Why Run When You Can Walk?

Four years ago I wheezed my way through my first 5K fun run. It was the annual Crisis Square Mile Run; a charity that I volunteer with every Christmas.

After completing the race and getting my free banana and t-shirt, I felt a sense of achievement. I'd run 5k! Roll out the red carpet! Sound the horns! Where was the Queen to congratulate me?

What was a one-off foray into running soon grew legs and took hold. 5ks became 10ks which became half marathons. I graduated from level running to hills. I came to love earth and trails rather than plodding interminably on concrete. Yet if someone asked me if I am a Runner, I would say No. If this person then asked, Well why do you do all this running then? I would reply, Because it makes me feel free.

Bearing this in mind, I must've been feeling very free and easy the day that I committed to a marathon because quite why I did it is at times, beyond me. It definitely was not a long held dream of mine unlike my wish for naturally curly hair or to have seen Nureyev perform. No, my marathon journey was born from curiosity. Just to see if I could.


Come this Sunday when I gather with 15,000 other curious people at the start line of the Edinburgh Marathon, I hope I'll be able to find out.

Just Breathe

What do you do when you’re alive during a moment of history that pains you?

Britain has a Tory government. There are worse things I know, like 80’s hair and burnt coffee, but my disappointment is acute. My husband is tiring of my rants, claiming that I need to learn detachment. He is right.

Perhaps I’ll detach myself from him.

When I fly to Cuba.

To communism.

He has a point. Life can be easier sometimes if you are more measured and pragmatic. Less idealistic and crazed. Not so black and white. More grey. Or beige.

By coincidence, I visited the Zen Habits website today where this article, Letting Go of Attachment seemed to have READ THIS LAVENDAR sprayed all over it in neon pink.

This is just what I need to help me come to terms with Fascism I thought. I read through the list, processing my overly attached election feelings as I went:

Letting Go of Attachment to Feelings

Understand that pain is unavoidable.
Not true. Alcohol does wonders.

Write it down.
I did. I wrote to all my friends who voted Tory and now they are not speaking to me

Vocalize your feelings.
To who? I’ve got no friends left

Yield to peace.
How about yielding to something a little stronger. Morphine anyone?

Xie Xie. It means thank you in Chinese. Fully embrace your happy moments.
Oh please.

Zen your now.
What does this mean? Who wrote this crap?

After reading I was still angry. And the government was still Tory.

Oh boy.

UK Elections 2010

Ok I take it all back.

The British elections are not boring. Far from it.

It’s now the fifth day since the elections and still we wait to find out who is going to govern us. Brown’s resigned. Cameron’s stopped chopping logs. Clegg is swinging like a pendulum; trying to amass maximum power in his moment of glory.

A hung parliament is a vote of no confidence in all parties. This hedging that has gone on for five days has surely killed off any shred of faith remaining in the voters. The media, parrot-like, are issuing round after round of inane sound bites to fill in the airspace.

Less than 24 hours ago, Brown stepped down and a two-faced turnaround was immediate. Accolades began piling in thick and fast. All the papers started pulling the daggers out; the very ones they plunged in him in weeks gone by. History, I believe, will judge him far less harshly. I don’t think he deserves all the shit that's been piled on him. It was his misfortune to come to power in an age where the population value celebrity shine and glib oratory, whereas I do think he is a man made of much sterner stuff.

So is it to be a Tory leader at the helm? A man who after his 36 hour, I’m-not-going to sleep-because-I’m-tough display of Putin-esque machismo thought it a good idea for his press office to issue the statement that instead of sleeping (because why would you want a well rested person to guide the future of the country), he went home and chopped logs for two hours.

Of course.

The election has become car crash television. And I hope it’s over soon so I can tear my bloodshot eyeballs off the screen.

Good Luck Gordon

He's been flogged to death by the media for the past year. He inherited the reins from the guy who took Britain to war. He had the unpopular job of steering the economy from the cliff edge. He had a very (public) bad day at the office and he was crucified. I cannot even begin to perceive the amount of pressure he has sustained and yet he's still standing, determined to fight to the end.

For all their on camera sparkle, I do not think that Cameron or Clegg have the sheer guts that Brown does.


It's hard to find nice Brown stories in the press. The closer the election gets, the harder it is. It's refreshing when something nice leaks through:

Author Nicola Barker in the Observer:

Clegg and Cameron remind me of two interchangeable models from the Next catalogue. Bland, bland, bland. Gordon's different. He's dark, flawed and chaotic and the more people rail against him, the more craggy and heroic he appears in my eyes. Gordon's a true Brit. If he didn't exist, I'd be duty-bound to make him up.

I don't think Brown or Labour are political nirvana. But I think Cameron's Big Society waffle is using community responsibility as camouflage for public spending cuts. In a different economic climate, I might've taken a punt on the Lib Dems even if their policies are a bit thin. But not right now.

The need for a change seems to be the key leverage being used against Labour by the other parties. But a lot has changed in the 13 years that Labour has been in. I don't know about the rest of the UK, but London is certainly a much better place to live than it was in 1996.

Good luck GB. Hang in there.

Some Room Of One's Own

This week, an article in the G2 reported on several prominent women who have gone public about their struggles with depression, including Marian Keyes, Emma Thompson and Alison Pearson. This development, the article reports, reflects the trend that modern women are as twice as likely to be diagnosed with depression as men. My reaction on reading this was:

No shit Sherlock.

The way I see it is like this:

First wave feminism: Make equal space for us.
Second wave feminism: This space is ours and we’re going to define it how we see fit.
Third wave feminism: There’s too much space we have to fill. We’re knackered.

The article referred to an American report called The Paradox of Declining Female Happiness by Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers which debunks the myth that working women are knackered because they do it all. The article claims that the time spent working in and out of the home are roughly similar for both men and women. However the article states that it is women who carry the overall emotional responsibility for the domestic sector whilst men are more “helpers.”

Is this true?

It's true in mine. Both my husband and I work full-time but somehow the management of our household falls to me. I know that if we had kids, the flow of their day would become my remit. In order to raise a family, I know I will need to give up things that I love to do as well as, to a large degree, my solitude. The thought of this alone is depressing enough.

Is this it?

What happened to A Room of One's Own? What happened to The Women's Room?

What happened?



Kids or no kids, most women I know are so busy they don’t even have time to scratch themselves. The expectations surrounding and from within are so high. We push it physically, mentally and emotionally day in, day out. After awhile, such relentlessness takes a toll.

Look after yourselves ladies. It’s not worth it.

Step Outside, Posh Boy!

In the lead up to the 2008 US elections, I was glued to footage of the Democratic nominations and the final sprint between Obama and McCain. The excitement and on-the-edge of your seat anticipation generated by the American election process was unlike none other. The world seemed to wait with bated breath to find out who was going to replace the man who trashed America, a.k.a, Bush.

It’s the Brits’ turn now and even though I am a Brit, I am nowhere near as excited as I was then. Partly because I live in dread of the Tories getting in and also because the UK election lead up is boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. There is no excitement in the air. The general feeling seems to be that a change is needed but whether that comes in the form of Brown or Cameron is much of a muchness for voters. The pundits are predicting a close call and perhaps this is reflective that the public is voting for the lesser of two evils rather than the party/leader that moves and inspires them. Because in all truth, there ain’t one.

It hasn’t been all doom and gloom though. There have been the rare moments in the lead up in which British wit and irreverence have shown their faces. Two of my personal favourites are below:





May 6th. Who's it gonna be?

Pina Bausch

Pina Bausch changed my understanding of dance forever. When I first clapped eyes on her choreography, I was a teenager who was sick of tendus and plies but didn't know how to get past the strictures of classicism, nor the abstractions of contemporary. Pina stripped back the pretensions of form and showed that dancers could be individuals; nuanced and real. That dancers need not be dancing lines in the air but characters that speak, fart or fall down onstage. Her work was poignant, dark, wicked and funny. It influences me to this day.

For all the impact that she had on me, I'd never seen her work live. That drought came to an end when I scored tickets to Kontakthof at the Barbican. The piece was to be performed by two casts; one group aged 65+ and the other, teenagers. I plumbed for the oldies because how often do you get to see a group of pensioners in a major dance work?


Kontakthof, trans. - a place to make contact, to meet, was simply that. A dancehall where a group of people had assembled to play out all the games we humans play with each other. Taking my seat, I was afraid that up close, Pina's work would fall flat of my (sky-high) expectations.



I needn't have worried. The piece drew from me a range of responses. I laughed till I snorted. I wondered what the hell was going on. I wanted to know more about those people onstage. I felt uncomfortable by some of what I saw. I thought it was too long. I loved, loved, loved that the dancers were 65 and over. It gave me hope.

I walked out still a grateful fan and aware even more of her influence on my dance education.

RIP Pina. Thank you for the moves.

Happy Birthday Jimmy*

I'm inspired by many people. Some of them I don’t know or aren’t real (although Yoda feels very real) but today is the birthday of a real life dude whom I find inspiring. For the sake of anonymity (mine, not his), I’m gonna call him Jimmy*.

I met Jimmy through my husband. They were old friends, having survived their college years together. Later whilst working in Kazakhstan Jimmy met and married a rockin’ babe from America and my husband, well he met me(sucker). They both lured their new spouses to London under the pretence that it was the Land of Milk & Honey, which turned out to be not quite true but true enough for now.

As I’ve gotten to know Jimmy, I discovered that he makes his dreams a reality. When I first met him, he was in the transition of leaving his secure 9-5 job to launch his own online business. He hated what he did for a living and he wanted to be his own boss. Developing and launching the business was a fraught time. He still had the responsibilities of a marriage, mortgage and bills and there was no guarantee his idea would work. Nonetheless he ploughed steadily away, making his vision real. Now he has since launched a second online business; has staff working for him and appeared briefly in the Apprentice! Blood, sweat and (some) tears were par for the course I imagine but he did it!

(This is not Jimmy of course but I feel that the force of Yoda resides in all my friends)

I’ve also witnessed the same application of dogged effort and belief to his London marathon training. Less than a year ago he was unfit. When he announced his marathon intentions, I don’t think he could run 200m without hacking his lungs out. Undeterred Jimmy started putting one foot in front of the other. Slowly and steadily just like he built his businesses, he built up his fitness. When the time comes, the marathon will be another of his dreams achieved.

Our friends don’t always know that we may admire them for aspects and qualities inherent within them. As it’s your birthday Jimmy – I thought I’d tell you. Happy Birthday! Keep on truckin’...

*You know who you are (I hope!)

James Lovelock

I was a teenager when I first heard of the Gaia hypothesis. In Oz, we learned that the amount of CFCs emitted by our spray aerosols, refrigerators and so on were contributing to the phenomena known as the Greenhouse effect. We heard that these CFCs were creating a hole in the ozone layer which protects Earth from being burnt to a crisp by the Sun. This was big news in Oz, a place where the sun is so strong you can feel it burning into your skin on hot days. Suddenly we all started using roll on deodorants and pump sprays.

James Lovelock is the man who discovered the build up of CFCs and coined the Greenhouse effect which is part of his larger Gaia hypothesis. His view is that Earth is part of a self regulating, living organism of which the human species is but an element. Due to the impact of human activities on Earth, the median balance of this organism is shifting, causing a rise in the average temperature on Earth. Put it this way. It’s as if the human body temperature rose from an average operating point of 37 degrees celsius to 42 degrees. What would happen to us as a species? Some of us would die but over time, perhaps our bodies would adapt, evolve and our species might live on in an altered way.

I went to see James Lovelock last night in conversation at the Southbank Centre. For an eminent scientist/philosopher in his 90’s, he did not disappoint. His brain was sharp and irrigated and his views were not those of a harbinger of doom as he is often portrayed (unfairly, I feel) in the media. His approach seemed based on empirical evidence and he fully acknowledged that science does not have all the answers and is based wholly on probability. He spoke about the need for scepticism in science to challenge views of people like himself. The area for which his scorn was reserved was that of politicians, climate boards and scientists who fudge data in order to affect policies. I felt that I was in the presence of someone truly learned whose vision is before his time.


It was bitter sweet to see in the flesh someone whose learning and advice will accumulate resonance as the years roll on, long after he has passed. I feel sad about this but for many great thinkers in human society; this always seems to be the way.

All the more pity for us.

Thriller

I went to see Thriller last night at the Lyric on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had heard that the musical was a tribute to the music of MJ rather than a story of his life. My friend Nancy and I had been talking about going since last July. Finally we managed to park our butts in said theatre seats as the house lights went down and the disco lights came up on four men wearing black afro wigs and shaking their groove thang. A short kid with a natural afro followed them. As he got ready to sing, I wondered:

What’s it gonna be? Ben? I’ll Be There? Blame it on the Boogie?

He opened his mouth and out floated … Music and Me.

Cool, I thought. It really is going to be a tribute.


From there on in, we were not disappointed. The cast on stage delivered song, after song, ebullient and effervescent as if they were singing and dancing the tunes for the very first time and not the 7045th. They sang songs I did not know as well all the hits. Backed up by excellent set and lighting, the show focused wholly on entertaining the bejesus out of us. Good ol’ fashion showbiz entertainment. Which whatever your opinion of Michael Jackson is, is what he left us as his legacy.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

The G Spot

Lady Gaga released her new music video, Telephone recently and all hell broke loose.

Oh, it’s so sexist, foamed one female reviewer.

We’ve come a long way baby, but you’re taking us back to the Dark Ages, bleated another.

Lesbian kisses and studded bikinis do not good female role models make, was a third retort.

I watched the video to see what the fuss was about. And then I watched it again because I liked it. I found it smart and sexy. Full of cinematic references and designed with all the House of Gaga trademarks of ingenuity, humour and irreverence. Lady Gaga divides opinion like Moses the Red Sea but to all the humourless, feminist-masquerading journalists with their poised talons, I say:

It is possible to wear a bikini and still have a brain you know.


Lady Gaga is a performance art installation come to life. She is Alice in Wonderland grown up and on acid. At a time where pop means American Idol and X-factor producing bland forgettables, someone who can write catchy pop tunes, sing, dance and look like a moving art exhibit is a breath of fresh air.

As is another lady whose name starts with the letter G. After all these years, I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be Granny OGrimm. Click here to see why.

Academia or Bust?

I'm trying to decide at the moment whether academic life is the way forward. I have an offer to take up postgraduate study in the UK in a subject area so niche that nowhere else in the world offers it. Does this mean it's a shit subject? Or so cutting edge that everyone else has yet to catch up? And even they offer it, is the uni in question any good at delivering it? The sceptic in me decided to undergo my own research before I handed over my dosh and committed myself to a scholar's life a.k.a. as, poverty.

Stepping onto campus resulted in some vivid flashbacks. Walking past the uni tavern, my tastebuds suddenly craved nachos and cheap beers (UWA). The student union office flashed like a homing beacon; sending out purple t-shirted flares to snare me back in to the mothership (Murdoch). Memories flooded back in a deluge so thick that for a few (lovely) minutes, I thought I was in my early twenties again running around campus, loving student life.

Oh why did I ever leave?, I bemoaned as Memories played on full volume inside my head.

I remember why. Earn Money. Travel. And I had poohed-poohed the idea of being trapped in the ivory tower and not experiencing "the real world."

Well I have been out working in the supposed real world for awhile now and it ain't so great. At uni you are exposed to (well I was in my arts degree) the ideas and thoughts of key thinkers. It's a shock to come out and find that the day-to-day world is run by mostly idiots. And that if you had a brain in the first place, best turn it off so you can swallow up all the middle-management banality or avaristic policies without wanting to kill yourself. Success in the "real world" is about how much ass you kiss, how you navigate yourself and how much you can endure. And this is coming from someone who has mainly worked in the arts, education and charity sectors. Call me cynical. I dare you.

Can you hear my fist banging on the door of the proverbial tower?

As I sat in the lectures I had managed to inveigle my way into, I almost passed out with bliss as I listened to the audible noise of people's minds turning over. Words that I had not seen nor used since I left university made a sudden re-appearance:

Well hello Hegemony, I said. Here you are with your old friends, Phenomenology and Hermaneutics. Where have you been keeping yourselves all these years?

Oh how we laughed during our happy reunion. I still had no idea what they were on about though.

As fun as it was to pretend to be a student again for the day, I am still in two minds. I'm not in my early twenties anymore. And I have already worked in the industry that this degree situates you to go into. The only other outcome for me would be the academic path. To go forth into that tower for a long, long time.

And I'm not sure still, after all these years, if that is what I want.

If the Mountain Won't Come to Mohammed...

Ingleborough is the second highest peak in the Yorkshire Dales and my new hiking boots are just begging to be broken in.