00.000-08:00

Proof that I actually have a bit of a double chin and wonky lips. Anyway.. my friend Shuv does pro retouching and er, touched me.. earlier.
To see her work please go here, I wish I looked like this.

Ask me Anything.

2011-11-20T12:04:00.000-08:00

God knows why I am doing this again.. I totally forgot about it. It's Anonymous.

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The "Can I Get" Culture.

2011-11-03T07:32:00.000-07:00

As I sit here, gazing at a man who resembles Carl Barat from the Libertines, vaguely distracted by Twitter and how bitter and vile this cup of coffee tastes. I can hear the whoosh of milk being whooshed, the clank of cups and the dull hum of conversation in the background. I have been working remotely for one week now, and wherever I go one thing remains the same; the curious refrain of “Can I Get?”

“Can I get a REEEEWIND” enquired Craig David, as he bade us, the crowd, to go “BO” and, like the Garage-addled twerps we were, we all acquiesced with little regard for the moral and social implications. Once upon a time, our Mothers drummed into us the old adage that “I want doesn’t get” and the importance of “Please may I?” and, by and large, we spent most of our formative years abiding by it. In recent years, perhaps due to the intermingling of Anglo-American culture, the upsurge of speed-equating-to-profit within the service industry, and the enormous amount of Television and Trans-Atlantic media we consume our language has (rightly or wrongly) picked up key phrases. Like a big mossy ball wending its way down a steep gradient, the two become as intermingled as it is possible to be, resulting in the adoption of phrases that really make little sense at all. When I raised this on Facebook, an American friend practically apologised for our assimilation to this cultural sticking point. Proof that manners at least, are universal.

Just like “Yes” became “Yeah” and “See Ya” became short for “See you later” we will always seek to shorten our vernacular, peppering our dialect with new words faster than we can learn what they actually mean. Text speak, Social media and our Social status all dictate how we use our language, and like all good things we seek to borrow ideas and notions which allow us to communicate more appropriately. Or should I say, more appropriately to us.

It seems the Can I Get phrase is an example of a whole generation opting to overlook the phrase “Mind your P’s and Q’s”. Time is money and the “Can I get culture” is gaining momentum. In the space of time it has taken me to write this, 12 people have used the hated saying in my presence, not to mention the countless other similar scenes that are being played out in coffee shops and restaurants all over the place. I have no doubt that none of these people meant it rudely; I very much doubt that anyone really means anything rudely in the context of abbreviation, after all.

Am I just being pedantic? Is it OK to speak incorrectly, so long as the polite request is simply implied rather than verbalised? Should I abandon my perverse desire to intercept every “Can I get?” with a “No you can’t!”. Am I taking the simple phrase too literally? Is focusing on the getting, the having, the wanting NOW aspect of the phrase just me projecting my annoyance of the bastardisation of the English language? Should I just GET OVER IT?

Well no, actually- because, I really do believe that a please and a thank you cost nothing. And here is the thing; “Can I get?” With it’s upwards inflection and disregard of its polite prefix isn’t asking for anything at all, in its truest sense it is merely enquiring about the possibility of it. Call me pedantic, but I am sure there isn’t a single person currently working in the service industry who has paused to ponder this phrase in utter bafflement. What are you ASKING? To get yourself a coffee? Or for ME to get YOU a coffee? And I suppose this is why it annoys me so much, well, enough to blog about it anyway. It is a lazy phrase, lazy and pretty nonsensical.

I suppose that this argument really means nothing so long as people continue to mindlessly speak this way. Maybe, even after all of this, I will ask if I can GET something from somebody before the day is out, maybe you will too. The phrase didn’t become popular by accident, so by that logic at least there is reason to hope that it will evolve into something altogether more polite.

WIWT

2011-11-02T05:59:00.000-07:00

As somebody who likes fashion, I confess that I am sometimes really quite unimaginative when it comes to my own wardrobe. Since I no longer have to wear dedicated “work wear” I have revelled in being able to dress myself in jeans and jumpers, PJ bottoms and old vest tops with ketchup on them. Of course I buy clothes, I read Elle and a ton of Fashion blogs and I go shopping. I don’t actually enjoy shopping all that much so I am something of a bulk buyer. Need winter boots? I’ll buy two pairs. Jumpers? Just got four of the blighters. I don’t enjoy spending time around women who class shopping as a hobby.

I think my biggest problem is that I have an idea of how I want to look, what I want to wear etc. But it is usually something that is entirely NOT in fashion. For these items, I usually go to eBay. Here I have found such classic garments as my Yellow Fisherman’s Mac, my 60’s shift dress and my recent obsession, the Lopi Icelandicknit jumper.

I am not going to link you to the actual garment, lest you become so crazed with need that you bid against me. As with all such garments, I like to tell myself little stories to validate the purchase IN MY MIND. Fashion types probably refer to it as A REFERENCE but whatevs.. my story for justifying the purchase of a jumper that makes me look like Heidi is based on the Good Life, a love of the 1970’s and a basic need to own a garment appropriate for making hot chocolate in. We will overlook the fact that it is probably vastly unflattering for my breasts and will be way too hot to wear in shops, thus rendering my “Christmas Shopping” Fantasy null and void.

So anyway, more on The Jumper when it is actually my own. I have noticed that lately I seem to wear the same few garments all the time. In fact, I seem to wear the top two layers of my “floordrobe” almost exclusively, with little care for what might be lurking underneath.

I started looking at “What I wore today” www.wiwt.com mostly because my friend is a regular poster there. I like looking at the outfits people put together mostly because I am sometimes too lazy to dress myself. The concept is a pretty good one, the advent of smart phones means it’s really, really easy to post a daily picture of your “look”. The main purpose of this for me; however is to stop myself getting into a (horrible magazine phrase coming up here) Fashion Rut. I have so far only posted two outfits to the site. I have learnt that I wear a LOT of Black and Grey and that the temptation to wear the same pair of skinny jeans every day is significantly diminished when there is a possibility that people will actually see that you have worn them for 3 days straight. Because there have been a few days where I have not actually managed to get dressed, I have not managed to post religiously. It’s nice keeping up with some of the people who do though, holy designer labels! So far I have forced myself to mix my (ok mostly black) wardrobe up so hopefully by the time the ICELANDIC KNIT JUMPER IS MINE, I will have a whole load of things to wear it with.

BALLS!

2011-11-01T07:21:00.000-07:00

So, Guys, I hope you have all managed to check your balls today. I would of course offer to do it for you, now that I have been treated to the master class that was the poking’s and prodding’s of Dr Chris on This Morning, I feel like something of an expert. I am all for taking the hands on approach but there is something about watching Phillip Schofield attempting to look on professionally and not corpse whilst the resident medical expert gropes and fondles a viewer’s testes that puts me off any kind of soft, round fruit for today.

Of course, I am not one to make light of Cancer, having lost a Mother, known three survivors and having had a brush with a breast lump of my very own (!) I am emphatically NOT going to make out that checking for lumps is in any way silly. You have my permission to grope away at your appendages immediately. Even whilst you read this blog. One thing I learnt from This Morning is that, statistically very young men can be afflicted with testicular cancer. I am not sure why I thought it was an old man’s disease. Perhaps misguidedly, I was thinking about something they check for signs of when you attend a well man clinic, or something.

Ah, so I’ve talked, quite literally about bollocks for two whole paragraphs now. Golly, I best redress that balance. I have been on sabbatical/between jobs for a whole month now. I have another 4 weeks before my new contract picks up so I suddenly have something that I have previously bemoaned the lack of on my hands... No, I am not still talking about Testicles, for the record. I am referring to that flighty mistress, time. Incidentally, isn’t time a dude? Maybe that’s just me projecting my assumptions of “old father time” on this whole thing. Anyway, for the purposes of this, let’s assume that Time is a Guy. If for no other reason than the fact he runs out on us when stuff gets interesting.

Every day, I come to the coffee shop to write something. Lately it has been fleshing out chapters of a story that seems to be gaining momentum every time I pick up a pen or sit at a computer but today it is music articles and a bit of blogging. I have been guest blogging elsewhere for about a month or so and this space looks very neglected indeed. By the way, I don’t come to the coffee shop to look cool or anything. I don’t come because I subscribe to the Carrie Bradshaw School of journalism or because I heard that Perez Hilton does it and JK Rowling started out this way. I come for mediocre coffee and also to piggy back Wi-Fi until we get ours fixed on Saturday. SATURDAY. That is DAYS away. I am totally and utterly ashamed to say that I am compulsively dependent on the internet. Having it means I can watch True Blood in my underpants, talk to my best friend in America and do really important things like watch PJ Harvey at the Albert Hall. Bitter as I am that I was not able to attend aforementioned gig, I was even more bitter still, to find that lack of internets meant I could not even watch it in my underpants whilst consuming the Halloween candy I bought secretly knowing no kids would ever get to eat. PAH.

So anyway, I come here to write, because leaving the house to do it makes it feel like a job and there are fewer distractions. I find personal writing is a bit like exercising a muscle that I never really used to its full potential in the first place. Writing about one thing for so long means that my own voice has been kind of stifled, and I guess the practice of writing is to coax that out by whatever means necessary. Twitter is a great outlet for immediate thoughts; God knows it has brought me some brilliant people but a whole blog, a bloggy blog full of ME is so indulgent. It is one thing to live Tweet your opinions about Sir Alan’s apprentice, but quite another to construct a whole series of comments into an article where people can judge you harshly. It is part of the reason I usually vanish for such long periods. I guess I really should be asking you what you think a personal blog should be. What keeps you reading? Why do you come back? Is there anything interesting about a Girl aimlessly flexing her literary muscles before you, like patient guinea pigs? Or should she go away for a bit and come back when she has truly honed her craft, and is less likely to pose such serious questions about being a writer at the end of a blog post about balls.

Sick and Tired. The Tribulations of the Malingerer.

2011-10-27T02:39:00.000-07:00

"Don't forget the BUCKET"

Not being one to moan about being unwell... HA... You see? I couldn't even start this blog with that line with anything approaching seriousness. Over the last 24 hours I have moaned CONSTANTLY about feeling sick. If you follow me on Twitter, I wouldn't be surprised if you swiftly unfollowed me between the hours of 9.00-11pm last night, the eye of the storm. I felt VERY sick indeed. And I slept with a bucket. I haven't done that since Uni, the night where we thought it would be "cost effective" and "a good idea" to hide the bag bit from a box of wine (Nisa's finest!) underneath our coat. But I digress, I feel very ill.

In all honesty, it is probably something I have eaten. I think we all pick up these random bugs from time to time. I am defiantly not pregnant, nor have I been around anyone who appeared particularly unwell. However, I admit, I am the first to go "I'm fine!" just to deflect attention from talking about vomit. Historically, nobody likes talking about vomit.

It is, of course, fine. I am always OK in a day or two. I'm just at a loose end right now so really enjoy the moaning and groaning that is part and parcel of being unwell. I also really enjoy reminiscing about "Sicknesses of THE PAST", comparing my symptoms to the great flu of 2008, the Meningitis scare, and the time my friend Ben gave me Mumps in my mid 20's. All very bad and all immeasurably worse than how I feel now, so writing about it, making little eggy burps and having the cat sit on my lap for comfort is therapeutic.

One thing I do have a gripe with (and it is only a figurative gripe, not another thing to add to my list of symptoms) is that they seem to have done away with Educational TV on BBC2 during the day! I used to LOVE that. OK, so the most popular show was essentially based on an old Henry Hoover with inexplicably feminine arms, spelling out words on an abandoned refrigerator but STILL. They don't make em like they used to. If you are reading this and "Geordie Racer" means anything to you then let us bump fists.

What do you consider to be the best thing about Sick days? (apart from the sick bit, of course, but some of you may enjoy that) do share.

Image Credit.

I LOVE YOU.

2011-10-20T05:34:00.000-07:00

Obviously, being temporarily unemployed means I have a lot of time on my hands. After about ten, lengthy posts about having no time whatsoever I now find myself cleaning my house, talking to the cat and singing a lot of Shirley Bassey. You can do that when nobody is home.

Incidentally, that performance gives me goosebumps. She is stupendous. Such a DIVA! I am not a gay man, but still. Woah.

I guess I should be grateful of the downtime but.. I AM BORED. I need a project. Any ideas?

TA DAH!

2011-10-11T12:57:00.000-07:00

It's up! after much procrastination, I have finally created my new online home, housing a portfolio of my work, my Writing and Photography as well as direct links to my two blogs and Twitterfeed. Phew!

It's still in its early stages but you can now find me, this blog, and all the other bits and pieces I get up to here.. www.abibansal.com (never gonna get tired of that snappy li'l URL)

This is a Public Service Announcement.

2011-10-10T05:48:00.000-07:00

Or What happens when the dam is not holding us back. OR Do what you Love, Love what you do.

Being indecisive is a symptom of creative procrastination, you know.

Notice I said "Public Service Announcement" all in capitals there, in manner of something VERY IMPORTANT. I like to grab attention with a punchy opener, I do.

I have been thinking long and hard, ever since I last posted here, in fact. I have been thinking about working and the big pay off. Sorry, that should read "The Big Payoff", possibly even "The Big Payoff!!" Typically, I have been mulling over this principle, in the intervening weeks and months and wondering why it is I cannot seem to focus on anything creative. I have not unpacked my sewing machine since I moved the first time (I have moved twice) and my camera was, quite literally accumulating dust before my very eyes. Picking it up to shoot a (predictably poor) self portrait felt like there was an alien in my hand. I felt like a parent who had skipped pregnancy, childbirth and was plopped right into the thorny business of potty training without any warning. Like an athlete about to run the 1500m who's sum total of training had previously been a 100yd dash to the corner shop. Unprepared, clumsy, inadequate.

I didn't initially notice this in creative decline happening, as we the VERY BUSY are predisposed not to do. I just... well, I didn't feel like I had the time. The inclination was sort of there, I mean, I'd thought about getting those things out again, and maybe dabbling a little. I'd waffle a bit about how precious my free time was, then do precisely nothing with it. Writing articles in the evening has become the norm for me, I review Music, tacking it onto the end of my working day with ease. This is a part of my creative life that I wouldn't change, but the rest of it? Where did it go and, more importantly- how can I get it back again?

I suppose in order to regain the things we feel we lost, we need to first address what replaced it in the first place. I have been guilty of taking a job purely for security and not based upon happiness, creative input or a good work/life balance. The three things I rate so highly in terms of an ultimate payoff of happiness and well being, were shelved because I didn't have the guts to admit that what I was doing ( slogging my guts out to achieve something I didn't believe in in the first place) was preventing me from a happy, fulfilled and balanced life.

Of course, it is not easy to achieve balance in life, we all try and most of us fail. The proverbial see-saw on which we balance our needs versus our wants is forever precariously in motion, to expect it not to be would be unrealistic. I have known for quite a while now that having my see-saw at such an alarmingly steep incline is neither right, nor healthy. Want to shoot some photos tomorrow? "Can't, I'm working" Fancy sewing something cute to wear this Autumn? "Can't, I'm so tired.. from working", "Hey, incredibly attractive guy I just met, let's go for a drink. Which I'm warning you now, I won't enjoy because my stomach is tying itself in knots about having to work tomorrow". I have been duped into thinking that it is OK for a job to define me and define me completely. It is not who I am, working until I am so brain dead I cannot speak is not me. Of course we need to work to live, our jobs should support our free choices and lifestyles and my job was swallowing all of that up. It is a real danger that putting ourselves in that situation (and we do put ourselves in that situation) can make us feel that all jobs are the same, that we will never be happy unless we are self employed, calling the shots and dictating our own hours. I certainly have felt that way in recent months, it has made me overlook the fact that (gasp) I actually LIKE working with others! that yes! it IS possible to have a job which suits you AND potentially even supports the life you want, heck! some of those things might even overlap!!

And slowly, it dawns. You can get paid for doing what you love, and if you don't love it then at least do something you like enough that allows you at least some time to devote those precious moments to the things you do. Because while you are working, adding value to something you may not believe in, let me tell you other people are waking up thinking "God, I love what I do".
I know I will be accused of romanticising employment, with Jobs so scarce and people being made redundant, the cost of living means we simply cant afford to run off and buy a potters wheel. We all have to do things we don't like, with people we may not gel with and that is life. I'm just saying one thing that I wish people had told me sooner; you have options, there is always something else you can be doing.
This week has taught me that if you are doing something that subtracts from who you are and what you love. You very simply, shouldn't do it. I think Kele Okereke said it best "If your right hand is causing you pain, cut it off, cut it off". I'm not saying we should all become sans limbs and live off the state but in very basic terms this represents the very thing I truly believe; If you are doing something you don't want to do. Don't do it. Don't do it a second longer than you have to.

And so I find myself at a crossroads, my skills can take me in any number of directions, and typically the better paid of them will take me further from what I love. My future is uncertain but even after coming to the above realisation I still waver about my choices. A job, an occupation, is essentially a contractual agreement to provide a specified service for an agreed time frame to another party. At no point does it say that you have to shelve your dreams and waive your free time into the mix. When you interviewed for the position did they tell you that you would cry with dread on the journey to and from work? Did they mention you would often vomit with the presure? No they did not. They didn't because that is an unrealistic expectation to put on somebody. Nobody gets paid enough to take that on.

I have other options which crucially involve a hearty dollop of writing, sewing and photography and I may be initially poorer for it but I am pretty sure my blood pressure and niggling acid reflux will abate as a direct result. A wise friend who I hold dear for his ability to sort the wheat from the chaff and who is high in my esteem for blazing his own trail simply said to me "pick one" And it really was as simple as that. Once you pick the route that's right for you, once you acknowledge that the road you have chosen might not be the smoothest or safest, it all becomes so much easier. I have pretty much decided that the job I don't yet have is the one for me, before I have it. I don't even know if I will get it but the very act of being in a position to go for it is liberating. I have learnt that wanting to work for people who value you and what you can offer them is not unrealistic. It's a normal expectation. There is no shame in walking away from something that makes you unhappy if it allows you to become the person suitable for a job that will allow you to be happy.

If anyone has any freelance writing work/patterns/tutorials/styling then obviously, I'm your girl :D

No really, I'm serious.

Adventures in Hair Colouring. Lush Caca Brun.

2011-07-19T01:25:00.000-07:00

It might amuse or surprise you to know that I have cavorted with hair colourants in my time. Born with darkest brown/black locks I was, naturally unsatisfied with my lot. My teen years were peppered with ill-fated experimentations into various streaks, turquoise highlights and fire engine red tips. I managed to get it all out of my system by the time I reached my mid-20's and since cutting all my hair off in 2006 (not good. not. good!) I have not coloured my hair. My colour was as natural as it possibly could be.

Until about a month ago when I got bored and dyed it red. I used a "perfect 10" colourant and was by and large pleased with the results.

This was taken a week or so after the initial dye job. The major problem with Red pigments in chemical dyes is that they FADE so quickly. Still, it was fine. I was bored.

The problem with colouring, bleaching, perming and all that crap people put their hair through is that it makes it look OK for about a day then the dryness becomes noticeable. You run out of that little tube of conditioner they include, the colour begins to wash out and you are left with a pale imitation of the colour you intended. You start to consider other dyes, like a junkie you become preoccupied with the next fix- brighter, stronger, shinier. And it is almost always a costly disappointment.
I've mentioned before that I have managed to grow my hair back to a good length after suffering from alopecia. It's strong enough to do stuff to again but a reluctance to get it cut left it feeling a bit dry. The red didn't help. I went into Lush with a view to getting some kind of intensive conditioner but found myself considering the Hennas.
Henna has been used in Indian culture to condition and colour the hair. I've actually used henna for this purpose quite a bit in the past and was reluctant to go back there again as I wanted to avoid that batty "halo of rouge" effect I know it can give. I thought I'd give the Caca Brun Bar a whirl though, because it contains Indigo to counteract the red I figured it would be the best solution and it is also incredibly natural. I used half a bar for my entire head so am left with some top up applications if I require.
So four hours of sitting with what felt and smelt like cowpat on my head left me with the above colour. My old, natural brown colour only shiny, smooth and sleek. I never thought I would find myself on the hunt for the perfect brown dye, but I think I found it.

neon.

2011-06-28T05:42:00.000-07:00

I have been obsessed, I mean OBSESSED with this image, ever since I came across is last week. The only credit I can find is from here but I think you will agree that it's pretty frikkin' awesome.

The last time I thought neon was cool, it was 1991 and I was wearing cycling shorts, raybans and an aqua tee shirt with Minnie Mouse on it. I have always been a little afraid of neon ever since, probably due to its emergency service connotations. I think you will agree, this incarnation is altogether much cooler. Especially when teamed with a tan and some indigo. And friendship bracelets! I certainly had those in 1991. Now I suddenly want to make some more.

It took me quite a while to find the exact shade of Dyno-rod orange. Barry M, usually a brand who comes up trumps with the colours, didn't have any. Stargazer, the brand most associated with my teens and the days of blue hair and fluro body paint was nowhere to be found. Eventually it was good old collection 2000 and their acid orange shade (28 Hip Hop) that saved the day. And under £2.00 too.

Life.

2011-06-27T07:22:00.000-07:00

An image from my own personal Rock bio.

I went through a phase of reading Rock bios a few years ago and, to be honest, I kind of tired of them. There are only so many tales of "coke off a midget's hiney" and 80's stripper mom sexploits you can read about before they all kind of merge into one, like some hideous cavalcade of pumped up, lurid, lacquered 80's excess. The last one I read was Motley Crue's "The Dirt". It's why my cat is called Sixx and why I went through a phase of investigating the possibilities of commissioning a revolving drum kit. Admit it, you've thought about it.

So it was with some trepidation I started reading Keith "Keef" Richards bio. Simply entitled "Life", it is full of the type of Rock 'n' Roll anecdotes one would expect from, well Keith Richards. I have to say though, it's a pretty good read. Not just for the stories that involve The Stones secreting dope in their vehicle for a road trip across America's Bible belt, though there are plenty of those. It also has a lot for the die hard music fan- Page 272, Keef (I'm going to call him Keef, , it's become a habit) waxes lyrical about five string open tuning and the creation of the "drone" which he likens to sitar music:

"The beauty, the majesty of the five-string open G tuning for an electric guitar is that you've only got three notes-the other two are repetitions of each other an octave apart. It's tuned GDGBD. Certain strings run through the whole song, so you get a drone going all the time, and because its electric, they reverberate. Only three notes, but because of these different octaves, it fills the whole gap between bass and top note with sound. it gives you this beautiful resonance and ring. I found working with open tuning there 's a million places you don't need to put your fingers, the notes are there already. You can leave certain strings wide open. It's finding the spaces in between that make open tuning work"

This is the sort of technical detail that I love, and that is sadly missing in so many rock bios. it's like the artist overlooks their skills and goes straight for the sensational. It's such a shame but not something you need to worry about here. "Life" blends the music with the persona in typical style. Even if you've never picked up a guitar in your life, or simply don't care about the production details of a so-called "seminal" album, there is still plenty of chapters which begin with Cops and Pharmaceutical Cocaine, and Anita Pallenberg is in it. And there are some cool pictures. It's interesting and intelligent, provides an insight into drug assisted creativity and is underscored with a soundtrack which is pretty, bloody worthy too.

Quite how the man is still alive though, beggars belief.

Whatever floats your boat.

2011-06-16T07:57:00.000-07:00

As I write this, in my local cafe. I am sitting right next to a table of six new Mums and their assorted offspring. Beautiful. The miracle of life. Only the women are talking about their pelvic floors and have been for the last 3o minutes now and I am starting to feel uncomfortable.

OK, so I want to write properly again. Other stuff as well as the Music stuff that I have been doing for almost ten years now. A discussion with someone in a related field yielded the perennial question "write what?" I never wanted this blog to be about anything in particular, I sort of knew that I liked Music, Boys, Fashion and Makeup. But I was about 17 then, and although not a lot has changed in the intervening years, I have noticed my concentration is not what it was. Just typing this opening paragraph has taken one cappuccino, a browse on Amazon and a quick Skype conversation with an overseas friend. See what I mean? "Write about your life" My best friend advised me, on the assurance that I was "pretty cool, clever and interesting to know" but then he IS my best friend. But he is right; I should just write about what I like and stop trying to make something happen out of thin air. My approach to creative writing has always been a bit "Field of Dreams" anyway.. Write it and the ideas will come!

So today I'd like to talk about Pinterest. For the initiated, Pinterest is a site that lets you create virtual pin boards from content that you might see whilst browsing the web. I've been using it for a while to gather inspiration for the day job but just lately it has become an utter obsession of Pinterestic proportions. Instead of working, or paying bills, or doing housework, I'm pinning. I'm pinning images of vintage bikes and associated clothing.. like this!

I imagine I will create some boards for this blog in the future. It's pretty fun and most excellent for the procrastinators among us! And the site also begs me to beseech you to follow my pins (something I never thought I would be using this blog to say!)

So I suppose this blog is sort of alive again. the last time I said that of course I vanished for six months so you never can tell.

Since I opened this tab to write this post I've created 3 pinterest boards and the Mums are still discussing their pelvic floors. The babies went to sleep long ago, preferring the land of nod to discussions pertaining to whenceforth they came.

Whatever floats your boat.

Egos and Wallets. The Glorious Reformation.

2011-04-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

Creme Brulee, Fictional band from the League of Gentlemen reform for one night only.

The act of reforming a once successful musical act is not as simple as gluing together the fragments of a broken vase. Piecing together the shards of shattered or swollen egos which once fitted together with ease can be, several years down the line, like reconstructing fragments which have been warped and distorted by ego, success or failure.

Inflamed egos are perhaps the major contributing factor as to why ostensibly successful bands choose to part ways in the first place. So it is no great surprise that it is the same set of personalities that will face similar, if not worse issues the second time around. Citing "Musical differences" to explain away the fact that the former front man's solo career is on the verge of going stellar, seems perfectly acceptable at the time. With a whole back catalogue of royalties to live off, and exciting sideline projects to pursue, a split can feel positively welcome in the moment. In the wake of the amicable post-Robbie Take That split, nobody could have predicted how successful they would go on to be an entire decade down the line, least of all Robbie who only deigned to join his old band mates once his solo career appeared to hit the skids.

Every band reforms. The Sex Pistols did it, to get the money. The Happy Mondays did it, to get the money. The chances of a reunion go up as the fortunes of the band's members go down and their egos and wallets long once more for the glory days. "We have found a common cause, and it's your money," sneered Johnny Rotten in 1996. At least he was honest. We all like to believe that bygones can be bygones, that artistic clashes do not relate to fame and wealth, but the harsh reality is that many reformations don't work out for the same reasons the original band didn't. The intense, creative relationships can often have a shelf life, if all musicians gave up while they were at their peak, the relative spell for a truly great band would be increasingly short. Retirement seems to be a dirty word in rock; The Manics are in danger of writing radio jingles and the Rolling Stones appear to pitch their ticket prices on the high statistical possibility that one of them my die before their next gig.
It is not very Rock'n'Roll to down your instruments and stay really great mates with your band mates, Blur dissolved (but not obviously disbanded) into a collaboration, a solo career and a guy who makes cheese. Their 2009 Glastonbury set was perfectly timed to celebrate their career, though many cynics probably wondered if any of the guys were a bit strapped when they agreed to it- it certainly didn't seem that way. They seemed grateful to still be speaking.

Of course record companies must pile on the pressure at times too, an old track gains popularity because its on some car advert and suddenly, a greatest hits appears! It's not like this music has been unavailable for the past X amount of years; it has to be repackaged and re marketed for the next generation. There is nothing more depressing than seeing a once great band operating as a shadow of their former selves, yet some comfort can be derived from knowing that there is a 50% impossibility of this ever happening to the Beatles, at least not posthumously.
Some groups will issue a dramatic statement pertaining to "personality clashes" and other irreconcilable differences, though such shit-slinging can come as a huge financial cost and forever can seem like, well, forever when there are bills to pay and mansions to finance. If a key member does not selfishly go and die during the estrangement, it would seem that nowadays there are few artists who can afford to sever ties with their old bands too acrimoniously or permanently. But rock history proves that time is a great healer, and money can be a very useful medicine. More and more bands are moving towards an amicable stance, reluctant to relinquish the "Never say Never" attitude that has long been associated with Music's comeback successes.

And there are successes, however few and far between they might seem. We just like to feel that it is a genuine reunion, however blindingly obvious it is that it is a shrewd financial move we still want to believe our heroes are big enough to put aside their differences and work together again for the Music.
A successful reformation depends on many things, not least a renewed willingness to work together. In some cases, you better hope to God that nobody remembers the reasons you left in the first place, least of all you because you might think twice about it.

What is an acceptable percentage of original members? Very often, members of hugely successful bands make the mistake of thinking they are greater than the sum of their parts. Hence Liam Gallagher, in his unwavering belief that indeed he was the brains behind Oasis has inflicted Beady Eye on all of us. Its not a terrible offering, from the man who gave us a novel pronunciation of the word "sunshine" but it's still Oasis-without-Noel, the band as memorable for its turbulent dynamics as it was the music it produced.

It's not like front men can't make it on their own; Sting, Rod Stewart, Paul Weller and, yes, Phil Collins have all done very well for themselves and will probably never need to return to the fold so much as to boost their own profile- very rarely do such artists whose solo career exceeds their time as part of a lineup"need" to look back, especially at the behest of their fan base. Many people think Morrisey without Marr's musical genius, is simply a man moaning. Many Musicians might resent being tied to their humble beginnings in a band, for others post-split it is all about returning to the success they left behind. Does anybody even care what the less famous members of a reformed band have done in the intervening years? Is it even right to call these transient lineup changes a proper reformation?

Where can you go after you’ve gathered up all the loose ends and restarted the cash cow to pay the tax bill? Well there’s two ways of doing it. Firstly, a shoddy cheap greatest hits album, with the worst versions of the best songs thrown in a bag and jumbled around. Then you suck Satan's willy, ring up your mates, and form a band. If you can’t get any original members, just ring up some session musicians. Use the original name, and hope nobody realises you’re a prostitute and a joke. Its not reforming as in “we’re good now”. It was reforming, like processed meat. Offcuts thrown together to create a plausible whole. What’s left of bands like the Happy Mondays shows just how desperate Shaun Ryder is to pay his tax bill Some people don’t care too much as long as they can hear the songs again, and some people don’t care just so long as they’ve got an autocue and a paycheck.

Or you reform the band. Properly. Of course, every band splits up for a reason and often there’s a personality difference in there, so not everybody wants (or is wanted) to return to the fold.

The aforementioned Take That, emerging a decade on, still churning out hit after hit and gaining an entire generation of new fans along the way, piqued our suspicions at first. We suspected Howard and Jason hadn't been wildly successful but what about Gary? We were proved wrong however, when the music held up- it was good! We accept that Gary Barlow is at his best when he is writing for the boys and our 10 years of waiting have yielded appropriate musical rewards. Pink Floyd, including David Gilmour and Roger Waters, shared a stage at Live 8 in 2005 - but have resisted all offers for a full comeback somehow feels so much more appropriate, credible, even.
New Order, successfully reformed from elements of Joy Division were on hiatus between 1993 and 1998, during which time the members participated in various side-projects. The band reconvened in 1998, and in 2001 released Get Ready, their first album in eight years. Would it be as good? It was, it was better, crisis averted. The hallmark of a successful reformation is evolution. These bands make no apology for being apart, but at the same time offer us something new and just as exciting. It is less about recouping the past, more continuing the journey.
There is a time and a place for reformation, for some the time will never come, for some the moment has been and gone, the members are different people or the public simply don't care enough. You might only be as good as your last release, but if the talent was eclipsed by in fighting, drug habits, spells in prison and mediocre solo efforts, even the most die hard fan will long to preserve what was once great, just as it was. For every Libertines fan who longed to see Biggles and Bilo share a mic again, when it finally did happen again, the experience was underwhelming. Simply a case of too little too late. Dave Grohl has not made a career of trotting out old Nirvana hits, opting instead to spread out his musical allegiance like smooth spreading Rock Peanut butter- resulting in the greatness of the Foo Fighters and a long list of pretty noteable side projects.

The bottom line is; some bands should never reform, like processed meat. Others should do it, but then again, only if they do it for love - with passion, wit, vitality, and wildly differing set lists every night. To see your heroes trotting out old songs in a karaoke style off an autocue to pay a tax bill isn't just sad, it's an insult and shows them as nothing more than wage slaves, clocking in for another day on another stage for another paycheck.
It hardly smacks of integrity, or anything much at all now I think about it. Maybe more groups should take the "less is more" approach, have faith in their back catalogues and leave greatness, along with lavish-hard to maintain-lifestyles in the past.

Rules for successful living or The Universally accepted truths.

2011-03-08T05:54:00.000-08:00

It is a Universally accepted Truth that many of the things I am about to highlight for the purposes of these blog post can and do happen to somebody, somewhere most of the time. Hell, several may have even happened to some of you prior to reading them.

Universally accepted truth #1:

You will never, ever anticipate when Sting is going to Sing "Roxanne" for the final time during the chorus.
This has been scientifically proven to be significantly more of a challenge when you have partaken of alcohol. It certainly does not help that the majority of people singing along get swept up in being a member of "the Po-lice" and are too busy booming "Roooxaaaaannneeeeeee" or "put on the reeed light"/air drumming to pay any attention to the fact they are straying perilously close to a verse. Nor is it particularly helpful of Sting himself to chuck in an "oh" instead of the Roxanne we are all praying for right at the end there. We all know how many Roxannes there are but somehow we don't care and always end up preparing for an EPIC Roxanne, only to be left hanging. Damn you Sting.
Universally accepted truth #1b is that when visiting Amsterdam's red light district you will beseech your companions to form a tribute act to the Police and generally arse about airdrumming and getting as many tourists as you can to join in. This happened. I did this. A thank you.

Why my interesting life is all-inspiring to the proles.

2011-03-08T01:16:00.000-08:00

So it is amazing what you accomplish when you simply make time for it, instead of procrastinating, treating it like work and scooting off the to-do list for some other time. FYI "scooting off the to-do list" is what I am prone to doing in favour of re-ordering my nail polishes or, in the case of this morning cavorting around the house bellowing "uh oh... ooowah uh oh BE MY ANIMAL" with the hoover.
As I sit here, enjoying my crumpets and peanut butter and a cup of Earl Grey tea, I imagine what this would be like if I was actually committed enough to write this blog in any sense approaching regularity. Think of all the things you would know about me! I could tell you about my overseas adventures, the stupid things I have done in the pursuit of various unsuitable boys and the amazing gigs I have been to. As it is you are stuck with me occasionally showing you some sewing, a couple of shitty photographs and waffling on about my cat. You see, it is about quality rather than quantity. The illusion of me sitting in an entirely white room (or in a Starbucks, I always imagine bloggers to be sitting in a Starbucks, for some reason, like Perez) is very different to the reality. I get put off blogs which appear too showy-offy; "Look! look what a FAAAABULOUS life I have" You just know these girls don't sit at home, picking out the freeze dried berries from a box of cereal. Or in contrast blogs which are just freaking dull; "So I don't, like, leave the house ever... but here is a selection of my ill-formed opinions on the life I am not actually living, courtesy of Wiki". I like to think I am somewhere betwixt international jet-setter/vair cool and homely earth mother with stupendous baking abilities. The reality is probably very, very different. As is usually the case when my blogging takes a spike, I get lots of comments and emails to the effect of "You should write! write a book!" Yeah, sure.. IT IS NOT AS EASY AS THAAAAAT! I am trying. I also suspect I am simply not that good or interesting. It is also waaaay too easy to substitute photographs for content, or in my case... waffle.
-See what I did there?? I really want a waffle now. This is how a person like me gets distracted.

Yesterday was pretty cool, I met up with a couple of friends, one of which is an ex workmate who is embroiled in some kind of dating dilemma (oh to have her troubles!) to cut to the chase, over keen potential beau turns up AVEC KIDS FROM A PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIP. Colour me awkward. Sadly not as awkward as "the time he worked as a podium dancer" Yes, this is the sort of people I find myself mixing with. I defy you to keep a straight face too.
Cut to the evening and Wagamama with my lovely internet-but-now very real life friend Annette then onto Browns, not for a cocktail but for a lovely up of molten 70% chocolate. We know how to live.

I'm going to do some photography today and perhaps get my paints out! Aside from anything else, today is pancake day! there is eating to be done! I must whip up some batter for when the boys get home. And by "boys" I mean housemates, not the participants in some poly-amorous relationship.

Making up for lost time.

2011-03-06T09:48:00.000-08:00

What you can’t see is the other (less modestly adorned) half I crammed, whole in my mouth to take this shot.
Before I go any further, I hope we are all in agreement that the primary function of a scone is merely as a vehicle for obscene amounts of jam and cream... yes? They aren't a lot of fun alone.

So I thought I would ease in with a lovely baking shot. Just in case you needed some sugar after the shock of seeing me back in blogland after so long. God I am shit, aren't I? One teensy mental-health related blip and I bugger off for months and months, only emerging to post boring updates about my waning 365 project. A while ago I sat down and thought about the things I wanted to devote more time to and blogging was one of them. Despite a propensity to waffle on and on, I do feel I have something to say. I never set out with a mission statement about what I wanted this blog to be (heaven knows I am not Gwyneth Paltrow and this is not the Goop) I knew I wanted somewhere to share my writing and my thoughts without obligation. So much of the things I write are out of obligation for various jobs and assignments, which is not a bad thing- just something that is incredibly easy to sap time and energies from everything else. Hobbies and skills, which only improve through use, get neglected over time and pretty soon, we lose confidence in our abilities.
I have always been someone who can do quite a bit, I have my finger in many pies (or cakes, as it were) but, like most people I do have a tendency to do nothing when I feel overwhelmed. This does not go hand in hand with my "use it or lose it" mentality when it comes to skills. Time that could otherwise be spent productively adding to a manuscript end up being spent mindlessly singing along to Girls Aloud on Spotify (cough*likelastwednesday*). The day I would usually spend pattern cutting, sewing or drafting ends up being devoted to daytime TV or worse, a stupid boy. Like it has been observed many times (usually by those revising for important exams) it is incredible how important the mundane seems when we are procrastinating. Add a full time job with a hefty chunk of travel into the mix and you are just asking for the pressure to use "quality time wisely" to increase tenfold.
And that is the problem I have. The term "quality time" why can't all our time be quality? Who said that the hours we spend working for somebody else are opposed to the time we are able to spend on our own hobbies and interests? I worked out I wasted a good three hours a day recovering from the working day. After a day of being paid to think about things we really have no real interest in then it is no small wonder the other things start to feel like work. The irony of course, being that our hobbies and interests exist purely to alleviate the stress of this working week.
And Hobbies and Interests ARE important. Why do you think they ask about them in University interviews and on Job Applications? The things we do in our spare time, our "living" time, define us. Travel, Arts, Languages, Sports, they all exist to enrich our lives. So why, when things get tough are the things that we love and enhance our lives the first things to slide?
Because; spare time is a luxury. Put simply, time is money and the majority of us are time poor. I find myself bursting with ideas and potential but rarely the time and energies to devote to any of it. Not wanting to make a half assed, pigs ear of it I prefer to shelve the ideas for another day. I have shunted so much to the backburner that the stovetop is in danger of buckling from the imbalance. Being a great one for lists, I found myself making during my lunch hour the other day. It contained a list of the things I currently do and things I would like to do, but don't have time to do. Let's take a look.
Dancing: I no longer have time to teach dancing on a regular basis and have to do workshops and the odd class when my schedule allows. This sucks. Dancing is everything to me. Without it I am a blob.
Painting: I used to draw and paint constantly. Every spare moment seemed to be spent with a pencil or brush in my hand and then something happened. I fell out of love. I fell IN love, my creativity surged. I produced more work during this unspecified period of time than I have ever in my life. And this work was selling, I have had four pieces exhibited and a further two have won prizes all as a result of this time. There are a lot of people who have taken credit for my creativity but nearly every single one of them would be wrong. The irony is, the real individual behind this creative storm has no idea what they started. Sadly they probably also had no idea they probably killed it as quickly as it began. When you create, you give a part of yourself. To give a part of you requires stability and confidence and well, I didn't have any of that left to give. So away go the paints.
Photography: Photography is something I fell into by accident, I never claim to be any good at it but I do enjoy it. Perhaps it is the immediacy of the genre that is appealing to someone who is so time poor. I certainly don't spend hours in post production, which probably explains the fact that throughout this creative time out, Photography has pretty much been the only constant. I'd like to be better though. I verge on being very shit most of the time. I hate that.
Music: Aside from being a sort-of Music journalist since I was about 16. Writing regular articles for various online and printed publications began to take its toll. Earlier last year I had to make major cutbacks in my writing and reviewing schedule and almost cut back on my live performance work completely. I didn't want to see anyone and for a time, that included the bands I loved and followed for years. The thing is, I know I am really good at writing about music. Everyone who knows me or follows my work will know my passionate opinions are based of a sound knowledge which I pride myself on always building on. I am incredibly proud I have managed to have a voice in a male dominated industry for so long. This is one area where I have absolute confidence in my abilities, confidence which has never really waned. But even music can feel like work when you find yourself only listening to mediocre demos of bands that won't ever get a deal... because they are simply shit. This leads me neatly on to.…
Music: So I play the guitar. I sing... a bit. I write. To be honest, I write better than I perform and I arrange more confidently than I can play so I am not sure what this makes me. I had a little music project going a year or two ago with a friend but it didn't go anywhere because- guess what! I got scared and insecure (well Hell-o low self esteem, I didn't see you down there in the gutter) but slowly, slowly I am getting back into it.
You see where I am going with all this? I've basically not felt like doing any of the above. The last year has just gone by in a haze of feeling absolutely shit, lying about feeling shit and not really addressing why or what was making me feel that way. Hearing a series of unhelpful and insensitive home truths after the fact did nothing more than to enhance this decline into gloom. "You preferred me when I wasn't this way??" no shit... I preferred myself too, but thanks for compounding the feelings of worthlessness, I'd pick up a pencil and draw you a pretty picture if you hadn't make me feel like stabbing it into MY EYE.
The truth is that I always feel a bit of a fraud. I have always maintained that while I have a lot of interests I never really excel at any of them. I've been trying to write a book for over two years now and for the last 6 months of last year the folder was sitting on my desktop, taunting me. I realised that if I didn't open it and start to write then I'd spend another year in the gutter, listening to Girls Aloud with Ketchup on my top. A turning point came for me when I accidentally got signed to a modelling agency. If you can cease the rigor mortis that excessive laughter will surely have induced in you at this thought. I got signed because I went for an unrelated job with the agency. I didn't get past the first interview but I did get signed on the spot and have been fortunate enough to have participated in some pretty great shoots with some mega-talented people. I am still really embarrassed about this- people who know me IRL would probably laugh that their short, dumpy friend with the bent nose gets people wanting to take photos of her but I guess looking unusual has worked for me in this case. The other day I actually did a shoot I loved. I've never felt comfortable with other people shooting me- self portraits are just an act, I am a good actress, a very good actress. I style it out! I found myself thinking "For fucks sake Abi, you do have things going for you and what's more, other people can see them. Why did you let one or two people take this from you? It wasn't their's to take" I think that was a turning point, a conclusion to what has been a vastly improving year for me in so many respects. I wonder if people notice or if some will always treat me as the crazy, sad girl who was just massively unhappy. Their problem, I guess.
I've worked hard at getting myself together, but we must also give credit to the fact that I can't have been truly broken. Those things never went away, I just didn't feel I deserved any of them. Free time is its own reward right? I didn't feel like a person worth rewarding with anything good.
I'm doing better, as those of you who know me can probably tell. I've noticed a few people crawling out of the woodwork, the kind of friends who only like the creative, productive Abi- but I can't blame them, she is awesome.
I've got ten days. I'm taking the time back. I can't promise I will blog here every day because I've got my 365 to do and a painting that won't make itself but we will see.

Baby Shower.

2011-02-23T11:44:00.000-08:00

Some images from the Baby shower this weekend.

I've never attended a Baby Shower before. I guess it is sort of an American thing that is slowly catching on over here. That, and the fact that not all my friends are sprogged up yet would go some way to explain why I have never attended one of these things.

My Friend Miss Bunny is, however, pregnant. So now seemed as good a time as any. A group of ladies (and one male) a lot of tea and cake... voila! Douche le Bebe.

Mental.

2011-02-03T14:24:00.000-08:00

Hello, I'm Abi and this is what I look like. Some of the time, I smile. Occasionally I cry and now and then I break wind. I am human, after all.
Why then, am I finding constantly that some unscrupulous individuals want to steal my identity? I say Identity but really it is my art and yes, my face.
I will never understand people who feel the need to "borrow" another persons face and use it as their Facebook profile/Flickr upload and yes... as I found today... twitter avatar.
It is quite one thing to use an image of a celebrity (those of you who know me from many moons ago, in the dark recesses of various forums will remember my Lance Bass Avatar, now famous) but then, as a celebrity you expect it. I'm no Lance Bass, after all. (That was 2006, amazing photo of Colin Farrell there too, if you look closely..hubba. That Lance Bass picture still reduces me to tears of mirth, even now)

So that is about all I have to say about that. It was just a rant. I suppose I should be flattered that 17 year old girls from Birmingham, Scotland and Canada want to pretend they have my face, it freaks me the hell out and makes me wonder how and why anyone would want to produce an entire Flickrstream and blog comprising shots of me, at home in England yet pretending it is in some way associated with their life in the US or Spain. It is mental. People are mental.

Catching up.

2011-01-19T02:18:00.001-08:00

I said I had managed to let me 365 slide a bit. Here are some images from yesterdays mass upload:

To comment: visit me on Flickr. Or just click on the image.

On being mega busy.

2011-01-16T13:28:00.000-08:00

It is sods law that the moment you embark on some commitment, be it a 365, new relationship or whatever, life (or more specifically your work life) will get in the way.
And my God has it ever gotten in my way this week. I have literally been snowed under and somehow found myself working close to a nine day week. Whilst this is through no fault of my own and I will get the time back in lieu, it is nevertheless mentally draining to work such a stretch with no respite. I enjoy my job, it is not that I don't enjoy what I do. I just don't enjoy having no time to food shop, do washing, catch up with anyone. I've not had a chance to pluck my eyebrows, plan my birthday celebrations or even call my best mate. Out of the online friends I am regularly in touch with I think I've spoken to about two. The rest on Twitter only benefit from random, insane tweets; usually bemoaning just how busy I am.

I'm days behind on the 365 so will upload those this week. I'm down to my last pair of clean tights and I have absolutely no idea if Kat has twigged that Ronnie stole her baby yet in Eastenders. I'm too busy.

At times like this I find myself starting to wish I had a boyfriend. Well, just somebody to spend quality time with really. I think when a lot of girls say boyfriend it is a very loaded term. I have good friends who I catch up with regularly and it's no secret I love my own company to the point that I can be described as a loner. But, you know, someone to chew the day over and watch Bruce Parry with would be cool. And plan trips. I love trips and so far this year I've only planned one! One! Thats rubbish! one is a crap amount of trips to look forward to. Anyway, my point is that I've not felt like this for the best part of a year so I guess you could say I might be approaching ready. Or something. I don't know.

I say this like I am in some way a free agent, which technically I am but well, emotionally I'd probably be lying if I said I wasn't waiting around to just_be_asked. I'm weirdly old fashioned about that, or maybe that is just something I say to exempt me from being the chaser, rather than the chasee. Being the Chaser is NOT COOL. It is a pathetic situation to find yourself in, you just seem a bit...sad. And I do feel pretty tragic at times, I can tell you. I've never asked a man out in my entire life. Well, I sort of did(ish) or hinted at it massively and it went a bit wrong so it's not something I make a habit of.

The thing is, I am not even sure if I want a relationship right now. I certainly don't have some kind of life agenda that must be adhered to. I'm just saying that now and then, at times like these.. I'd like the company. Or someone to cook for. Or just sit comfortably in companiable silence with. Tweeting, probably. I guess I'd just like someone to look after again.

Tales of a shopgirl.

2011-01-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

I've been in my new job a month! How quickly the time goes when you are working like a bitch!
I'm also a week into my 365, which is scary and disappointing in equal measure as already I am resorting to easy bed shots and fuss free mirror snaps (no mirror shots Quite YET.. though that may well be tomorrow the way this is going).
Anyway, I don't want to talk much about the 365 here, I already do a lot of that on Flickr and I can't think of anything more dull than posting the shots there and HERE when I could be talking about different things in both places. Ya see? I do think of you.

So as most of you know I work in the retail sector. I won't go into the exact company I work for but let's say it's a demanding, creative position with a VERY successful fashion/home wares/design company. I'm not really going to talk about that, other than I am really enjoying it and although it's been a bit of a departure from my last job, I like going to work now. Bonus!

I've worked in the industry for long enough now to glean (yup I said the word GLEAN, I need putting down) enough information about the customer/shop assistant dynamic. I've overheard more complaints, bonkers requests and downright abuse than I care to tally. While I'm not going to mention any specific companies here, nor identify any situations which might incriminate anyone I've ever worked with, I hope I'll dispel some preconceptions and make you think a little differently when you next go shopping.

Before I go any further, I'd like to say that I've received great service in shops...and downright appalling service in equal measure. I don't consider myself demanding or rude but like a lot of people I do know when people aren't doing their jobs properly, and that applies to any employment sector. An ex actor friend of mine, who now works in retail said it wasn't that he cared what he did for a living, it was more that he wanted to be really, really good at whatever it was he happened to be doing. And I suppose that's what it is, people who want to be very very good at what they do, and put their mind to it, usually are. It is invariably when we encounter a person who thinks they are above the position they are in that we receive poor service.

It does work both ways though, I don't know if you would be so cheery after a customer has bawled in your face when you are actually trying to help them, ignored you or treated you as if you have an IQ of minus 10. From what I see daily, shop girls (the good ones) are superheroes. They put up with rude, uncommunicative, sullen and uncooperative members of the public. They smile when they have probably been treated like dirt 30 seconds before and they work. They work SO hard. If you have an image of a miserable assistant gossiping behind a counter then I'm about to crush the image. You see, the good shopgirls work really_damn hard. They are the first to arrive and the last to leave. Life in a busy store is relentless, in addition to the demands of the company, their managers and the pesky folk they send in to make sure the store looks great they also can't forget about the customer for a second. And boy, what customers. I've seen it all. In my job you pick up an awful lot very quickly and learn a lot about people. Very often I would like to issue an information pack to customers before they try to make our lives difficult, it would go something like this:

Dear Sir/Madam.

Many thanks for taking this opportunity to shop with us, we hope that this will go smoothly and I won't want to sob like a baby/curl up into a ball/have to ask my Manager to bail me out once you are done with me.
I'm happy to help you with anything you might need, you'll notice I greeted you with a smile and a hello just then, it would be nice if you could reciprocate, after all I am human/have 10 GCSE's/a degree/am NOT of low intelligence because I work in a shop.
I see you are avoiding my gaze, I have every confidence that will change the moment I do something wrong/dare to be pleasant/you have a complaint to make.
I'm very sorry we don't have your size/colour/item in stock. I'd offer to try another store/ get it ordered in for you but as you are consumed with displeasure at the fact it is not available to you immediately you probably won't be interested in what I can do for you. Which is a shame, because as I said, I'm actually happy to help.
I know you truly believe in your right to a refund after sixteen years, really, I do. Despite what it says on your receipt about 14 days you still want your money back a month after you bought it, even though you don't have a receipt and the item has been battered to shit, of course I'll issue you with that cash right away. No doubt, the information you have sifted from watchdog or a similar consumer show has contributed to the unwavering belief that you ARE right. ALWAYS right, in fact. I'm sorry, you are not. Yes, it's true. I do have some leeway when it comes to letting you exchange that item, but as you persisted in tutting and eye rolling and generally treating me like scum you didn't hear all the options of the things I COULD do for you. Because, you do have options, you are just a bit focused on the option you have.. you know... made up.
The truth is Sir/Madam. There has to be STRUCTURE, there must be order. I wouldn't barge into your home and mess up your wardrobe, I wouldn't leave my Starbucks cup on the table for you to clear up. I wouldn't hand you my child's half masticated apple core and I wouldn't dream of taking a dump in the cupboard. Did I ever tell you about the time someone pooped in a fitting room? I always wondered what they wiped with.... their receipt probably.
I know you have rights/extenuating circumstances/think you are in some way entitled to the best service even though you really are hideously rude and not endearing the staff to you in ANY way. I'd like to point out the lady before you was really nice, we liked her, we'd be really nice to her if SHE came in again. She would never shit in the fits!
In case you ever wondered if people like us ever talk about you once you have stomped off threatening to get us sacked/contact our Head office (who, by the way MAKE THE RULES and totally have our back) we totally do. And it's not pretty.

I'm sure our paths will cross again, no doubt you'll have access to a telephone with which to further abuse me and communicate yet more fabrications of how badly I treated you, maybe this time you'll actually let me, you know... help you. I can actually help you, you see. I'm not new to this job, there are WAYS AND MEANS. I can help but God only knows if you deserve it.

For future information, products cost money, whistling through your teeth/reacting in mock shock or simply thinking you can add up quicker than I can won't make it cheaper, you know. Also, the fact I have a screen in front of me does not always make things quicker. I cannot pull things out of my ass and I am reliant on technology just as much as you are, sometimes things go wrong. I am human, I'm actually quite nice. When you go home, I'll be cleaning up your messes and cursing your name. Which we all remember, by the way.
I'd sign this with my name, but as you referred to me as "girl" earlier on it would probably be wasted on you.

With Kind thanks for ruining my day.

Shopgirl.

365 #2

2011-01-02T05:01:00.000-08:00

The thing about saying "never again" is that when you often say it you are overwhelmed by the chemical imbalance of relief. At the end of my 365 Project I was certainly experiencing that emotion. I'd completed an entire year of self portraits, dragging myself in front of a lens when I actually wanted to contemplate suicide. Pulling something, anything out of the creative bag during the weeks when I was suffering from flu, experiencing a breakup, moving house, losing weight and grappling with, well feelings I wasn't sure what to do with forced me to do it. I had the project to focus on when I didn't really have a lot else and though I hated it, I stuck with it. I told a lot of lies that year. I pretended for at least six months that I was in love with someone I really wasn't, spent the remaining six in denial that I felt something for somebody I'd never met and eventually quit my job and moved away and started again. Big Change. I dressed up as all manner of things, discovered I don't look so terrible in underwear and that my body isn't such a big deal. I met friends through the project which are now a regular fixture in my life and learnt some things about myself along the way. Above all else my photography improved. Remember I started the 365 with a crappy Fuji digital bridge camera (trust me, you can tell) with no tripod, no remote, no concepts and NO idea what I was doing. Though it is arguable if the latter has changed I can safely say I have learnt a LOT. And the other good thing... my hair grew back. halfway through that year I developed pretty serious stress related alopecia and lost a large percentage of what had previously been pretty thick dark hair. The latter part of the project took twice as long to shoot because I was looking for creative ways to hide this and clipping in your hair extensions EVERYDAY before you can think about facing the world (or a strong breeze) was a nightmare. Now my hair is back and growing to its former length and it might seem vain but I feel more myself with it back. I don't feel feminine without my hair and I think its easier to face a camera when you feel yourself. I also lost a hefty chunk of weight.
And it is easier now, to face a camera. A year shooting weekly photos and posting them alongside a handsome boy in the 52 weeks project can make a person feel like THE UGLY one but at least with a collaboration you aren't solely responsible. A 365 can feel at times like a never ending solo. you let people see the best of you but also the worst and that's a real challenge I can tell you.
So why the hell am I starting it again?

I don't really know. I get the feeling 2011 will be better for me. If nothing else then it has to improve simply by default because 2010 was pretty ghastly by all accounts. I'm in a job I enjoy a lot more now, I've won a couple of prizes for my photography and art. I've worked as a paid model (hah) and got back into writing and recording music again. I want to paint more, meet more friends, travel a bit and maybe move to a new place. In all, I have some pretty cool things to look forward to this new year, I have hair, I have my health, I have no controlling boyfriend, I have a camera. why not.

The one thing I don't have a lot of though is time. 365 almost consumed my life at one stage so I really want to avoid that this time around, though it will be self portrait based, I am not going to beat myself up if i don't manage to get in the frame. I want this project to be a year in my life and that will no doubt feature some friends of mine. And probably the cat.

I know I'm a day behind uploading 1:365 but that's because I was hammered. I'm still hammered now. The last week of my life has been a social whirl. I've done some hilarious and also some regrettable things which in no particular order include: probably lost a really great friend, ripped some clothing, dressed up as a fat Cheryl Cole, sustained some passionate injuries, learnt that sex is nothing compared to emotional attachment, drank half a bottle of rum, woke up in a bath, learnt that there's only ever one person in my heart regardless of who I happen to be with and laid some demons to rest. When my confidence was low and I was lying my way through a year something happened to me which made me start to hope again. Whilst I know that this year will probably have its darker days I hope I can look back and see the predominance of colour. Like somebody turning a light on. Oh, and it's my birthday this month so I hope to have loads more (though safer) fun then. I must go, no rest for the narcissist.

Don't laminate that list yet Ms Bansal....

2010-12-17T05:31:00.000-08:00

I know, I am prone to documenting my various flirtations with Mental ilness like it's some kind of Eastenders episode which is often terrifically boring and for some, very hard to deal with. So this post aims to be altogether lighter of heart and easier on the eye.

Those who follow me on Twitter (for your own sake, it's probably best you don't, a recently generated tweet cloud shows all I ever tweet about is food, my cat and Ryan Reynolds, which is pretty embarrassing and completely at odds with the intellectual persona I portray) will know that my laminated list of 5 people it's OK to sleep with (yes this is a very shallow blog post) chops and changes all the time, friends such as @digitalshades and @miametro will testify that at times it is SO hard to commit to the laminated five. But i'll have a bash.

1) Ryan Reynolds.Newly single Mr Reynolds has been on my radar for about a year now. And what a sight to behold he is. I like him slightly beardy and unkempt but he is good in the boss advert too. Hubba.

2) Tom Ellis aka Gary from Miranda.
Mr Tamsin-Outhwaite her off Eastenders is a very lucky lady. The Ellis is firmly ON the list. I dont think I even need to go into why.

3)Alexander Skarsgard
Totally NOT on the list until this season of True Blood when he cut that disturbing Legolas hair and I noticed he was about 6''5. Swoon.

4) Tom Hardy

Probably best known for his role in Inception (hes beefed up a bit there) Mr Hardy is altogether quite lovely and oh so very pretty. Like most men of my choosing, better with a bit of a beard.

I have a number five... sort of.

Who taught you to hate yourself, from the top of your head to the soles of your feet?

2010-12-17T03:43:00.000-08:00

I like Christmas, I do. I like a lot of things about Christmas but unfortunately for me, I have not experienced them in some years. Christmas is horrendously sad if you have ever lost someone you love, I think its all that free time and forced jollity and emphasis on family which throws what you don't have into harsh relief, as much as reflecting on what you Do have.

I've wanted to tackle the thorny issue of depression, my own depression again for a while, as a sort of follow up post to the one I wrote previously. Please don't stop reading, I'm hoping that this will go some way to explain the highs and lows and the vast expanses of light and shade a person can experience when one feels hopeless. I don't want to make light of it but I do think there is a lot of misconception about the condition. We all get down, we all have antisocial periods, but there is a difference between that and a true depression. I know because I've lived it. Like everyone else I have off days, things go wrong, I get pissy, I deal with it. Then after weeks, months of a good phase, the storm clouds will gather and I'll be battling with my old enemy again. Firstly, I feel tearful at silly things, not out and out sobbing, just that feeling of teetering on the brink. Secondly, I want to cover up and hate people looking at me, I become self conscious, stop shooting self portraits and cover my nose and mouth when I speak. I begin to restrict my diet to the point of near starvation and I will take comments that would usually not phase me deeply to heart. I begin to feel everyone is getting at me, become suspicious of all male attention and either want to sleep 24/7 or manage to survive on just 3 hours a night. I've stopped binge eating these days but the desire to hurt myself and punish myself never really leaves me. I am also prone to becoming senselessly irrational, to the point where I will argue with you if you tell me the sky is blue. Having said that, I don't speak much at times like this. To anyone. If I do then God help you, you will bear the brunt.
I know from experience that these periods are on the whole infrequent (yet I admit, more so this year) and sometimes all it takes is someone to shake me and tell me that I don't mean what I just said, that they still love me despite the appalling things I just said to them because I liken these depressed periods of insecurity to an alcohol bender, just a few hours later I am full of remorse. But that does not excuse the behavior. What on earth can? I'm not one to excuse the fact I'm essentially a terrible person oh, "because I'm depressed" that does not cut it with me. And so it goes on. Abi feels bad, Abi lashes out, Abi feels remorse, Abi hates herself more for what she did. When you feel bad a part of you wants to punish people for not understanding, or appearing to understand you. Depression is a condition, it is capable of altering mood but at the same time its still you saying those things, I still feel responsible. I still die a bit when I watch myself tell someone I love that I wish I'd never met him. You don't say things like that. I don't say things like that. Except I do. Too often.

I'm not sure entirely where this change came about, possibly it is something to do with circumstance. A particularly stressful year is (hopefully) at an end, I have seen several deaths of loved ones, a job I hated, money worries, ill health and resultant depression due to my outrageously poor choice in men. My hair has fallen out, my periods stopped completely, my weight yo-yo'd and I have been battling with a terrible sense of self loathing which has been exacerbated by some particularly toxic friendships. I leave this year unsure of what the next one brings but hopeful that it will just be better by some measure.
Poor me, poor me, pity, pity, pity. Or not. Shit happens. Depression can be beaten and I have managed to do so without medication. I don't think that there is anything wrong with medicating more severe cases of this condition. Of course, every situation is different, but pills are not for me. I have always felt that they mask the real problems at the heart of a low period and for me, it is about recognising that these periods are not the norm and dealing with them when they occur. It requires an almost superhuman level of understanding and selflessness from those around you too, being around a person who cant see a lot past how much they hate themselves must be fucking awful. Especially when those frustrations turn outward and end up attacking the few people you can bear to keep around you at such a time. It's easy to be the depressed party, you can basically shut yourself away, stay in bed or be a bitch to everyone around you. It's easy to be a bitch when you are hurting inside because its the depression talking. You say all kinds of shit you don't mean to the people you love the most because, how could they understand? Why on earth would anyone want to understand.
And it is the dealing with them that is so hard. Earlier in this year I had what is as close to a breakdown as I am ever likely to have. Underneath it all, I am still a highly functioning individual. I get up, I go to work, I smile, I laugh, I socialise. On the surface, many would not know how it is I really feel so disturbingly frequently. But there has been a period this year where I have truly wanted to die. I felt that everyone thought I was insane or at least very rude. I've walked away from friendships, kept my distance from large social gatherings and ruined any chance of romance. I have sabotaged everything because I simply don't feel good enough. Who would want to be around me? I'm ugly, I'm stupid, I'm crazy. never underestimate the power of self reinforcement, just as a character with an over inflated ego (like Stuart Baggs on the Apprentice) can talk himself into believing he is the greatest salesman on earth. I am equally capable of repelling everyone around me with the mantra that often creeps into my head before bed...
Is anything ever going to change? Am I supposed to have a better life? Why am I so disgusting? Am I going to be alone forever? I'm terrible, I'm awful, I'm not. good. enough.
A more sensible mind might change these into positive affirmations but that is near impossible to do when faced with the crushing disappointment/negativity/rejection that your initial behavior brings about in the first place. Without positivity there is no hope and without hope, there is nothing at all. The kicker is I know something ain't right. I am fully capable of analysing it, explaining it and rationalising it. i just cant stop myself.
A close friend, during a particularly low period quite recently and angrily quoted to me the phrase "Who taught you to hate being what God gave you?" (Malcolm X) we aren't born to hate, we are made that way. I hate nearly everything about myself at times, but not because I initially felt that way, its damage that has built up , layer by layer. whereas I don't subscribe to the emotional baggage theory (I believe that everything starts from scratch and you shouldn't enter into anything broken by somebody else), I do admit that this hate is very much a work in progress. It makes me very hard to get close to and I suppose even harder to love. I don't choose people, friends or lovers particularly wisely which I suppose is why I became this way. Like attracts like and so far this year, the only people I've attracted are just as messed up as I am capable of being but seemingly on a deeper, more complex scale. They only want the happy Abi and rightly so, she does not take things so seriously is altogether more funny and attractive. She is also willing to flirt, a bit, maybe. Well ok not much because she's crap at flirting and has nobody to flirt with but hypothetically, if there was, she would. Possibly.

I'm spending Christmas alone this year, in my house with my cat. I don't have a tree and there wont be any Christmas dinner or company. I intend to stay up late and sleep the day away because if I have a spare moment then I might be given over for feeling sorry for myself. I've done far too much of that lately, it makes me a total bitch. There is no reason why Christmas should get me down, the only thing that is to blame for bringing me down is myself.

Big Hair, Big freeze.

2010-12-06T04:15:00.001-08:00

My Hair after using the babyliss big hair...

I don't often blog about.... girly things, like products and appliances. However I think, after some googling on this topic and a flurry of Twitter based endorsements (click that link to see the video of how this thing works) I thought I would.

Try not to be put off by the scary hair of the girl in the advert btw. Her mushroom fringe is actually terrifying, I'm not even sure why they used someone with a fringe because im not sure anyone would want it to look like that, but anyway.

I have very thick, fairly wavy, dark brown hair which has always been mercifully strong and resiliant- until stress related alopecia and an ill advised haircut. All this has meant I've been wearing extentions for the best part of a year now. My natural hair has now grown past my shoulders and recently I've managed to wean myself off them, sort of like I've noticed Cheryl Cole doing during the weekly VT's on X factor. Her mane of hair is her signature look so why is she seemingly ditching the extentions?? The truth is, wearing extentions is time consuming and probably damages the healthy hair you clip them to if you wear them too much. Nice, full hair does not just happen and a recent meet up with a male resulted in his utter shock when he realised I could unclip my hair. Bit creepy at the best of times. Apart from anything else, I am fairly low maintenence and somedays just cannot be bothered.
I won't be ditching the extentions until my hair is a bit longer, I like the volume they give my hair and when you hair is already heavy, it'd very easy for it to look flat. That's ok too, remember GHD's have been around for over a decade now and I am now on my 3rd pair. That is a hard habit to break but constant straightening is terrible for your hair as anyone who has habitually straightened will testify.
I gave up blowdrying my hair when it just made me sweaty and left me with a fuzzy MASS. My access to a professional who can do a decent blow dry is limited and costly, so mostly I just let it dry into its natural Diana-Ross glory then run over it with the straighteners, clip in the extentions if I feel like it.. and GO. I can't achieve any style without the GHD's and the dependency scares me and gives me a flat scalp.

I bought the Babyliss Big Hair because I wanted a bit of bounce back and IT ACTUALLY WORKS. I usually have trouble with round brushes, velcro rollers always tangle and even hairdressers retract their statement about how lucky I am to have "thick" hair when faced with the epic task of blowdrying it. I don't want to be dependant on straighteners forever so this seemed like something worth a try. The rotating brush basically mimics the action of a round brush and a hairdryer but this is far, far easier to wield. A spritz of volumising spray on hair that is 80% dry helps the whole do set and I was left with a springy, shiny mane of hair with a gentle wave. The whole thing takes a bit of practice, I found it best to pull back a bit to resist the spin slightly, (which creates tension) works best but the video really shows you how easy it is.

I took a later portrait but the damp conditions had affected it a little. But I hope it gives you an idea.
Woah, too much face for one day. Go and buy one.

I'm not being funny but...

2010-11-24T13:11:00.000-08:00

I find myself completely unable to focus on the Apprentice contestant Laura Moore's business accumen because I am always expecting her head to start spinning at any given moment.

To Put it Bluntly....

2010-11-07T08:23:00.000-08:00

(I don't like to use the hate word but I dislike this man with the fire of a thousand suns, almost as much as I loathe the crappy photoshop job on his eyes)

AH HA! I wrong footed you... you thought this was going to be a rant about how annoying James Blunt is.. you thought you were coming here to read about just what it is that marks Blunt out as an utter twat and his music as nothing more than mediocre acoustic fare for the dinner party crowd and/or the recently dumped. Sorry, you'll need to visit the music blog for that... this is my blog and so for the purposes of this post I will have to go by this alternate title:

The Mystery of why people are unable to say_what_they_mean.
Call it a fundamental flaw, but I am continually baffled as to why we humans do it to ourselves and to each other. Whether it relates to work, social interactions or matters of the heart we are oddly reluctant to be straight. Please do not mistake this for bluntness, bluntness is another beast entirely, designed to wound, to cut to the quick and in some way to excuse the verbal bullets we aim at people. How often have you heard the phrase "I don't like to be blunt but..." the bitter blow excused by that party claiming that "that is just the way they are" their bluntness delivered with venom yet dressed up with a pretty ribbon of pride. In the realms of my imagination, the colour of said ribbon would be puce green.
So anyway, we have established that being blunt is simply not what I am talking about here, I have long since learnt to avoid those individuals who prefix unreasonable statements with "Call me blunt but" or "To be brutally honest". I am not the type who needs the truth packaged in packing peanuts and bubble wrap but still I do wonder why the fuck some people bother dishing out these spiky nuggets of observation in the first place. I guess for the same reason phrases like "the truth hurts" and "cruel to be kind" exist. Part of it is about boosting ones ego whilst simultaneously crushing somebody else's. Perfect.
Oddly, I don't really want to talk about that, I veered off there with what is essentially a pet peeve and nothing more. I've noticed just lately that it is becoming a recurring theme with people around me, (and in this I include myself) that people are oddly reluctant to be honest about what they think or feel. At the start of this post I illustrated how honesty can be used as a weapon, but is withholding the truth really any kinder? Whilst I don't wholly advocate the "band aid" theory (rip it off faster and it hurts less) I don't really believe in prolonging the agony by facilitating what is essentially a charade for so long it becomes a farce.
My last post mentioned some issues I have been having with my landlord. On a very basic level the entire charade would and could so easily have been avoided. If he had not been harbouring his obvious resentment and instead portraying an exterior of assent and compliance with the way things are, then maybe it would not have got to the stage where he finds himself docking points off a rota he drew up.
Maybe I am to blame for the friend who cooks me macaroni cheese on a regular basis when I go to dinner just because I was too polite to mention how much I utterly hate that dish, but didn't want to hurt her feelings and destroy what is a lovely, well meaning act. If I speak up...she might never invite me round again! Forget the fact that everyone else KNOWS I hate macaroni cheese and that this small detail is one of many small details that form the foundation of a good friendship, and that in denying her this information I am also in turn denying her a part of myself and what it is to know me.
The work colleague who asks multiple favours then tests you with a barely audible "do you mind?" probably wouldn't benefit much from the whole truth either; such relationships fester and resentment grows and pretty soon what is a small issue can grow into something far uglier and far more personal. Imagine how awkward it would be in the office if you told people what you REALLY thought about them? there is no going back from telling John from accounts you thought he used to be a she. So we put up and we shut up and smile and say "that's fine" because it is just that; fine. Not bad, not awful, by no stretch of the imagination is it freaking AWESOME but it is, however fine. A lovely nondescript, grey shade of a situation to find ourselves in. Nonthreatening, in no way controversial or insulting, uncomplicated. Just the way we want many of the relationships in our life to pan out. Could it be that we want to preserve what we have in the moment, and so putting up and shutting up is so much easier, cozier and attractive than the (unknown) alternative? For all we know, speaking our minds could result in the end of a friendship, the breakdown of work relations or a potential love match going off us entirely.
This curious mix of not wanting to offend (how very British) and not wanting to shatter illusions, which in its initial stages can seem altogether trivial, but in some cases can be far more damaging is particularly toxic with regards to relationships. Ever had a friend who reveals they are massively into you, only for you to fret about telling them how you *just don't* feel the same? It's not kind to rip the band aid off someone you claim to like now, is it? It hurts far more when you are ripping the sticky stuff off someones heart, the stakes are suddenly so much higher, the fallout is altogether messier and more dangerous. Like...open heart surgery. How can you run the risk of saying what you (don't) feel only to lose them entirely? Maybe you are just hedging your bets, hoping that in time you *might* like them as they like you. Maybe, you just like the attention, have come to need it in such a way that to contemplate being without that person and all they give you (sense of worth, self esteem, attractiveness) is too scary a prospect to risk losing, you might not GET that from anybody else!!! Perhaps a part of you doesn't want them, but knows that somebody else will and the moment that happens you will cease to be important to them and will be left alone, without validation and entirely unadored. Occasionally, you hear the phrase (albeit from crazed psycho fans, ex girlfriends and stalkers) "If he only knew how much I loved him" ....dream on love, the chances are he knows all too well how much you love him, he knows because you tell him so regularly and stick around to stoke his ego that he requires very little else from you. Sadly he isn't into you in that way but he'd sure be a fool to turn you away because you don't half make him feel good about himself.. so you'll do.. for now. He makes no secret of the fact he is looking for somebody else, anybody else but you cant see it because you are still on his radar. He's never told you directly that you are wasting your time.. that must count for something, right?
It can be very selfish to keep somebody in the dark. At best you can just appear spontaneous and ambiguous, fuelling the hope that is born from such mystique. At worst you keep them dangling, unable to walk away, unsure of what you want from them and all the time feeling less and less hopeful, less important and altogether liking themselves less. Definitely not fair, I think you will agree. I have always held the belief that a successful relationship is about showing the other person how you see them if you see someone as beautiful, or intelligent or whatever then you must show them that. Ambiguity is all fine and dandy, persona's are cool and everything else but if you feel so-so about a person then ultimately this will cause them to feel so-so about themselves. In my mind, avoiding this ultimate harsh blow is worth the temporary bitter sting of a band aid any day. So I will take care where I bestow my favour and even greater care who bestows their favour upon me. It might make me harder to love but at least I'll know I'm not being left dangling somewhere near the back burner, reserved for a moment of flagging esteem by somebody who, for whatever reason, is unable to let me go. I'll take the blunt approach over that, any day.

The Tedium of T.

2010-11-03T05:54:00.000-07:00

The Insane rota of insanity.

Not being one to use this blog purely to bitch and/or moan, I do however feel it is some sort of outlet of sorts. The truth is that sometimes, we just need to have a rant and that often, Twitter is not the place to be doing it and we can't tell our friends so blog it must be.

Today I want to talk about my living situation, most of you know I share a house in Bristol with two boys, my housemate Tom and our preposterous landlord T. I've found myself in many living situations over the years with few problems and so based on this I can safely say that this time, it is NOT me. On the whole, I much prefer living with boys. The atmosphere is usually far better than with a bunch of hormonal females and they rarely steal my beauty products/take huge amounts of time in the bathroom. I am prepared to accept a lot from the people I live with, I am very laid back, clean and moderately quiet (depending on my music choices). I am not, however, mental. which is what my landlord appears to have outed himself as being.
I think the major problem is that he lives WITH us, we are not friends in the sense that we don't socialise or even converse on any level on a regular basis. Our chats are usually limited to "Hi, Alright/Good Day?" all met with a noncommittal "yeah". He inhabits the only single room in the house and commandeers the lounge where NONE of us feel comfortable fielding his awkward silences.
As you can imagine this is tedious at best. I'm not saying we should all be the Brady bunch but a bit of conversation to break the awkward silence whilst one waits for the ping of the microwave would not go amiss. T is probably the most difficult person to make conversation with.... ever. This is not helped by the fact that we have very little in common with him, and also due to his peculiar ways. Not a born conversationalist, T will stand next to you for 20 mins in the Kitchen in total silence then writes you a note conveying his annoyance relating to some household task. I find this ridiculous on many levels, for one it shows how lacking in basic human skills of communication and secondly it makes him look like a total tosser. Grown men communicating by post it's people! It's not even as if the notes are especially rude or pressing, it's the fact they exist in the first place, that he can't just SAY.
And then there is the rota, Exhibit A, as you can see above. This one really does boil my piss. As you can see, we all do our bit, some of us (me) clean more than others but you know, that's cool. We all get along just fine doing our respective bit. Nobody is really keeping score, it's just to see if things are being done. Explain to me why then, T has changed our marks for "recycling" to a big fat HALF mark. Why? We BOTH did the recycling! there is no NEED to make a point and change it after the fact! what does that ACHIEVE? the recycling is HIS thing, if we are going to get petty about it then maybe he should clean the bathroom a few more times. If you are going to share your home with tenants you should either learn to relax a bit more and be thankful that you have two people who actually are pretty good around the house, because the alternatives are frankly, so much worse.
Image courtesy of this interview (some shockers here)
Yesterday, T made the rash decision to remove all the shared household kitchen equipment, leaving us with barely enough crockery or utensils to cook a meal. I understand he might be frustrated (about what? having more crockery and kitchen wear than one man can possibly use ever) but this is a BIT rash given that you are effectively preventing your tenants from using ANYTHING.
Not to be beaten, Tom and I went and bought new stuff... it seems unlikely that we will ever find out what T wants or indeed expects from us, neither of us speak "Grunt" but until then houwwe will wait for the explosion....viva la revolution.

The cat hates him too.

High Maintenance.

2010-10-20T05:30:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me today that I probably don't spend as much time grooming as my girlie counterparts. It's not that I am not Clean, I probably spend about seven to eight hours a week in the bath, where I flounder and bubble and submerge myself to my hearts content. I am talking about grooming; products, makeup, lotions, potions, procedures and treatments.

I cannot believe I used "lotions and potions" in the above. I want to kill myself.

So anyway, I was thinking about this this morning, as I shampooed my very thick, dark hair in the shower. I've been using some free product samples someone gave me and was staggered to see that each of the three testers costs in the region of about £12.00 per product. So if I wanted this bouncy hair every day, I'd have to spend about £40.00 and two hours styling. Aside from having no money 80% of the time, I am hardly blessed with lots of free time. Pissing about with a hairdryer for that length of time would annoy me no end. A quick survey among my friends and also on Twitter provided some interesting results, most women admit they spend an acceptably (but more than average) amount of time on themselves a week, though the general consensus is that this would ideally be longer. Bizarrely some felt guilty that they couldn't spend longer.

While the global cosmetics, toiletries and fragrance industry is worth GBP6.2 billion, the UK exports GBP1.85 billion of goods and services while importing GBP1.72 billion. There are over 32,000 beauty employees as well as countless staff in supplier companies, retailers and marketing/media involved within the industry across the UK.

More importantly UK women spend GBP185,528 each on beauty products in their lifetime!

I don't consider myself a beauty junkie. I can't be really, I'm allergic to almost everything- the majority of my makeup is gifts and it's a game of Russian roulette to see which will bring me out in a rash. I don't really visit salons, I wax my own legs, thread my own eyebrows and trim my own fringe. On a daily basis I rely on Toothpaste, Face wash, Moisturiser, Eyeliner and Black Mascara (I've used Max Factor 2000 Calorie since I was 16) and a little Boujois blusher (the pink one). I stopped wearing foundation and the rest because its never the right colour anyway. I don't have much perfume these days but I do use Dr Haushka lemon body oil or Diptyque Fig cologne. I carry a tube of Eight Hour Cream with me to use as lip balm, and of course I use deodorant. I have a box of other makeup which I almost never use, from my theatrical days so as far as beauty goes, I am fairly minimal with my products these days. Which suits me fine. I would hate to look completely different without makeup on, that terrifies me. Yet even as I look back on this list, I see I omitted shampoo, conditioner, soap... the list goes on. I may have downsized my beauty regime but the opportunities for it to run out of control are endless. Pop into Boots to get tampons and you can quite easily spank 20 quid in 20 mins. Avoid.

I'd like to point out that this is just on a daily basis. I recognise that no one really NEEDS makeup, indeed when I am at home I rarely wear any at all. My Mother taught me that it is important to get the basics right and the rest will follow good skin, clean hair and groomed eyebrows. Very important stuff. I don't fake tan.. I will never fake tan. Aside from it smelling like stale biscuit I have no desire to look like an Oompa Loompa, I'm mixed race, not a worker at the Wonka factory. Who decided that tanning was attractive anyway? Actually, it was Coco Chanel who made a tan fashionable, but I'm sure even Coco wouldn't approve of the curse of San Tropez...

For the purposes of research for this post, I asked my very beautiful and glamorous friend M if she would run me through her regime. She graciously did, and we were shocked at the findings. An image conscious beauty, M spends up to three hours per day grooming and uses a staggering 30 products, 17 of which are just makeup. Add to this monthly facials, manicures, hair cuts, colour and salon epilation and we are talking about someone who spends A LOT of her monthly income on just looking (and some would argue feeling) better about herself. She looks great, but it always late and constantly reapplying the lip gloss her boyfriend hates and has to get up an hour earlier to apply her individual false eyelashes. I can just hear that annoying "here come the girls" music off the Boots ad now.. She freely admits she probably singlehandedly funded that ad campaign.

Suddenly, all the hours I spend messing about with extensions to hide my alopecia doesn't seem so bad.

You can't judge someone for wanting to look good, celebrities remind us constantly of the need to look perfect at all times. But when did perfect equate to fake? In my mind, it is a fine line between looking our very best and looking like someone else entirely. For me, it is more that I resent having to spend hours in the bathroom when I could be learning a foreign language or writing about scrubbing my bum. The start of the year, I vowed to spend time body brushing and moisturising daily: I have been rewarded with smooth skin and less visible scarring. Nobody has seen it, but I know its there and that's fine with me. Editing my beauty regime has actually freed up a lot of time. I file my nails at the PC, body brush my Bum while I am waiting for the bath to run.

You see how I mentioned Bum twice there? Well, it works. Go and buy a dry brush and spend 5 mins a day, stat. Drink water, lots of water, wash your face, don't smoke. Smile.

I'm not saying I don't feel massively insecure, I'm not saying that in writing this I don't suddenly feel like I am missing out on some essential beauty procedure that EVERYONE else does but I don't, thus making me a hairy, fat hobbit style person. Sheesh, women are So competitive. We aren't happy unless we are outperforming each other in some way or another. We have to look better, thinner, browner, shinier and so on until we won't need to worry about what we look like because we won't have time to actually leave the house. I'm not going to let things slide, I'll just keep a very tight reign on what is actually necessary. Because I really, really don't want to be described as high maintenance.

Now, Its only just dawned on me they are never in the same place at the same time....

2010-10-14T12:32:00.000-07:00

Things I want to be when I grow up.

2010-10-13T07:13:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: Somehow I have unwittingly mentioned Smear Tests and Angel Delight in the same breath here. This is purely coincidental and any resemblance to any persons or events real or imagined is purely the work of the author and unintentional.

OK so you could argue that I am technically a grown up. That I pay bills and stuff and am responsible for the love and care of a child and things like that.

See, I said child there. Cat, I meant cat.

So yes, I am a grown up. I am not sure when that actually happened but I think it occurred somewhere around the first time I donated blood (I hate needles, yes I know I had lots of piercings at one time, what can I say, I am a mass of contradictions) and the first time I bought a large domestic appliance with a BOY. Neither the boy, or the dryer remain in my life, by the way, a reminder that grown ups do not always get it right.
I am not really sure what I thought Adulthood would be like. These days the change between the irresponsibility of youth (for the purposes of this post we'll call it "full time education") and...well, the rest of "life", the bit with Bill paying, Smear tests and possibly Marriage in it is almost imperceptible to the naked eye. One day you are eating Angel Delight (ah ha), sitting in front of Diagnosis Murder. The next you are working for someone you don't like doing something you don't really want to be doing for Money that you don't get to spend.
But hey, this post is running the risk of turning into a rant about the scourge of the Student Loan, the murky waters of which, I am not anxious to dip my toe into here.

I used to want to be a Nurse when I grew up. For no other reason than I thought it would be cool to be referred to as "Ooh Matron" and wear one of those belts with a butterfly on it. As you can tell, my only exposure to the realities of the NHS was the Carry on Films and Casualty. Scrap that when I learnt that Nurses deal with sick, quite A LOT of, you know... sick.
Then between the ages of about 6 and 10 I wanted to be an inventor. Or an "Engineer like Daddy" I kid you not. I used to draw on REAMS of printer paper and am absolutely positive had I not spilt Kia Ora on the ORIGINAL CRAYOLA blueprint my Moon shoes would be as big as the iphone. I kind of knew that I liked Light Emitting Diodes because they were pretty and that it was possible to make rings out of wire and solder, my Dad is basically a nutter who was quite happy to let his child into his workshop and DO STUFF, with electricity. It is at this juncture I would proudly post a photo of me with my prize winning waterwheel. If Vicky from Class 4 , Charmouth Primary School is reading this and has a copy of that picture.. I need it. Even if it does mean the world has to see my paisley padded hairband, so be it because I am pretty sure the prototype went on to inspire this.
!!!!!
So, none of those careers worked out. The Acting and Dancing took over and there is little time to do much else when you are pretending to be A PERFORMER.

As I get older and the sands of time drain, the possibilities narrow somewhat. I am fortunate in that I feel I can play at lots of different careers and still manage to be OK or even good at most of the things I turn my hand to. I still think there is time though, I still think "Oh yeah I'll give being a popstar a go" or "Pottery! I'll make POTS". This disposition has not made jobhunting easy, I am liable to think I can manage a Hedge fund (I probably could) or be a consultant on a renal ward (unlikely). It is not that I think I am particularly great or anything, it's just that I like the idea of playing at a career. Last night I mentally added "Leading lady from the 1930's Hollywood Horror Genre" to my list. That is the kind of mind we are dealing with.

And so, with that in mind, and because today I decided with a heart heavy with regret to strike "Chilean Miner" from my list of things I want to be (Seriously, I have no desire to hug the PM) here are the things I still want to be. (If I ever grow up)

TV Chef. Okay Cook. Yes, I know that is a picture of Nigella, my Nemesis in all her becardiganed, simpering glory. (Incidentally, what IS that she is about to eat? It looks suspiciously like the Onion Bhaji Custard, made infamous by this letter. "It's Mustard Richard, more Mustard than any man could eat in a month") I digress, I do not actually *want* to be Nigella, I do not want to be some simpering approximation of what the BBC think will make the mundane sexy. I do not want ugly children, I find black satin robes impractical and something of a throwback to the 80's. It's not actually her at all (though as I have always said, I do very much like Ms Lawson's writing, even if I cannot abide her insistence on wearing a denim jacket indoors each week). You all know about my cook book project (more on that another time) and the fact I really enjoy farting about in the kitchen (it's a normal kitchen btw, not one festooned with fairy lights, kitchenaid products and faux friends from central casting). I can cook, I can talk about it, I am quite capable of squeezing fruit and vegetables in a suggestive fashion. Hell, I can even slide down a Bannister a la The Naked Chef, though mercifully, not naked. I propose a series on BBC2, post haste.
Brian Friedman Him off the X factor. Him. The American with very odd ideas on personal styling and, it would seem, dancing (though I must admit his choreography for "Diva Fever" was INSPIRED)
Aside from that, however, Brian Friedman boils my piss. I don't know if it is because I am a dancer, that I have worked with some amazing choreographers in my life and have the benefit of comparison at my disposal. Or that I just cannot grasp the enormity of his weekly task of taking a bunch of normal folk, making them bust out a killer live performance and engage with an audience who, lets face it want them to fall flat on their faces. Perhaps I am being a little harsh on Bri, he was responsible for this, after all. Maybe I am just sick of his face but I KNOW.. I actually know that I could do better. I'm bored of the dancing on that show, pass me a cane like her off Fame and I'll take it from here. Dance is the hardest profession in the world.
This one is tenuous, stick with me people. I am not sure this job even has a name but I want some kind of job that gives me access to intelligent, geeky men. For the purposes of this blog I am going to title it Geek Wrangler. It's not even a sex thing, really. I'll give you an example: If, for example, there was a job which meant I got to work in some way with... I dunno Gareth Malone.

(Yeah, I know.. that was a seriously stupid choice of outfit for someone who already looks like Harry Potter to wear in a Hogwarts-style environment).
Or.... Michael Cera, some kind of job that allows me to work in some professional capacity alongside these geeky, wide eyed specimens then that would be great. Is anyone hiring?

I will happily consider any of the above positions, but I may have to have it written into my contract that if a job as a rotund Nicole Scherzinger arises the of course I will be the natural, if not ONLY choice and will have to hand in my notice, effective immediately.

I am nuts about this song.

2010-09-27T13:36:00.000-07:00

Right now. Here is a (great) live version.

"He gave me armour"

2010-09-22T12:54:00.000-07:00

I'm reading "Dear Fatty" by Dawn French at the moment. For no reason other than I really love the woman and I found her book in the library this morning.
It's interesting to read about other women labelled as "Funny with a Pretty face", even if that is not always the compliment people would have you believe it is.

I just wanted to share this passage, because it's lovely and it made me cry a bit. In this part of the book, the young Dawn is about to go out in a pair of purple hotpants... After a hilarious conversation with her Father about lederhosen he tells her:

"Never forget what a treasure you are, and if your faith in that ever wobbles, have a look in the mirror and have confidence in what you see. You are a rare thing, an uncommon beauty, a dazzling, exquisite, splendid young woman. Look! You must know it's true, you're a corker. How lucky any boy would be to have you on his arm. They should fight tournaments to win your affection, they should kill for your favour. Don't you dare be grateful for their attentions, you utterly deserve it and more than that, you deserve the very best. Don't think for one second you should settle for other people's rejects. You are the Princess, you are the prize, so be choosy and take your time. You decide how, when and where, not them. They will wait. Of course they will. Who wouldn't wait for someone so priceless? There is no one better. Know this, if anything happened to you, our lives would fall apart, we would be devastated and this family would never be happy again".

My Dad gave me armour that night, and I have worn it ever since. I could never quite buy the bit about being the best but I do believe I am worth something. My Self-esteem, still surprisingly intact after quite a few attacks, is still my strong center, my metal and I owe that to him.

I have never had anyone tell me anything like that, not even close. It might be because I have yet to venture out in purple hot pants but still, I am reassured that one day I may get the opportunity to bestow similar armour or meet someone who has a similar belief in me.

Dating a bit of rough.

2010-09-22T03:38:00.001-07:00

Do not be fooled. I might go on about how much I like to cook everything from scratch but here I am about to reveal a massive foodie failing. I like to date bad boys, I like to fraternise with things that are NOT GOOD FOR ME, I like to flirt with the Pot Noodle culture (even though I have only had a bite of a Pot Noodle once and HATED IT) I like to forge relationships with a bit of rough.

Admittedly, it's not that bad. I just happen to get occasional cravings for synthetic strawberry flavouring. Interesting one that, given that things that profess to be strawberry flavoured are nothing of the sort and taste, as I prefer to say, of PINK.

If PINK had a flavour it would be synthetic strawberry, it IS synthetic strawberry. That medicine you had as a kid, Yazoo milk and Pink marshmallows. They all taste of Pink, of course the link with strawberry is still hinted at, but I prefer to think of them as far distant cousins. I love the taste of Pink! I don't really eat a lot of processed food, but now and again I get the craving. You know the kind of craving I mean, the kind of craving that makes you do something rash like buy three packets of "Nice n' Spicy" NicNaks (three because have you seen how TINY those packets are??) and a net of Babybel (Please God, let me not be the only one who buys packs of NicNaks and nets of Babybel).

Anyway, I digress. It might surprise you to hear that my relationship with the flavour Pink didn't start from childhood, as most people who link emotional memory to various foodstuffs do. We didn't have that kind of thing in the house.. at all. I recall a rather odd dessert we had at Brownie camp that involved Angel Delight though and I remember avoiding that like the plague.
In hindsight perhaps it was the name "Floating Logs" really isn't an appetising name for pudding at any juncture of your life, not even when you are seven. From what I remember it was "fun size" (now really, is there anything "fun" about a very tiny Mars bar?- no there is not) chocolate bars in a vat of Angel Delight. Usually Butterscotch or the flavour purporting to be Strawberry. I remember these would be made and served in (presumably clean and specifically reserved for this sole purpose) washing up bowls. It looked disgusting, I am sure there is some retired Brown Owl somewhere who is now looking back on her glory days with a smile of satisfaction, knowing that She was responsible for a generation of Girls who would run screaming from a vat of gelatinous glop based pud named after the kind of poo you produce after a night on the beer.

My relationship with the flavour Pink (for that is what I call Strawberry flavour Angel Delight, if you hadn't already guessed) began far later, at University.
Fresh from the latest bonkers eating disorder I was actually semi-sensibly following something akin to Weight Watchers with a mixed degree of success at the time. Having given up sugar in tea, any form of cake and all chocolate I began to experience terrible cravings for something sweet that fruit alone would not satisfy (not even frozen bananas!). I'm not really sure who told me about Angel Delight being low in "points" or calories or groats or whatever it was I was wasting my life in counting at that particular time. But I flirted with Angel Delight and sugar free Jelly for the rest of the year. Thinking back it was probably my friend Claudia, who used to keep her weight in check by using thickened slim-a-soups as some kind of sauce on veg. As you can imagine the house used to stink of cabbage. Nice one Clau.
"Abi!", exclaimed Lovely Pete (Claudias then boyfriend, visiting from Cardiff) "MUST you persist in this ridiculous thing with Angel Delight?" As he witnessed me whip up what was probably my fourth batch that week "just have something proper!".
And that's the allure I guess, Angel Delight is decidedly not proper. It makes no pretence that it contains fruit, you rarely refer to it by its actual flavour, it's usually just "the pink one" it comes straight out of the packet and it contains a lot of sugar.
Yet I bloody love it and have to restrain myself from buying it, knowing that I will happily make and eat the whole packet in one sitting. There are probably better ways to consume half a pink of chilled milk but for me, adding a crap load of chemicals and Pink colouring does the job just fine.

Today I wrote my first letter of complaint.

2010-09-17T14:20:00.000-07:00

And it was to Topshop. I am not really someone who gets irked enough about something to actually pen a letter of complaint, in my various lines of work I have had my fair share of jobsworth types and they annoy the hell out of me, so I am not going to become one of them.

Only, in writing that email of compaint, I just have. I am now one of those people that will make mental notes of poor customer service, ask to "see the manager" and gen up on my consumer rights. Watchdog will become my favourite programme and I will begin to religiously check my change, incase that neanderthal operating the till has shortchanged me.

When will it end? I really just wrote a (fairly nice and terribly apologetic thankyouverymuch) email about me *almost* breaking my leg in their shoe department earlier today. It was a very real complaint! I could have been very hurt! The shop assistant scurried away which is what REALLY annoyed me. It is one thing to not accept liability (I'm clumsy, people are lax about where they throw their shoe display paraphanalia) but quite another to apologise for the bloody crap cluttering the floor and remove it.

Yet, even as I typed the email I could hear that woman off the claims direct advert "I slipped on some plastic strapping, seriously injuring my LEG AND KNEE". I don't want to be that woman, forget the fact that she has really bad hair and an unconvincing look of pain. I don't WANT to be the kind of person who makes a pedantic claim! I blame this culture for everything. What sort of world do we live in where a person cannot ask another person if they are OK for fear of reprisals and recriminations? For fear of acccepting liability and having to stump up some cash?

It's messed up, I tell you.

My Internal Jukebox.

2010-09-15T13:22:00.000-07:00

God, that title sounded better in my head. But as I cannot think of a better one at this stage, we'll go with that. I was going to go with "La la la la la" *Keychange* but lets face it, who would get that?
I walk to work, I'm poor so I find myself walking everywhere, that's not unusual. I also listen to A LOT of music. That is also not unusual to those who know me or have indeed come by this blog via any of my Musical writings/teachings/evangelical rants (Hi there!). I am not complaining about the walk to work, I really enjoy it as it gives me at least 30 minutes a day during which I do not have to think about anything except what is on my ipod and the possibility that my hair may frizz (forgive that last, I'm a girl). I don't listen to any type or genre of music exclusively, I often just let the shuffle function and go from there. I love those moments, I value those moments. I pride myself that I cannot be pigeonholed when it comes to Music, what I can be listening to at any given moment is entirely unpredictable- This week my 30 minute hit parade (oh now, you see that's what I should have called this post- much more snappy!) included everything from Muse to Mahler, Godspell to George Michael. I am not even kidding, I often use the walk to work to listen to stuff people have recommended me, stuff that I can't give my full attention when I am working or writing so very often a few terrible band demos creep in too.
A grave error occurred the other day, I managed to pick up my housemates ipod in my haste to leave the house, (an easy mistake to make, they both look identical). Initially, I didn't notice, I was midway through some REM track (Man on the Moon for those of you who are interested) when a track came on that made me stop walking. A track so heinous and criminal that there was no way I would ever, ever have made the rash decision to own it- much less upload it to my portable music device! I'm reluctant to even talk about this band here, much less name check one of the vilest, most pedestrian dirges but it was Keane, Bedshaped (what the hell is that song even about?).
Disgusted that Apple had failed me in its technology to actually allow such an error to occur I turned the device off in a panic. Afraid to turn it back on again and risk hearing more of this pile of aural horseshit, I actually went as far as to remove my earphones and prod at the controls, in manner of a wronged lover who has discovered texts of a highly sexual and explicit nature have been sent by his girlfriend to his best friend. Then, it dawned on me. This was Not MY IPOD! NOT MINE! I am not sure what I was most relieved about, the fact that I didn't have to listen to Keane, or the fact that there is not someone in the world who deems it necessary to sneak into my house at night, erase several GB's of music, only to replace them with things I hate. On PURPOSE! For a moment I was actually scared that someone hated me enough to do such a thing, but no, it was just the wrong ipod. Thank God.
I felt a bit weird looking through this guy's music collection. While I am very open about the music I love and revel in the idiosyncrasies, I am aware there are some people who see this type of thing as a bit of an intrusion, something I am very mindful of. Incidentally, he has every reason to feel the intrusion- his music collection is terrible! But that is only my opinion, I am not judging him too harshly, its nothing to do with me, he isn't hurting anyone, just because he seems to be missing several of the most important albums of the last decade does not mean the world will suddenly tilt on its axis. I really just need to get a grip.
Anyway, I digress, this little incident got me thinking (as I walked to work in silence, which I am also rather fond of at times) as I often do when I am on my own; if people think like me. Of course, that's a bit of a sweeping statement. Of course we can all share similar values and thought patterns but in terms of identical thought processes and foibles, I am sure we are more often than not totally alone. If not in our modes of dissecting experiences and feelings but more in the frikkin' mental things we do day to day, the things that are so habitual that we don't even consider them unusual.
One of my many, many things, something I have done since I was young enough to consciously collect the required reference material, supplied by endless exposure to Theatre, Musicals and old movies is to imagine my life as an extravagant Musical number. I have unwavering faith that behind the hum drum facade of everyday life, ordinary people wait poised to make a dramatic, perfectly choreographed entrance. Bristolians, if you walk through Queens Square on your way to work you will know exactly what I mean.

I often expect dinner with friends to turn out this way.

Obviously, if I am alone in doing this then I feel you are missing out! this is tremendous fun, really. Its great to imagine that the staid commuters will suddenly bust out a bit of bunny hopping to Quincy Jones like this.

Or an innocent channel crossing will result in this.

Probably not ever yet been in a situation where this could be a very real possibility. Maybe if I pass my driving test, get a poncho and move to Mexico... or something.

I realised today that my internal jukebox is supplied by all the above tunes and one very disturbing one that is a reoccurring theme whenever I am forced to walk anywhere.
It's Andy Williams! I'm not sure why or how this happened, but for some odd reason whenever I am walking any distance that bloody song pops into my head and suddenly I am in some weird 60's film with lots of eyeliner and white tights on, possibly with a swing jacket and massive overuse of the word "groovy". I've never seen myself walking anywhere of course, but I have caught glimpses in shop windows and the like. When I my internal jukebox kicks in I am transformed into some grinning, bopping loon. I shudder to think of the faces I probably pull at random passers by. Damn you Andy.

The song, incidentally is this one... don't say I didn't warn you. It's all knee high boots and weird goose stepping from here on in.

I'm into Fashion all because of you-hoo.

2010-09-09T14:19:00.000-07:00

Here, have some Hanoi Rocks... appropriate song for this post.

Nicky Wire is the reason I love Leopard Print. Well him and Pat Butcher, but mostly Nicky Wire.

It is a sobering thought when you realise that your own personal Style has been defined by a few really obvious sources. And that most of those sources are infact cross dressing men and women of easy virtue.
So, I work in Fashion. It's something I am interested in, even if I don't really follow it. For my job I have been religiously following the A/W catwalk shows (Burberry Prorsum pretty much eclipsed everything, in my eyes. Even the Menswear). But I wanted to talk a little bit about style.
Oh I'm not talking about Fashion, I am not going to pepper this post with butt-clenching phrases such as "fashionista" I am talking about Style.

Style and Fashion are often lumped in together in the context of shallow articles involving hideous phrases such as the "must have" and "directional". I stopped reading almost all fashion magazines (with the exception of Elle) for this reason alone. It drives me nuts that something can be "in" or "out" at the expense of something which defines a person and expresses a personality. I am talking about Style. I believe that fashion can be bought but style one must posess, it is very rarely that we can throw off our own personal style and embrace a new trend, chameleon like each season. Instead we accumulate them, year after year, returning to our comfort zones and adding to the layers. Some work, some don't, it is the ones that stick that eventually make up our own personal style.

Now that sounds wanky, even as I type it. While I firmly unclench my buttocks, take a moment to imagine (and you really will have to imagine, because there is no way I am going to post my fashion mishaps here for all to see!) a time when I thought Tartan trousers were a good idea. Imagine me, misguidedly taking Meg White's lead and donning a red jeans-and-white tee combo on more than one occasion. Imagine, a youthful Abi in a pair of glittery Elton-John specs which she bought and proceeded to wear (horrible late 90's word coming up here) Clubbing. I feel OK telling you about those glasses, some of you probably remember them. If Laura and Sam are reading this I know you do because I remember you having similar pairs. I also remember (in no specific order of atrocity) Pink spikey dog collars, MASSIVE cords, turquoise hair and Beads like Damon Albarn's.

Anyway, you get it.. I wasn't fashionable, I wasn't cool. but I did have some sembelance of style. Kind of. I like to think things have moved on in the intervening years but as I was doing my washing today I got to thinking about the reasons I like the things I like. For example the Leopard print: So wrong its right, kind of trashy but at the same time very cool. Horribly dated yet bang up to date. When did I even start liking this stuff? why do I own a cardigan, one vest top, a jumper, a scarf and a bra and knickers in this print?
Because of Nicky Wire. Exposure to Nicky Wire from the Manic Street Preachers during my formative years has meant that everytime I see something Leopard print I will be drawn to it like a magpie. Admittedly a cheap whore magpie, a goodtime magpie who stays out late and wears knock off Charlie cologne. But still, Leopard Print it was and Leopard Print it must be. I am as cool as Nicky Wire in Leopard Print. Part of me thinks its cool to wear a crimpoline dress and a headscarf. I still have a pink feather boa that I got purely to wrap around a mic stand. My relationship with Leopard print is about so much more than fashion.
Then there is the Sunglasses. I love sunglasses purely because people in NME wear sunglasses. Sunglasses hide my face and sunglasses can be really very cute indeed.

Obviously I don't wear these out a lot, but the film is a huge stylistic influence. I love babydoll dresses, kneesocks and those glasses. I enjoy sleeping with old men who look like Jeremy Irons less.
More alarming is my preoccupation with this man:

Yes.. do laugh. This is an old photograph (yet sadly not old enough!) for something that seemed a very good idea at the time. But in all seriousness I love Nikki Sixx. I named my cat after the man! In 1983 Nikki sixx had A LOOK going down, I tell you. I am influenced by his skinny scarves, sprayed on denim and awesome boots today. Oh and I love a bit of backcombed hair and eyeliner, but then don't we all!

So, add in some Audrey Hepburn eyeliner, some swooshy hair a la Nicole Sherzinger (yah right) and styling not dissimilar to the way I like to dress, as seen in this month's Elle.
I have pretty much ripped off every one of these looks this week. Probably time to lay off the Leopard Print.

If dieting worked, you'd only have to do it once...

2010-09-03T03:32:00.000-07:00

You could fit three of her in my jeans.

This might seem a little at odds with my previous post, but as this blog exists for me to make sense of things then it kind of makes sense to me to follow a food post with one about weight loss. And if that isn't an insight into the way my mind works, then I don't know what is.
Someone who means a great deal to me told me the other day that they were concerned about my mental state. It is not an easy thing to hear from anyone, it is kind of easy to leap to some conclusion like "He thinks I am totally crazy" until I realised that I was being judged based on my attitudes towards food. Attitudes that are so deeply ingrained into my being, that I don't even notice how nuts they seem to outsiders. It is very hard to hear that someone has made a judgement about you, based upon something you are so used to battling with, that it has become the norm. It is also deeply shocking when this attitude, warped and cancerous, has infected your personality to the point where a usually rational person can come over as not entirely sane. It makes you look at why you became this way and why you still continue to perpetuate this behaviour. I hope that by writing this, I can make sense of something very abnormal that has happened to a very normal person.

I'd like to start by saying I love food. I love cooking, baking, entertaining and writing about it, I love smelling it, shopping for it, even talking about it. I even (and this might come as a surprise to you who know me) enjoy eating.

That’s only about 30% of the time though. The rest of the time I battle with an eating disorder so complex and insane I don't even understand it half of the time. For all the love, there are equal, if not overwhelming, dollops of hatred associated with food. At best, the pleasure to be able to make delicious choices when hungry, at worst the desire to re fuel becomes entwined with guilt, with a sense of failure, with a lack of confidence. While I enjoy the eating, the preparing the love that goes into food. I hate the guilt, the misery and the punishment and the rewards I deny myself because I am never, can never or will never be good enough. Put simply, I can do without the guilt I experience when I am feeling especially large and eat something mindlessly. I am incredibly mindful about what I eat. I am terrified someone will ask me if I should be eating that, or tut at me. I never get asked out on dates (what is the type exactly? pretty girls I guess, no ones that look like they cost a lot to feed) but if I were the type of girl that did, I worry that the guy would laugh at me or make me choose something I wouldn't actually enjoy but had to have because it was less fattening.

Blame the fact that we live in a visual culture, that somewhere along the line "Slim" was replaced by the word "Thin", the term “healthy” fell by the wayside and undermining basic appetites became somehow normal, acceptable even. Spend an hour in the company of women, follow a handful on Twitter, check out their Facebook and I guarantee you will encounter some weight based comment. They will vent their disgust that they ate too much at lunch, or that they feel chunky, or that they simply "woke up fat" that day.

I confess, I am guilty of that last. In the last month of personal social media updates, an enormous percentage of those have been weight, food, or fat related. Food, eating is referred to in terms of virtue or sin. And the worst thing? until I sat down to write this, I had no idea. How often then, does this attitude creep into my daily vernacular? I would suspect, quite a lot. Thinking back to recent conversations, what often seems like a jibe about eating is actually someone, a friend, checking if I am or not.

Because that’s the crux of the matter, I either am or I'm not. You can literally divide my life into periods when I am consuming, or not. Of course it is not as clear cut as that, its very much a meal-by-meal struggle. It is a pattern based on the blueprint set out in my teens but really, the damage was done long before that. Since I was a child I learnt to cloak the gnawing ache of guilt or anxiety with another piece of toast, another biscuit. I won't go into the specifics of how that comfort eating changed and became comfort starvation but I make no bones that the side effects of the latter are infinitely more desirable. Pretty soon, denial is the way you reconcile uncertain doubts that surface. Its very hard to try to put into words how it works, I am aware that on the surface the thought process appears irrational to most. And it is irrational, I don't pretend that it is in any way normal or healthy to look at oneself from the outside and judge critically. I don't outwardly subscribe to the notion that it is necessary to be beautiful in a particular way all the time- not as a luxury of lifestyle or genetics but simply to feel OK. I am not particularly vain, so why do I care so? I don’t think being thin will suddenly make me beautiful or attractive, infact I know this to be an absolute uncertainty. Yet why do we place such importance on a slim physique over general wellbeing, a good personality, high moral values etc?

I am standing in a freezing cold room and can feel the uncomfortable sensation of a tape measure around my waist, I know I am fatter than everyone else. I know that the "puppy fat" that my peers lost during the active Summer months has stayed with me. I look at the floor, at my scuffed ballet shoes and wait for the familiar comments about how I am a growing girl, about how I am getting chubby. I could cry with shame and vow that this won't happen again. I am eight years old.

I am 17, flicking through a magazine when he fixed me with his Can't-be-bothered stare. His eyes momentarily drift to the picture of the emaciated model on the opposite page and he momentarily shakes off his bored languor as he cranes his head to look, his interest piqued. For the first time in our friendship, I am lost for anything to say. Say something funny, I think Funny is all you have. But I can't, there is nothing funny to say about such obvious admiration. And then it comes, the kind of trite thing bitter women always say when they feel threatened, delivered in a barely audible mumble. And like that, his reverie broken he looks me up and down, shrugs and says "Don't tell me you don't wish you were pretty like that". I plug in my earphones, my thoughts dark. She’s not even spoken, she is fucking two dimensional yet she is already better than me.

It's around November time, maybe December. I'm sitting surfing the internet and read something someone wrote that turns my stomach. I try to block the words out but it still remains in the guise of a blog post, a list of all the things I am not. Comparisons and failure at every turn. The disappointment in myself is enough to make me run to the toilet and be sick into the bowl, forget that those words expose a pretty shallow train of thought and a laughable aspiration, it bothers me. I don't want to care, I don't want to show I care, so I laugh it off but what they think matters to me. It matters so much it feels like it was written to slice at my heart and I can’t forget it. This is what they think, there can be no other reason for writing this, for bringing these attributes I lack into one piece of writing. It screams “Not good enough”. I am forever waiting for the next smack down, my stomach painful and knotted. How can I possibly allow myself to be hungry when the hurt has jammed my stomach, my chest and is overflowing past my throat in the form of bile? That’s not me you are describing, I think. That will never be me, no matter how hard I try.

I am not easily complimented, I am accustomed to being lied to, my self-esteem worn away by repeated comments to the detriment of my looks, often by total strangers, or worse, people I am emotionally invested in. I notice those close to me choosing their words carefully until they stop trying altogether because its too hard, I expect those comments to come so spend my life with a clenched jaw, ready to smile and nod and pretend that it didn't kill me to hear what I already know and didn't need to hear. A good day makes me feel I have nothing to worry about but it is a bad day, a day governed by the emotional syntax that create the hesitations, anxieties, second-guessing- berating and deal breaking that go hand in hand with eating. On a very basic level, the butterflies of an empty stomach are preferable to the sick churning of a full one. I personally find it difficult to eat when I have suffered an emotional bashing. It is often guilt for experiencing feelings of self loathing that feeds this unhealthy cycle, something I think is true for many people. Abuse of ones health rarely enters my head, its amazing how you can overlook the damage you could be doing to a body when you don't deem it worthy of your care or attention.

I have been very fat and reasonably thin, but I have never felt very beautiful physically. You can tell me I am pretty and I will think you are lying, as is often commonplace with people who have unfortunately have experienced any form of verbal bullying in their life. I let people make jokes at my expense, I make jokes at my expense. We all laugh at the girl who can’t eat because her stomach won’t let her. It’s hilarious that someone could hate themselves that much that they would do that to themselves, its crazy, its stupid, its inconceivable. You have a problem with it because you just don’t understand it. This behaviour is self perpetuating, belief in someone’s poor opinion of you simply adds more layers to your persona, so that soon you become that person. That is not to say I am timid or shy in any way, if someone makes me feel bad about myself then I will rant and rage at them- “How DARE you compare me?” I will shout. “How can you mention about how gorgeous so and so is to me? By comparison I am a huge disappointment and pretty soon you will realise that”. It is so much easier to have someone hate you from the outset than have their good or fond opinion change of you part way through. That’s incredibly destructive to anyone, let alone a person who has a love- hate relationship with themselves. Physical beauty, as I have said, is in no way the be all and end all of this and I realise that in mentioning it I run the risk of sounding shallow. However, our society is so looks dominated, so visual, so caught up with being a certain way that it is a natural focus weather we like it or not. As it happens, I think confidence is very attractive and whilst I am very confident in my abilities, I will always feel compared unfavourably to the Angelina Jolies and Cheryl Coles of this world. On a very basic level I know that no matter how small my waist is, I will never look like any of these women yet the thought that this is the standard and the gulf between that and my reality is at times rather hard to deal with. Because when you think that way you forget Angelina looks kinda scrawny and a bit unhappy at times, you overlook the fact that Cheryl can’t really sing and smokes 40 a day because all you think about is how massive and ugly and lumpy you seem alongside them. Which even as I type it is mad because as I said, it isn’t even about seeming or being attractive (to who even? Certainly not 90% of men in this world. No, Women diet and dress to impress… other women. A scary and sobering thought when you realise that we create this hell for ourselves) Yet somehow we place great store on the notion that being pretty/thin/attractive is somehow preferable to intellect, talent or compassion.
I live in hope that someone will identify me at the point where I radiate comfort in myself and by extension enjoy the best me I am able to present. I have learnt when you interact frequently with people who make you feel less than your best self then the feelings surface again. The mindset of "I'm not good enough, I'm not worthy of good things, I don't deserve anything good" is a diminishing one, people and situations which make you feel that way only feed into the need to diminish yourself physically. Instead of building something, a strong body, a solid relationship, a happy life. You try to erode things one by one, confidence, self esteem, potential relationships and finally, your body.

So you see, I am quite able to see my situation rationally, I am aware of what it does to me and the impact it has on my moods and recognise that feeling attractive starts with myself. That I cannot influence how I am perceived , be that mad, stupid, ugly or whatever and that to some, I will always come up short. I am starting to learn that it is my own standards, not those of those I will never meet, that really matter and that it is fruitless trying to please anyone but yourself.

THE Book.

2010-09-02T08:41:00.000-07:00

Hello again,

I said I'd write when I had something to share and I do. It has been a few months in the planning but I am finally able to share my plans for my forthcoming BOOK.

Yup, I said book. Everyone knows about the shitty novel(s) I've messed about with over the years but this is quite different. Joking comparisons to Nigella aside, I am putting together a sort of cook book. Well, its more of a Food Memoir of sorts, I am not really into calling it a cookbook as I don't yet know what form it will take. I had the rough idea of amassing all my food writing, blogs and stories into one place alongside my photography for a while. Just recently I gave a newly married friend a leather book which I had illustrated with seasonal produce and copied out some old Dorset recipies and she LOVED it. I frequently get asked to share the methods for the things I made, photograph or write about so I thought it would be cool to put it together.

At this stage I am not sure if anyone will be interested in this, it is going to be something I am very much making for myself but the intention (if the interest is there) is to make it available to buy on Blurb.com.

If anyone has any ideas, thoughts, requests regarding this then i'd love to hear from you either in the comments or by the usual email, abi.bansal@gmail.com.

New.

2010-08-25T12:03:00.000-07:00

Hey!

I'm working on a more lengthy post, which I will hopefully get up here soon. Until then there are two new prints in my little shop. They are limited edition and available now. These are two favourites of mine. Taking inspiration from my mothers button box, they are a beautiful addition to any studio wall.

Available here.

So forgive me, Cause its more than I can bear. In demand I make my mind up by deciding not to care.

2010-08-21T12:10:00.000-07:00

Woah. Lots of you want prints! thank you to everybody who took the time to email, comment, request and purchase some of my work. As you know, I never really consider myself a photographer so the fact that so many of you enjoy what I do means a great deal. Particular thanks goes to each and every one of you who pimped, tweeted and blogged about my little enterprise. I am about ten feet tall. Thank you.

So, bit of a while since I was last here. I know, I ALWAYS say that. My work is quite full on at the moment, so I rarely get time to think about things to write about. As most of you know I also write about and review Music. This takes up nearly all my free time so any other writing will always play second fiddle. Annoyingly, I did manage to cut this down a while back, but it seems to have crept back up again.

I have a long-ish post coming up about my recent experiences with particle physics (yeah, I know) having got there in the strangest way! I also have many more photos from Amsterdam to share but I need to look through those before I do that! All in good time.

So, in recent news, aside from working hard to get my art shop up and running (I have some original drawings and paintings to list as soon as I get a chance). My collaborative project 52 Weeks is coming to an unceremonious end this week. As I sit here writing this, I am not really sure what we achieved with it all, I'm not even sure what we even set out to achieve in the first place. Some pretty images, if nothing else. It won't be the ending that I think many people are expecting, I don't at this point know if the last image will be fitting, or even do it justice. To say this had a natural conclusion would, I think, be foolish. I think too much expectation can mar creativity, so I will simply say it's been fun and leave it at that. I could say so much more but I don't think I can find the words where this is concerned. Thanks for following. I've enjoyed it.

What now?

Photography, Fine Art, Illustration.

2010-08-13T15:59:00.000-07:00

What I'm listening to: When Doves Cry by The Pursuit of Happiness.

I keep getting emails asking for prints of some of my Photographs. I can only ignore something so long.

The thing is, I have never considered myself a Photographer. The whole term makes me clench my buttocks and think of Annie Leibovitz shooting Demi Moore in various stages of pregnant undress. I've always thought that if I called myself something then I'd suddenly have to be good at it. Of course I know this is not true. Technicalities aside, being "good" is wholly subjective, particularly with regards to Art. And Art is what I try to produce.

I've set up another shop, primarily to give people the opportunity to buy some of my most requested images. I also hope to add some other work there soon; some small canvasses, original illustrations and maybe some mixed media pieces. I've not gone mad and added loads and loads so if there is something you don't see or a size I've not offered then just let me know.

(Don't worry, I will be sewing again... in time)

Comfort Mode.

2010-07-22T08:35:00.000-07:00

Did I ever mention the Marmite thing? Oh cripes, here we go, another foible.

Ever since I was tiny, my snack of choice has been "The Marmite Sandwich". Even as I type it that title sounds too grand, the Marmite Sandwich is literally just Marmite and Bread, specifically thick white sliced bread (though as I have shown, the choice of Bread is really the only creative control you get over this dish.. so make it count). Whenever I am down, or sick, or just plain peckish, I always tear open the bread and spread the viscous Brown paste liberally (I am a hardened Marmite user, sparingly has no place in vocabulary). I figure since there is no butter in the equation (I cannot abide the stuff) I can go to town with the filling. Occasionally I'll add a few slices of strong cheddar but only on very special occasions. The Marmite Sandwich and I go way back. It is one of the very first solid things I remember eating, the lunch my Mother would make me (with cheese and a hot Ribena, second only to Heinz Cream of Tomato Soup) when I was ill from school and my after school supper for years. I am unashamed of my love of the Marmite Sandwich, I could quite happily eat one every day for the rest of my life. If I were a disciple of Jesus at the last supper, I'd ask if he had any of "the good stuff" as he passed me the bread. I often worry if my love of Marmite will hinder my finding a potential Mister, or if I'll have to turn my addiction underground and have a strictly "No kissing after indulging" clause written into a pre-nup. It's a very real possibility.

As I grew up I began to question the nutritional relevance of white bread, so for a few years my Marmite Sandwiches were made with Brown Bread. I also grew to realise that I just cannot eat bread every day (it bloats me) so nowadays if I opt for bread its usually of the crusty, fresh variety. I think its OK to have white bread if its in baguette form, though the squidgy supermarket stuff is sometimes the only thing that will do for those truly terminal cases.

I suppose you are wondering why I am banging on about Marmite Sandwiches. Lately I've not been very well and while its not serious, the whole episode has left me in need of comfort. At times like this I need clean sheets, hot Ribena (really, this is turning into quite the list of Brit brand names!) and yes, a Marmite Sandwich. My Cat, despite being excellent at cuddles and sleeping, is unable to master use of the kettle, nor do her paws possess the dexterity required to spread using a knife. I don't have a boyfriend to nod benignly when I pack a jar in my suitcase prior to a weekend away (actually, that's probably why I don't have a boyfriend) so I trudge down to the kitchen and rustle up a Marmite Sandwich. It isn't even weird to me, that's how long I've been doing it. I'm not really in the mood for eating but I am always in the mood for Marmite. It is pretty much the only thing I can adequately produce right now anyway.

The fruits of my Labours (or not)

2010-06-23T04:24:00.000-07:00

Who knew we had a veritable Orchard in my back yard? I popped out to hang some washing this morning and was greeted with hundreds of cherries, strawberries and Apples just weighing down the trees in the garden.

I admit, I don't spend a lot of time in our garden. My housemate is known for having barbecues and neglecting to invite my other housemate or I. I only really sit out there to read when no one is home or hang out washing. I did not plant these trees, nor do I imagine anyone tends to them so obviously the best thing to do was to "thin out" the fruit. Yay me.

Cake, Cats and Diet Catastrophes.

2010-06-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

What I'm listening to: Stevie Wonder, Superstition.
This week has been insane. I've been feeling a bit under the weather, which means work and all the associated things that go along with work, have felt like a tremendous effort at the moment. The Cat has fleas and is holding me personally responsible. I'm applying for a new job, a change in direction maybe, or perhaps getting back on the right track. It depends how you choose to look at it. But Man, selling yourself on a CV is tough. I had forgotten how excruciating it is to basically make a list of your work history and try not to make it sound like you love yourself too much. But still, you know, love yourself. Some of the crap I was coming out with probably could only have been made worse if I'd severed a vein and scrawled "Like me! Like me!!" over a side of A4. I hope no one I currently work with reads this.

At the risk of sounding like a typical girl and banging on about my weight.. I woke up fat the other day. You know those days; as I said in a message to my best friend "I am fat, even my eyelids are fat". You can't put your (fat) finger on it, nor can you be bothered to shift your (fat) arse off the sofa and DO something about it. It is what it is, a blip, a down day. Maybe its because I've done a midriff baring photo or two this week. My period might be due, or I might just be feeling, you know, Media Pressure.
So, to beat the bloat, get back on track, clear out the cobwebs etc, I have been attempting to do what no sane woman should.. and its ALL Beyonce's fault. I love Beyonce! I love Dreamgirls! I love drinking nothing but Maple Syrup, Lemon juice and Cayenne Pepper! no? I may have been lying about that last bit.. NO ONE likes drinking Maple Syrup, Lemon Juice and Cayenne pepper. They Like Maple Syrup on Pancakes, Lemon Juice in Lemonade and Cayenne pepper ideally seasoning something high fat and delicious. I'm talking about this diet. At this point I must just point out that I have linked to a *hock tooey* Daily Mail article. Since I generally believe the Daily Mail deal in scaremongering and sensationalism it seemed pretty apt.
So, this diet. Hell. Utter hell. It is one thing to abstain from calorific foodstuffs, it is quite another to abstain then reward yourself with a beverage which looks and tastes like onion bhaji flavoured tea. Day one you feel virtuous, (all dieters love day one). Day two was annoying, I accidentally drank some wine and got shitfaced, when I should have had a bacon bap and gone home or something. Day three I behaved like a lunatic- I baked. I baked a lot Don't worry fat fans.. I didn't eat any of it. I took some to my neighbour and posted some to my friend Seb. Let him reap the rewards of my idiocy! I write this on giddy day four, where earlier I contemplated falling off the wagon with... a solitary boiled egg. My gut feels like its eating itself, or something is kicking its way out (Maybe I'm pregnant.. that would surely explain the fatness). Tomorrow is the day when I shall start reintroducing solids. If I last that long.
The pesky thing about all of this. The crux of my irritation, is not lack of food, its not the fact I woke up fat, its not the fact I made a lovely cake and instead of sitting and eating three slices in quick succession sent it to a boy its the fact that, almost five days in.. the onion bhaji tea is working. I've lost almost half a stone and although I don't think I look slimmer, I feel less bloated. Which means that the pissing no-fun diet works. And nobody likes to admit abstinence achieves anything.

P.S I did not buy that really expensive maple syrup. I substituted honey.

Weekend roundup.

2010-06-06T11:27:00.000-07:00

What I'm Listening to: The Dandy Warhols, Thirteen Tales from Urban Bohemia.
Should I be worried that between taking this photo and sitting down to post it, Sixx the Cat has managed to eat a large percentage of the petals? She doesn't look ill, or anything. I'm just a bad cat parent who is undeserving of flowers. She is now sitting here looking at me malevolently, no doubt plotting where to puke (I'm going with "pillow" or "shoe").

So anyway, Hi. Welcome to day two of the blog resurrection, which as I type it sounds far cooler than what this Lil scenario actually is. I hope your respective weekends were full of mirth making spontaneity. Mine wasn't but sometimes that's a good thing, we all need rest.
I'm still wrestling for a format for this blog of sorts. I know through experience that such things develop over time, but I think I am going to return to the "listening to" feature I used to be so fond of back in the days of Live journal. You'll notice it appear at the top of each post (click the link to hear it immediately on Spotify; to really get into my groove), along with a photo of sorts. This is to keep me shooting things that are not just me and also to add a bit of colour to this place. I'm sure the words will come, they usually do.

It's Monday and that means that the latest installment of our 52 Weeks project is up! (I say its up.. I mean it will be up when Seb wakes up and makes it live.. that is his job as it were) I wish I'd done more situps this week, that's all I'm saying.

I'm working on a proper post!

Why don't I blog anymore?

2010-06-05T12:26:00.000-07:00

Does anyone actually come here anymore? Was it ever likely I would pick up blogging again, like a child attempting to master cycling without training wheels? tentatively, with trepidation and a soupçon of mistrust? I confess, time has not been on my side. This, coupled with a pretty negative mental state, has not left me feeling at my most bloggy. Sure, I still write, I still document my life through Flickr and get to let loose once a week on my collaborative project 52 Weeks but it's not really the same, is it? it's not Abi.

And I know thats what you kids want; me moaning about the intricacies of my day, the mundane 9-5ing and the tidbits of white gold humour you have come to know and love. I had to close my Etsy shop temporarily, the painting took a back seat because damn, working for someone else takes up a lot of time! I blame Twitter and that damn Formspring thing. So without all that.. what DO I blog about? My life is not without amusing stories, passionate opinions or saucy details, so why have I retreated into the silence? Why is it I sit down at the end of the day, looking at the blinking cursor and just feel like its all such a chore? It should definatly not have become that, blogging should never feel like work. The moment something feels like an obligation, the words fail to come and you get a bunch of boring photo posts. Cute, but that is what Flickr is for.

I was reminded today that I used to be pretty good at blogging. I've been doing it since I was about 15, after all. I've been thinking that perhaps its time to start again.
I am aware this is the third time since I moved to this space that I have attempted to start again, but so what? its my blog and I'll make as many dramatic, overblown statements as I want to.

2010-02-21T08:20:00.000-08:00

After my last post, I did what I promised myself would not happen. I retreated into the silence again. I so want to be a good blogger in 2010, I used to be a very good blogger indeed. I don't know what it is... I have become so frustrated with all the things I want to say that I wind up saying precisely nothing whatsoever. Catch 22.

There is so much I want this blog to be that I can't define it. I realised that I should stop trying to pigeonhole myself and this blog into one type of thing. If I want to write about fashion then I'll write about it. Maybe posting regularly will see some kind of pattern emerge so until then I will write about my daily life in the hope that such a pattern emerges.

A few photos today from my daily life in and around Bristol. Yesterday was the first warm and sunny day we have had since I got here and I spent it out and about revisiting some old haunts and favourite places.

Thank You

2009-12-17T06:37:00.000-08:00

I have had the beginnings of this blog post in the back of my mind for some time. Components of what I want to say and the way I wish to express them flash across my mind at the oddest of moments, but when I come to write them find they are gone. It is not as if writing on demand is a problem for me, far from it. I am referring to the words which are within all of us but those which we often wont, can’t or find it simply too hard to say.

How can you sum up how much someone means to you? How can you limit to a few hastily assembled sentences how much someone has done for you, when only a few short months previously they were a stranger? It is easy to look at the point where these people are a permanent fixture in your life and take them for granted, it is only when we look back and examine the tenuous serendipity that brought them to us in the first place that we realise that we may never have met them at all. I am not saying we should view our lives in terms of what might have been because I think to view things that way makes us stunted, regretful individuals. Relationships and friendships can be fleeting. We have the potential to make new friends every day and it is a combination of circumstance, mutual effort and luck that some ever go the distance at all, perhaps some are not meant to.

In the last ten years, as I have seen my family shatter and fragment before my very eyes, seen beloved friends die, and weathered the kinds of ups and downs that would make many give up. The friends I make and keep are more important to me than ever. Notice I omitted the word “choose” from that last sentence, to choose implies we are completely in control of who we meet. Of course in some ways we are, we choose the depth and duration of relationships all the time. What we cannot choose however, is how those we let in will surprise us and the credit we may or may not give them for being capable of doing so.

Someone said to me recently; “Friends are the Family I choose” which is a bold and brave statement. But one that is touching and resonates with me at a time when I cannot afford to turn away either. It is a rare and precious skill to be a good friend to somebody; humans are inherently selfish beings after all. Which is why I see so many people walk away from friendships where they are made to feel like the effort is in the main entirely theirs. It is, after all, the easiest option and anything other than that would entail a great deal of effort. Of course, our requirements from people change all the time, the type of friendship we have with someone we work with is not the same as the one we have with the friend who has known us since childhood. I use these as examples but in reality the longevity of friendships is almost irrelevant, often imposing a sense of duty or obligation to continue a relationship that is failing, unhealthy even.

A good friend is someone who can pick through the pieces of your life when it is broken and still see you beneath the wreckage of the person you pretended to be for so long. More importantly, they give you time to reassemble yourself without you having to hold up the red flag signifying personal fragility, they do not require you to explain that this is a temporary glitch, they don’t fob you off with a half hearted “It’ll be OK” and don’t assume that they will suddenly be issued a list of requirements. (It is extremely telling when a person’s reaction to your predicament is more about what being your friend will ultimately cost THEM)

To be a good friend actually asks very little of you, to allow others to be a good friend to you... well that is something else entirely; I have never been very good at entrusting my well being to others. I am proud that I have never needed anyone to provide for me, yet saddened to discover there is a side of me that will never freely give myself over to being helped. Call it fear of trusting someone with your security, which by its very nature carries a certain amount of risk in case it all falls through.

However, life throws us curveballs. It also throws us blessings. At risk of using that most overused of phrases “at the end of the day” some circumstances are beyond our control and our own personal capabilities are hampered by various constraints (time, money). I have had very few instances in my life where I have not known what to do and part of this is because I simply cannot afford not to have A PLAN. When you cast yourself as a survivor, it is not long before others assume you will be ok because that is what you do. It takes a special type of person to see through the lies we tell ourselves, even more for them to take control and show you a way ahead when you can’t see past the end of your own nose.

For the last three weeks I have been blessed to have the friendship of Anna and Menno, who picked me up when I was falling under the burden of a pretty stressful move. They took me in when I had nowhere else to go, when my façade of coping was slipping and my mantra of “I’ll be OK” was sounding less convincing by the day. They gave me somewhere to go where I didn’t feel like I was in anyone’s way and made me feel like it was OK to take up space in the world again. A paragraph at the end of a blog post does not and can never do justice to all they have done for me and I have sat here for the last half an hour wondering how I can sum up how grateful I am to know them. One day I will hopefully repay them for their kindness, but for now my words will have to do. I have never been sure what I have done to deserve the people who have made the most positive impact in my life and I suppose the best we can hope is that I can learn to be as good a friend as I have been shown by the very best of people.

I move to my new home tomorrow. See you on the other side.

And then.... it snowed.

2009-12-16T09:44:00.000-08:00

Waking up to unexpected snow is a great excuse to get the camera out... More shots from today can be found on my Flickr.

Just a really fleeting post for today. I am pretty tired and have to prepare for my final move to Bristol which is happening on Friday. I will be back tomorrow with a special post.