My family.

It has to be said, family visits for me aren’t like what I imagine other people’s family visits to be. Mine are sedate and tense and often a little bit forced. As much as I love to see and spend time with my family, when I leave, I always feel a slight sense of relief and the funny thing is, I suspect they do also. Does anyone else have this? My friend Anita always has a blast with her parents when they go away…well, always might be a tad of an exaggeration, but they often sit up drinking together, exchanging stories and having a chuckle (as long as pre-marital sex isn’t mentioned, or politics).

With my lot, I suppose most of this boils down to the fact that my parents and my family in general simply aren’t that chilled out. In fact, my mum looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps most of the time, with little flushed cheeks and a terrified glint in her eye. This means that when we talk I often avoid looking her in the eye not because I’m feeling guilty, but because with mum, I can see behind the little tight forced smiles and pursed lips and clammy hands and see someone struggling terribly with mental illness. And if I look her in the eye, well, I might just burst into tears.

So, the net result of time with my parents is a mixture of sadness…it’s quite tough to get your head around parents who yo-yo between togetherness and separation every few months, and worry, that things just aren’t as they should be. On the upside, mum and dad are at the moment, travelling to the Isles of Scilly together for mum’s 60th bday treat, and so I suppose that’s a massive positive. I just hope things can continue on an even keel for a while.

The family visit pretty much dominated the entire weekend, but Steve and I had a nice evening together last night…me watching Thelma and Louise in bed and him in an entirely separate room watching the football highlights. I think I have finally grasped the concept of cohabitation…space. This is going to be a steep learning curve for us as for the next month, I have officially moved in- yes my season ticket has expired, I’m skint and I hate going on the trains. I’m allergic to them now. This means I have an Ali drawer in the cupboard, plus about 6 inches of space inside the wardrobe and room in the shoe rack for a couple of pairs of shoes (into which I have fitted 7 pairs). It also means I have to be a good and dutiful girlfriend as I’m staying rent free, which opens me up for all kinds of violations and unfair demands….I’ll keep you posted.

I was highly amused to see over on Jonathan’s blog, news of the evening we all spent at the snapper. He claims to have some photos of me and Anita (well, claims isn’t really true, he has got them I’ve seen them) looking like ‘Harridans’ which to be fair is probably a little too kind. We look like hags. Go on J, publish them, lets have a damn good laugh at my expense…if you can’t do that, then what’s the point! I know I’m gorgeous, sometimes, not in the morning, or in photos, or during/after exercise, or in my summer clothes, or most of the time.

Goodness gracious me.

Yesterday I briefly outlined a small issue I had with a radio I’d ordered from Tesco’s online. Today, I realise that online shopping has not been my friend on several occasions in the last week.

As I’ve mentioned it’s my mum’s 60th this weekend, and being typically mum-like, she has been trickling through a steady list of birthday requests since about mid February. She doesn’t do it like a normal person; instead, she assigns gifts to people, based on the perceived value of the present she thinks they ought to buy.

So for example, the initial list was something like this:

Steve: Can Steve please buy me Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits (this was sent by text to me…..at the time he hadn’t even considered buying her a present!)
Alison and Stephen- I would like a light box for my SAD. Here’s a link on Amazon to a model I’m interested in (we subsequently got one from ebay for £20, as good as new, but she’s not to know that it didn’t cost £200 like the rip-off ones on Amazon)
Pete (my dad)- I would like a gold bracelet.

Then, following this list, I received additional requests such as a portable FM radio (the monster which arrived yesterday….not portable and no friend of mine- thankfully Steve can pick one up on his way back from Zurich this morning), and some ‘girly things’ like make up, clothes, etc etc. So do you see where I get it from now?

Wanting to maintain some dignity, Steve refused to go into a shop and buy Dolly Parton, so I pottered to HMV to find that it was £12.95. Seriously. Dolly Parton- premium rate. I tsk tsk’ed at this and promptly ordered it from CD-wow for £6.95. Saving me a fiver and my pride simultaneously- genius. Unfortunately, I fell at the first hurdle. I entered the wrong house number. I created a hybrid of all of my Brighton addresses and asked for it to be delivered to my old house number but my new street. Realising my error, I told the ‘help’ email, who said to me that my order had been dispatched and I’d have to knock at number 36 to ask for it. Which I’ve done, several times. I think it’s an empty flat, or they’ve seen me coming and are terrified after receiving the ‘hatemail’ (in the form of Dolly Parton) and have gone on high alert.

So now it’s going to be too late to give mum the CD and I think I’m going to have to write an excruciatingly embarrassing letter to no 36, telling them that they have received a delivery by mistake, and could they find it in their hearts to post it at no. 43.

I’m taking a break from online shopping, with the exception of ASOS which does lovely cheap shoes.

Last night I had an emotional evening at the Red Snapper. Emotional for many reasons. I was with my lovely friends (and Dave was being a chatterbox, which was awesome), I was in my spiritual home, and I was sitting back to back with a married man and his wife, with whom I happened to have a night of erm ‘passion’, well fumbling (and I know, I know, it’s despicable and disgusting and against everything I stand for and if I said he was, at the time, separated from his wife, you’d just raise your eyebrows). The worst of it was that he only bloody told his wife after it happened. So there we were, having a fab meal, and in the back of my mind I could visualise her marching over, picking me up by my ears and kneeing me in the groin. At one point I went to the toilet and once inside, heard the door open to the toilets and when I emerged, there he was. Very subtle, I’m sure his wife wasn’t paying attention and didn’t even notice him hot footing it after me. He grabbed me and gave me a hug, said I looked fabulous (in his best and most camp voice), I squirmed and blushed and excused myself. But that wasn’t the worst of it. When they left, he made a point of kissing me goodbye AND saying that my hair looked exactly like Kate (his wife who was hovering nearby)…..let the ground open up and swallow me whole.

That’s the downside of the local restaurants. The locals. Roll on the weekend. Dave can we please have more touching tales…how about one about Tina? Jonathan…I’m looking forward to seeing that gorgeous shot of me and Anita on your blog. That’ll get em’ flocking.

A couple of minor annoyances

Two small things which have amused and annoyed me today in equal measure (but had it not have been for the happy mood, they would both have really grated).

1)

Natwest Bank have introduced a gift card. What? I hear you ask? A gift card? What possible use would anyone have for such a thing? What gifts can you buy at Natwest? And the answer is simple. None. There’s no use for this card at all, they are an absolute fucking joke and yet another way for banks like Natwest to fleece people of their hard earned cash. The leaflet says, ‘Give them the perfect present… every time’. If I got given one of these I would be horrified. It’s only marginally better than a Boots gift card. At least with that I can buy functional things like Tampax, or razors to shave my legs.

So let’s examine the card a little. The card can be charged with cash and used as a Visa card in the UK or anywhere abroad where they accept credit cards….so, some might say, the card bears some resemblance to money. The card can be charged with anything from £10 to £250. Halle-fuckin-lujah. The card has many benefits, such as these.

Available in a choice of 4 different colours. And there you were beginning to question the point of the card….shame on you.

The card is ‘an attractive alternative to giving cash’…because we all love more plastic in our wallets, and not wads of notes.

That’s it. I know you must be clamouring to get one, but I must point out, there is a catch. Yes, there is a ‘nominal’ charge of £3 to charge the card.

To surmise. If you’re so f**king lazy that you can’t be arsed to choose a thoughtful present this card might come in helpful, or you could just give them a £10 to buy a CD and save yourself £3 whilst at the same time, sticking two fingers up to Natwest. There, rant over.


2)

Online shopping. I thought the best way to get my mum her wish list for her 60th birthday was some online shopping at Tesco’s who as you know are trying to takeover the world. Mum, being mum, wanted a portable FM radio, so she could lie in bed when she wakes up early and listen to the radio, rather than waking dad up when they are on holiday. And this does make sense. So I found a portable FM radio, paid up (including an extortionate delivery fee of £4.95!) and waited for the hard work to be done on my behalf.

The radio arrived today, and despite being Sony, I fear it was made in 1982. It would only be portable if you fashioned some kind of pulley/winch system and it certainly ain’t handbag friendly. I laughed when I saw it, it’s the least cool thing ever, and even my mum would scoff at it if she saw it. You expect to get newfangled, top-of-the-range stuff from your kids, not old shite like that.

Ok, so I should have looked at the dimensions 22” by 48” might have been a giveaway, but I didn’t, I looked at the picture only. So now I have this stupid retro FM radio with no home. If I choose to return it I’ll have to pay the £4.95 again, which pretty much equates to the value of the feckin thing.

Not one to sulk, I’m going to make the most of a bad situation and keep the retro radio. You never know, when we go sunbathing in Hampstead Heath or are sitting on our roof terrace some tinny tunes with bad crackly reception might be just the ticket. I’m still smiling despite these big companies trying their hardest to make me wince…

Smile, and the world smiles with you

I’m feeling exceedingly jolly today. Perhaps this is down to the fact that I watched my favourite programme on TV last night and it was as splendidly backstabbing as ever. Or maybe it’s because we’ve found somewhere to live and apart from a couple of minor things…like not having seen it, it’s practically a done deal. It could be down to the fact that I’m excited because tonight I’m having dinner with a whole load of my favourite Brighton folk, Jonathan, Dan, Dave, Anita and Stev…but you know what’s really sad? The reason why I’m the happiest is work.

The last year I have been waking up on a Monday morning feeling bleak and hopeless and with very little will to get out of bed or to smile. For a period of many weeks, Steve and I used to argue terribly on a Monday morning, and it never really clicked until now why. Because I dreaded getting up and going to work, and there can be no worse feeling in the world. This made me short tempered and tense and ratty and basically a massive bitch. Now I’m sleeping through the night (I sound like a small child) and waking up with a spring in my step. I might be skint as I’ve not been paid for about 7 weeks, but I’m the happiest I’ve been for probably about 3 years.

Lots of happy things seem to happen around you when you’re happy…just like when you’re miserable, you seem to be surrounded by misery. If you get dumped, ‘nothing compares to you’ gets put on loop by every radio station, if you’re feeling guilty, every song is about lying, or being found out, and every story you read is about ‘a tangled web of lies and deceit’ and ‘getting your comeuppance’. The same applies to me. I’m hearing songs like ‘Lovely day’ and ‘Love is in the air’ and ‘Celebrate good times….come on!’ and reading stories about love, and happiness against all odds. My inbox has been flooded with invites to weddings, and receptions and 30th birthday celebrations, and 60th birthday celebrations (my mum). Funny how life follows these patterns much like the seasons…come to think of it…perhaps all this is nothing to do with my work, or my friends, or my boyfriend, or finding a new place. Maybe things are good simply because the sun is shining.

Sorry to be such a nudger….actually, sod it. No I’m not sorry for being happy. I’m happy and proud of it.

The uber pad....almost

It seems the long, and at times, horrendously depressing wait to find somewhere to live might soon be over. Yes, Lindsey sent an email at 12.47pm (not that I was clock watching) to let me and Nat (and Sam) know that the place has real potential.

It’s not a show house, gleaming and gorgeous and perfect, but it is a big, spacious, light and airy Victorian conversion, set over 3 floors, has a roof terrace, has views from said roof terrace of Hampstead Heath, is ten minutes walk from both Hampstead Heath and Camden Lock, a 20 minute bike ride into work for both Lindsey and I, 8 minutes walk from the nearest Northern line stop and if Foxtons had it on their books, it would cost in the region of £500-600 a week (although the landlord would only see £1.97 of that). The beauty of it is, as we’re going to be privately renting it directly from the landlord, we can afford it. Infact, we can afford it and still have pocket money for frequent shopping, partying and eating out. Thank the lord, hallelujah, etc etc.

Of course there’s the minor point that neither Nat nor I have seen it yet, but we’ll both be doing that on Friday and from then on, it should be a done deal. The place is free from mid-late May, so I’ll be doing some of my finest sweet talking and grovelling to the poor people in my life who ensure my presence, or the presence of my possessions.

Soon after we move in we’ll be planning our first house party, and we’ll expect a lovely big Brighton contingent to show up and make the most of the roof terrace and the ignoramus (spell check put that in and it made me laugh….I was trying to say gi-normous) lounge, from which Gavin can pump out tunes whilst we all mingle appreciatively. I’m moving to London. I hope I like it.

To be or not to be...

I’m trying so hard not to get over excited today. Why? Because it’s quite possible, maybe even a little more than quite possible, that Lindsey may be visiting our new flat today. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

She’s managed to get her appointment moved forward and at 11am, she’s heading over to Belsize Park to take a look at the potential uber pad. We know very little about the pad, apart from the fact that it’s 3 double bedrooms, a roof terrace, it’s in a very nice area of town and, most importantly, we can afford it. On the other hand, we also know that it’s been lived in by 3 smelly boys for a considerable amount of time, and that leads us to think that it could well be a little tatty around the edges…..or maybe even rotten to the core.

Basically though, at the moment, it’s our only hope. We have been hounding agents for almost 3 solid months to absolutely no avail. There are no two beds in our budget, and having increased our hunt to 3 bedrooms to incorporate the lovely Natalie, Foxtons has come back saying….’no can do on your budget….we just don’t have any 3 bedrooms that cheap’. But that is Foxtons. So now the mind games commence…me and Nat have left negotiations to the hard hitting Lindsey. We know that an offer of re-decoration is on the cards, and possibly a thorough professional clean, but will it be enough to compensate for many years of boys? We have to wait and see. The really awful thing is that Lindsey is not only taking the hard line with the potential owner…she’s taking an even harder line with us. She’s threatened that if we pester her to try and find out what it’s like, she won’t pick up her phone, or respond to texts. It’s going to be torture.

In the meanwhile, my train pass expires on Thursday, so travel ‘home’ to Brighton can only happen when it’s a strict necessity…i.e. to pack and bring more clothes to Steves. Otherwise it’s just too expensive and seeing as I’ve not been paid since I left my last job….I’m skint! What a pickle.

So, in the next hour I should know. Hopefully……she’s not that cruel.

A flappy tale.

Apparently South London has a moth epidemic. Not the ones which flap around dementedly when you turn on a light, but the ones who fester in dark, dank cupboards, eating your finest cashmere jumpers and then snoozing lazily, the ones who make everything smell musty and dusty and nasty and make you feel squeamish when you see them. The ones, if you like, that you associate with death, rotting and larvae. My skin’s crawling even as I type.

A little while ago, I noticed that there were a fair few of these small silvery moths fluttering around the bedroom at Steves. Another week down the line and I made the connection between the moths and the cupboards, not exactly qualifying me for mensa I know, but there is a direct correlation between opening cupboard doors and the little critters flying out. Suddenly, the penny dropped. Perhaps it’s a little mini moth party and then I realised, my our clothes were in serious peril.

I began searching frantically online for details of ‘infestations of cupboard moths’ and how we might go about getting rid of them and it seems they come straight from the dark ages. They are proper double ‘ard little bastards and no lie. Apparently, the thing to do is to find the source of the moths and destroy that, so we need to find the larvae. They are about ½ cm long, white wriggly things that you might find on the end of a fishermans hook I suppose. The problem is finding the critters. Apparently they bury into jumpers/duvets/anything soft and warm and tasty and make a home there. As you’d expect the internet provided me with a whole host of solutions from the sublime to the ridiculous. One person said that the only thing which would get rid of them was to freeze the larvae, so had bought a chest freezer in which she stored her entire families’ winter wardrobe. Another poor person had moved home in desperation to get rid of the moths, only to find that she had kindly paid the removal people to bring them with her, in a pringle jumper. Some waxed lyrical about moth balls and various other chemicals whilst the hippies extolled the virtues of lavender.

So what are we going to do? Well, it’s simple, we’re going to leave the flat soon enough and make sure we buy an entire winter wardrobe when we do (just in case they follow us you understand).

In the meanwhile, we have left a note for the cleaner, you think I’m joking don’t you? Sadly, I’m not. Neither me nor Steve have the stomach for any of this, and she is similarly double ‘ard and will no doubt lick those little f**kers in no time at all. Go Alena. We love you.

To Pa or not to PA?

Last week, Sam, Lindsey and I were sitting on the uber sofa discussing when we might get to see our friend Jess, who is very elusive, and, being in the early loved up stage of her relationship, is spending all her time ‘dating’ aka shagging.

At one point Lindsey asked me whether I could ‘do’ Tuesday night and I looked blankly at her….

The reason behind my blank expression is that all of my social commitments and plans are stored solely on my outlook calendar, which rather pointlessly is on my work PC. This is great when I get emailed at work and asked out, as I can answer conclusively. Outside work I am thrown into social disarray and double and even triple book my time haphazardly. Even worse is when I’m convinced I’ve committed to loads of fun social events so turn people down, only to find my diary is empty. Hurrumph.

At this point I suggested that the solution to all of our problems might be that we club together and hire ourselves a PA (although not a really desirable young one who Steve and Gavin might ogle and fancy and who might reduce Lindsey’s pulling powers which to date have been immense), so basically, we need Ugly Betty. Complete with braces, glasses and pot belly.

This lucky sole could be solely responsible for the allocation of our time, in proportionate measures, to spend with our friends and loved ones. They could deal with all occurrences of re-scheduling due to ill-ness, lateness at work, laziness, dinner table booking and also things such as searching for fab new venues, and generally making sure our social lives went nicely to plan. Never again would I guiltily ponder my forthcoming plans and think, I really must get up North to see my Grandma as it would be scheduled quarterly. Brilliant.

Of course this idea is ridiculous and self indulgent, but on a more serious note why is it that we can organise ourselves seamlessly in the workplace, getting to meetings on time, wearing nice things, booking trips away, opening our mail and sorting our filing and generally keeping on top of things whilst our private lives fall into disarray. Steve is a classic example. He effortlessly manages a reasonably large team, but he can’t manage to open his post every evening.

This gets to the point where a small post mountain forms on the breakfast bar and when feeling particularly callous (during the Portsmouth game yesterday) I dump it in front of him and ‘suggest’ he opens it. If not, I undertake the ‘shall we bin it or keep it’ routine where anything resembling spam gets binned without opening- coloured envelopes, printed addresses, no stamps, pictures on envelopes, mis-spelt names.

A risky business as I’ve binned mortgage statements and final reminder credit card bills in the past. But that’s the risk he takes. Sulk ensues.

Last week I realised how he manages to keep things in check at work…and I should have guessed it. I emailed him asking about which hotel in Paris we are staying in over the bank holiday weekend, and what Eurostar he was travelling on and I received an email from him, copying his PA, asking her to let me know. So for the rest of the day, instead of exchanging emails with my boyfriend, I exchanged them with
his PA who was miles more efficient, friendlier, and had a nicer email manner. Within minutes I had details of the hotel, the Eurostar, maps, phone numbers, helplines and everything I could ever possibly have wanted.

Perhaps I should arrange for a long term substitution….or just switch my ‘new shoes’ piggybank to a ‘PA’ one.

What a pair of beauties!

Here's me, looking old and crows feety with the cakes....

They liked the cakes, especially the chocolate one. What a great call Gower.

Hurrah!

Baking- the rundown.

The cakes are made. Yes two. A variety of cakes, suitable for multiple tastes and taking into account any 'difficult' people with banana intolerances...you know who you are!

Baking with Sam was much like being in a year 7 home economics lesson. I had the same sense of fear and respect being in a situation where I was in effect, totally out of control and hung off her every word...kind of (it was very distracting...music, other traumas going on, fingers to lick).

Lindsey at one point took a break from her 'mixing' and came into the kitchen to comment that I looked like a 5 year old. At the time I had my jeans rolled up, (I'm not sure why). My sleeves rolled up and my hands in a big mixing bowl full of gooey chocolatey mess with Sam standing over me saying things like "Didn't they teach you how to knead at school?", and quoting cookery facts such as "Whilst whipping you are effectively making butter" as if I would be au fait with them. Of course I nodded and smiled and licked my fingers as much as possible when as she wasn't looking.

After much mixing, needing, seiving and cracking, the 3 cake bases were in the oven rising like a dream. Lindsey was licking the choc mix happily from the bowl and I was prodding the cakes with a knife every 30 seconds.

This pattern continued nicely until I got abit bored and engrossed in Graham Norton, and then went for a shower forgetting them totally. Thank god I had Sam there keeping a watchful eye on proceedings.

So out they came, with that nice brown, homemade 'tinge' and sat on some 'cooling' racks. The cooling phase came as a bit of a shock to me as I like to get a job done, wham bam, so hanging around, waiting for them to cool was quite frankly a bit of a bore. Something to do with melting and instability.

Then the icing. Sam demonstrated with an expert flick of the wrist and coated a side of the cake with a thick creamy evenly spread icing and then handed the 'spatula' to me to complete the task under her watchful eye. Unfortunately, being a cack hander, I prodded the cake, dislodged lots of cream which mixed with the dark brown icing and made it look mouldy and messy. That was the end of my icing attempts. THAT never happened in home economics classes, you were left to struggle and then chastised at the end for your pathetic and frankly inedible attempts .

By the end of the evening, and after a few glasses of wine, I felt quite inspired and it's fair to say, got a bit out of my depth, making observations like ' I think the icing should be applied in a swirling motion' and 'Perhaps the spatula ought to be angled as such...'. Lindsey made the point that I ought to shut up when I then asked whether or not the cream cake had to be kept in the fridge. Ok. I get the point. Don't run before you can walk, or criticise before you can bake.

So we all went to bed happy. All except poor Gavin who had come in from work starving to find he'd got no dinner as we'd all been too busy feeding our own faces with pizza, AND, to add insult to injury, the gorgeous scrummy cake smells wafting down the stairs and tantilising his olfactory senses were only that as he wasn't allowed to sample our delights. Ouch.

So, heartfelt thanks to the Gowers and 'the China' for their efforts in 'assisting' me with my cakes. I couldn't have done it without you all. I'll send you a link to the blog posting on my work website when it appears and you can feel all warm and glowy. If they say something awful, I really didn't have that much to do with it. If they say something great, you were very much the sous chefs....ok?! Deal.

Love you guysxx

Most depressing blog ever?

Quite possibly. I wish we could see how much he has raised.

http://donatetomyburial.blogspot.com/

The baking panic

As part of my initiation into my new working life, I have become part of the ‘cake club’. This does exactly what you’d expect…bakes. Weekly. Each week a new member of the team is called upon to flex their gastromonical muscles and create a feast for the (now 28 strong) team. So not a small cake you understand. Fairy cakes need not apply, we’re talking size matters.

Cooking isn’t really my thing. That’s a real understatement, qualified by the simple fact that I haven’t done a ‘weekly shop’ (i.e planned what I intend to cook for more than one night), since I split up with Andy in 2002. I live for the moment, I’m a ready meal queen. I buy for that evening and that evening only. I eat out roughly 4 nights per week- cheap places mind. When I do cook it’s reluctantly, and it’s for other people (well Steve) and it’s usually not particularly good. In fact it always ends up tasting the same whether pudding, starter or main…pretty depressing eh? So it’s no wonder that the prospect of cooking for all those new people, (colleagues no less) was a little bit frightening. And having them all pass judgement…

‘I thought Ali was ok until I tasted that god-awful bloody creation of hers’

You get the picture. This is worse than a driving test.

But what’s that? Light at the end of the tunnel?

Yes, light in the form of my friend Sam. Thank god I have the best friends in the world, and one of the one’s who’s helped me out more than I could possibly ask for in recent months is the very lovely Sam.

I penned a panicky email to her, something along the lines of

‘eeek, I have to cook. What am I going to do? How am I going to get the cake from Brighton, I can’t cook at Steve’s he doesn’t have the tins and scales and ‘gear’ required, plus I actually can’t cook and have never baked a cake, ever’

And she responded with this: (or something along these lines)

‘don’t worry, come and cook and mine, I know exactly which cake you can make, I can oversee the making and we can drink wine and bake merrily.’

I love her. And I love her even more for offering to get the ingredients for me on her weekly shop (yes, she’s the type who does one, so this comes naturally to her).

So tonight we bake. There’s going to be cream, there’s going to be eggs and flour, music, probably a little bit of kitchen dancing, there won’t be any tears or panic because when Sam’s around even if someone’s head falls off, it’s no biggy, it’s fine. She just deals with everything…the stoical queen of Bow.

I’ll let you know how it goes down, and hopefully doesn’t come back up again.

Here we go....

Recently I mentioned that Steve’s wayward sister has stumbled into a relationship with someone she met whilst in re-hab and I pondered the relationship, questioning the nature of their love and whether or not it was something I felt would be positive or negative in the long run. Well, some interesting updates in that respect. I was pleased to hear from Steve that his sister was very keen to arrange a meeting over his 30th birthday weekend, and even went as far as to ask what he wanted for his birthday….miraculous. Though of course the reality was that no meet ever came to fruition. In fact, we’ve not heard a peep from her (directly) for 6 days now despite several calls and texts, and from this we can deduce that she is in the midst of a massive drink and (presumably given her new love) drugs bender.

You might think this is a shockingly unfair assumption to make, but I assure you it’s based on a great deal more than mere unsubstantiated speculation. Firstly, one of Steve’s friends spotted them being thrown out of a pub in Fulham…..small blonde girl who couldn’t stand up, accompanied by a meat-headed bald antipodeon….snap! Spotted. Also, a friendly neighbour has called out the police on numerous occasions over the last week, one of which resulted in the new other half being arrested. A whole host of other third party stories and I can effectively deduce that things are not all rosy in the world of the newly engaged addicts. It’s very very sad to feel so utterly helpless and to see people inadvertently pulling each other’s life’s apart so lets hope that when the mist of the hammeredness subsides, this time they really do feel more able to question what the f**k they are doing.

In the meanwhile, I’m waiting on a call or an email from Steve to tell me that something has happened as we know from experience that these benders always result in things coming to a head. So, I wait with baited breath to see what pickles she’s got herself into this time.

On the positive, it seems Lindsey and I might be onto a winner with a flat…we have a glamorous new recruit by the name of Natalie, who is currently jet-setting around the globe- in LA to be precise. She’s a medical writer (Sam- is that right?) and will fit perfectly into our vision of the uber-pad complete with massive garden, corner bath (preferably Jacuzzi), gigantic kitchen blah blah blah, you get the picture. If only we could find the bloody thing. New recruit equals higher budget and I don’t want to curse things, but we’ve got a person somewhere high up in the magical world of media who might be able to let us his ‘spare house’ and it’s in Hampstead. Fingers and toes and legs and arms and hands and eyes, all crossed, all at once. Come on…..this must be it….

The 30th bday

Ok, Ok, I’ve been slack of late with my blog, but I’ve been very busy and sometimes, I’m not close by to a PC….hard to believe I know.

This weekend went swimmingly well. Steve’s had a 30th Birthday to remember for many reasons, some suitable for the internet and some not, so a good mix of smut and sentimentality.

His main present was a portrait of his dad who died many years ago, drawn by the exceptionally talented (and very lovely) Ed Atkins from an aging picture I gave him. He obviously did a splendid job as Steve’s reaction was just as I’d anticipated. There was an initial quivering of the bottom lip, following by some tears. Of course I promptly burst into tears as well, so it’s a good job the gorgeous ink drawing was covered by the glass frame!

Apart from the present opening, we spent most of the weekend picnicing. Including a day in Richmond. A lovely choice of river side venue, perfect for drinking in the sun (and not at all down to my ongoing campaign that if I move in with Steve AKA- if we buy somewhere together, I will really only consider living here- the campaign is in it’s embryonic phase, but I think I made some in roads with the riverside drinking, the gorgeous village ‘green’ and the fab restaurants- I’ll keep you posted- obscene property prices are somewhat inhibitive).

Yesterday we lazed about all morning and spent all afternoon in Chez Bruce, my now favourite place to eat. Admittedly, I was battling a hangover, so there were some touch and go moments, one of which was when the baby squid arrived and looked more than just a little bit squirmy and wobbly. Thankfully it tasted lovely.

Over the weekend I was shocked but not altogether surprised (can that happen?) to discover the apparently widespread phenomenon of ‘vanity sizing’ which made me chuckle as I’m sooooo all over it.

Remember last week when I was banging on about my size 6 jeans from Gap? I was chuffed as I’ve never come close to a size 6 in my life and it appears I never ever will. Retailers such as Gap, River Island to name a few have been ‘outed’. It seems the labels they put on jeans and other clothes are more to massage our fragile egos than to actually remind us of our size. A size 12 in gap was in fact found to be some 3 inches larger than a ‘text book’ 12. I for one am all for it. If it makes us feel good, then long may it continue. The funny thing is, now I know this is the case, but I’m still chuffed with my size 6 jeans….I know. Vain.

This morning I got massively shat on by, well I assume by a pigeon. On my shoulder and dribbling down my arm…so life’s definitely about to get much better. Me and Lindsey might even find somewhere to live soon, you never know….

The odd-coupling

Life is full of the unexpected and as a result we are all permanently on our toes. Which is great for definition of our calves, but not very good for our blood pressure.

One such unpredictable event has occurred in my life recently, and it’s one of those ‘out of my control’ things that doesn’t really effect me now, but could very well end up effecting me in a BIG way.

Steve’s wayward sister, who has recently been bouncing in and out re-hab like a cheap cracker rubber ball, has just announced to us that she is engaged. But there’s a sting in the tail and I think you’ll agree it’s a corker. She is engaged to a chap who she met in her recent stint in Stepping Stones in South Africa- a rehab centre for all kind of addiction you could ever dream of. The chap in question is a recovering cr*ck addict.

My initial reaction was ‘bloody brilliant, take the most suggestible human being I have ever met and marry her off to a true deviant of the drug world- it’s a recipe for disaster’ but then, I’ve been thinking, is this really a bad thing? Firstly, they have decided that they aren’t going to get married until they’ve been clean for a year. I don’t see that happening in the near future as at the moment, they seem to be struggling to stay on the wagon, but it’s an admirable sentiment at least. Secondly, well who better to marry an addict than an addict. Who else can really understand and truly empathise what goes on in their heads. What we do and say in terms of support and any emotional resonance really only boils down to little more than lip service.

Part of relapse prevention in most rehabilitation dictates that relationships, of any intimate nature, are best avoided until you have been clean for a year. I guess this is because relationships, as we all know, are far from plain sailing and someone vulnerable might well revert to their old ways in the event of any turbulence. Also, I suppose as a recovering addict, you aren’t necessary a ‘whole’ person just yet, and probably not best equipped to be dishing out your emotional strength and love to someone else like a kind of bottomless well, which you then find is drier than your mouth after a massive session. I guess the problem with that goes full circle to my first sentence. Life is hard to predict and sometimes, you meet someone and fall in love when you know it’s not ideal.

So this is how things stand. She’s living with another addict, neither of them are working, she has a bottomless pitt of money from which to fund anything their hearts desire and they plan to get married. Something tells me a very interesting story is brewing, especially as I’ve just put down the phone from Steve who has just met them and said they looked ‘tired after a bender at the weekend’. I hope they can prove me wrong and provide the kind of support to each other that only they could. I hope they can draw strength from one another and that moments of weakness don’t coincide. Ultimately, I suppose I hope I am standing in a church in a year or so’s time eating a large slice of humble pie. Anything that keeps her happy and Steve happy…

Bits and bobs

Ok, so today my life is feeling so much more together. I’ve been home, I’ve unpacked, re-packed as is the usual ritual, caught up with Anita and Dan about all the goings on in Brighton, and Steve’s birthday weekend is falling into place, thank goodness. The weather is on our side, which means we can basically plan to do nothing and just enjoy the sunnyshine, have a couple of nice picnics with champers and relax.

It’s so much easier for everyone when the sun shines isn’t it? If it was raining, I’d have had to devise a strict itinerary of what to do and where to go. Also the ‘big’ present is almost sorted. It’s turned out to be a little pricier than I anticipated, and combined with the lunch out and various other bits and pieces, my credit card is once more taking a massive battering. Eeeek.

On the upside, I’m convinced I have managed to pull off the best 30th present ever and I intend to milk it for all it’s worth….oh yes, I’m going to officially be the best girlfriend ever. I’ll let you know all about it once he’s got it. I expect a mixture of tears and 'grateful' sex.

Have booked eurostar tickets today for the May bank holiday weekend. Steve’s away on business again, so I’m just tagging along for the hell of it. Make the most of the fact that the hotel is paid for by the company, hurrah!

I’m off to Sam’s tonight for our usual sleepover, although I’ve just found out that one of the founder members is, shock horror, in A&E with a suspected appendicitis. Poor old Jess…she’s waiting for surgical team as I type so I’m keeping my fingers and toes very tightly crossed. I suspect it might be a case of gout due to excessive red wine consumption, but I await test results with baited breath…

That's me for today x

Castle life

So you think you can rely on your friends to keep your blog on track and what do they do? Enjoy the Easter sunshine, forget their responsibilities and fail to put anything of any interest on your blog. Thankfully, what with the rather fabulous weather over the Easter holidays, I doubt there were many people who were sitting on computers and happening upon my usually frequently updated blog.

I have to confess, I am more to blame. It turns out our castle did have wi-fi, and there was a wirelessly enabled laptop, or 3 to be precise and I too neglected my blogging. Call it a break from my daily responsibilities and a cleansing exercise, which is lovely, except now I feel guilty and have far too much to fit into any one post, so much like my lack of holidays blogging, here comes the castle roundup.

Here’s where I’ve been staying for the last 5 nights, like a proper princess. A style I must confess I have become accustomed to, four poster bed, aga, 4 course dinners and fine wine and lots and lots of eating. It was a wicked weekend, although quite sedate once everyone had chilled and got used to the idea of having a castle for a home.

Me and Steve arrived on Friday morning (in our flukely upgraded ‘we’re from out of town’ 6 seater 4 litre Mercedes people carrier which was such a touch and so fun to drive) and quickly bagged the honeymoon bedroom- that’s definitely the benefit of having a boyfriend who has massive sulks when he doesn’t get his own way- who was I to question it?! It was tough having the best room in the whole castle with 2 en suites, but we managed it. The only downside was that Steve got so battered that I had to carry him up the turret windy staircase every single bloody night and undress him and get him into bed. No mean feat when you consider our bed was 5 feet off the ground and had stairs to get into it.

Anyway, so our party consisted of 18 adults, one dog called Wilson, and 2 babies, one 10 months, one 8 months. It’s quite tough to please everyone including the babies and dogs, so we tended to splinter off during the day. Plus I got bored of looking and cooing at the babies, and was far more at home in the company of the dog.

My biggest achievement for sure was my first Munroe. Me, Wilson, Steve and Rob scaled Lochnagar…it was awesome. The wind was so strong on top that I had to lie down for fear of being blown away. Wilson the dog enjoyed the snow at the peaks and did some wicked skiing and snow munching…Steve took a piss into the wind at the top…into. I ask you. It wasn’t very pretty.

Anyway, I’ll leave you to look at the pics of the castle and will keep you amused with silly stories over the next few days….there are plenty.

An Apology...

I have let the side down... I'm sorry. I was entrusted by Ali to Blog here whilst instead I've been enjoying the unseasonably sunny and warm Easter Holiday weather and neglecting my duties. Sorry all!

Here though is a short clip which combines two of my favourite things whilst I was growing up. A funny one for the boys maybe...

Off and away

I'm about to be signing off and once more placing my lovely blog in the hands of a guest blogger...I'm not going to give any clues away, but I'm sure you'll have no issues guessing who that might be.

The castle that we're staying in is called Lickyhead castle....but I can't find it anywhere on the web, so I'm slightly concerned that it doesn't exist. If that's the case, I'll be back blogging before you know it!

Over and out x

Romance is on cream.

What a strange quiet journey into work. The mass exodus for the Easter break is clearly upon us, and after having eaten my first Easter Egg already last night (thanks Shipley, or should that be Ifty)I am totally ‘feeling it.

Last night I hurriedly packed my bags before preparing Dan a hearty dinner of erm, pre-packaged goods from M&S quickly heated in the oven and settling down to watch another fabulous episode of The Apprentice.

What to take to Scotland is a bit of a dilemma truth be told, it’s difficult to hit the correct balance of glamour and functionality. Why glamour in Scotland? Well, why not. And of course, there’s the fact that we’re bound to have a ‘lets all dress up and have a fancy dinner’ evening and I’m not about to be outdone by any of Steve’s other friends….ohhhhh no I’m not. Petty? Yes. But absolutely imperative.

Anyway, the topic of today’s blog is romance. Steve asked me the other day what romance was (slightly worrying maybe), or rather what my definition of romance was, and you know, it stumped me slightly. He also asked me if I thought he was romantic (to which I answered no) and what the most romantic thing he’d ever done for me was.

It got me ’a pondering.

Girls always harp on about wanting their men to be romantic, but what does this actually mean and if they got romance, would they actually like it, or would they feel a giddy mix of nausea and distrust most of the time (why the flowers? Why the dinner? What’s he done this time).

When I think of the truly cliché forms of romance, I think of things like coming home to find the bed sprinkled with rose petals and covered in sickly sweet scented candles, or having a fine dinner cooked and a table laid with crystal glasses and fancy napkins and the room gently lit by candle light , or maybe even being told to pack and whisked away to some undisclosed European city break, a bunch of roses/lilies/tulips delivered with the details of a restaurant booking for that evening, or the ultimate, being bought an outfit by your other half for a glam night out.

And honestly, when you read that list, didn’t you think…oh GOD….no?

We all desire the occasional romantic treat, but if someone insisted on sprinkling the bed linen with petals all the time, can you imagine how annoying that would be? All that cleaning and hovering and petal stains. You can keep it. And surprise trips away….no thanks. You’d miss out on all the exciting pre-planning of top places to visit and the lovely build up of anticipation.

So the answer to Steve’s question, what is the most romantic thing he’s ever done for me? Well. You know it was the letter he wrote me when we weren’t together, telling me how his life was incomplete without me. And you know what, it worked. It took a while, but it sunk in deeply and it worked. Sometimes a heartfelt expression of emotion is the most romantic thing. I’m not talking about a cheesy poem, but something someone has planned, and executed with excruciating levels of heartfeltness.

Funny, as perhaps I ought to have said taking me to Kenya, or The Maldives. But that doesn’t even come close in terms of romanticism which really gets to you.

Yesterday he announced that he’s taking me to Paris, well, he’s in Paris on business and did I want to come and meet him for 3 days afterwards which is a really lovely idea and yes, of course I bl**dy do. So I guess I ought to eat my words and I think I owe him an apology.

On the flip-side, what can us girls do to romance our men, or prospective men? I know Dan would be won over by a great folk music compilation with a natty homemade front cover, Jonathan would be bowled by the choice of an exceptionally good book, Dave would love a good new release of some video game and an extra ‘control’ for a night of intense passionate dual-gaming, Sam, well you’d just have to take him to an all you can eat place, but a good one, Tom, you’d get him a signed Man U shirt, Chequers, a year’s subscription to Casablancas, Stev/Gavin a life’s supply of weed. It would be so easy.

But none of these are ‘romantic’ per say.

So I guess what it boils down to, is that ‘romance’ is whatever someone you love does for you, which leaves a significant positive emotional impact, or if you like ‘La Fuzzy Feeling’.

From this I can deduce that if I had to put myself in Steve’s shoes and pick one thing I’d done which really hit the spot, it would be the PVC nurses outfit every time. Who says romance is dead?

Skinnys and Scottie

I’m so glad that yesterday’s post managed to convert one of my ‘most cleverest’ friends to the joys of The Apprentice. I have rather foolishly agreed to meet said friend in the pub this evening for a pint, at 9pm. Anyone spot the scheduling error…..yes, it’s tonight’s episode! So I now propose we sack off the pub, get takeaway and wine and watch it, and bitch. Jonathan? Dan? Are you with me? Or are you sitting in Zuma wondering where the hell I am?! I suppose only time will tell. Don’t forget Anita and Stev are away, and we really ought to trash the flat at least once in her absence*.

Today I’m feeling rather pleased with myself, I oughtn’t really, as I’m still snotty and headachey and I don’t think I even need to mention that Lindsey and I are still homeless and my weekends are being booked up one by one as I type, so I’m not sure if I’ll ever really move (not helped by inept estate agents not being able to deliver on simple guidelines such as ‘2 bedrooms’ or budget : “hey Ali, I’ve this great studio apartment in Wapping, right up your straza, for only £350 a week”. No no No). So why the smugness then you might ask? Because I have just been to Gap, sent by heaven to the curvy women of the world, for my latest fix of skinny jeans. Introduced to the fashion world by the likes of La Moss and worn with either pumps, or tucked into lovely boots (flat ones look better I think). Also worn with tunic type long floaty tops over skinny jeans, perhaps with a big chunky pendant. Sorry I disgress.

For anyone who loves these as I do will understand, ‘skinny’ is a misnomer. These jeans are not only for skinny people and are sold up to size 16 here, there and everywhere. They also look great on larger bottomed girls and are a celebration of our wobbles and jiggles. The only thing that really needs to be skinny to manage to get these jeans on are your ankles, and unless you suffer from hyper water retention, you’re away.

Anyway, back to Gap. Gap tend to oversize all their clothes, so a size 12 girl, such as myself, might find herself buying size 10, or 8 at a push and rejoicing internally (and externally by telling everyone, doing ‘lunges’ to make the label pop out “oh, my size 8 jeans label, how terribly and embarrassingly rotten”). Today, was even better, there must have been a labelling mix up as I managed to squeeze my arse into a size 6, granted with some degree of muffintopism.

Me in my jeans




I know all this is ridiculous, nonsense, matters not to anyone, bears no reflection on me as a person, or my happiness, is terribly vain, self centred, and shallow, but it gave me a little brief period of joy and heel-clickery. And even though I know I’ll never ever be a size 6 and nor would I want to be as it would surely be the demise of my bosoms and arse, it felt temporarily good. In the same way it would if I ever by mistake put on a DD bra and filled the cups and some, and that’s something which isn’t going to happen until I’m 6 months pregnant at least. Actually, it might happen if I ingest my own body weight in chocolate as my slammers are always the first to expand at the same rate as my arse, followed closely by my thighs.


Anyway, so enough of that rambling. It’s Easter weekend soon, didn’t you know? And so I’m sure we all have marvellous plans of fun new things we’re going to do. I for one am choosing to spend my weekend in bonnie wee Scotland, Aberdeenshire to be precise, and a lovely castle, to be even more precise.

18 of us have dug deep and forked out just over £3k for the privilege of staying regal stylee at Lockleyhead Castle, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. This is a proper turrets and flags affair with a grand table with seats 20 and is so long, I’ll need my specs to even see who’s at the other end. Why? Because it’s Steve’s 30th birthday and what better than a castle to make a boy feels special and loved.

Logistically of course, said castle is a nightmare. Well, getting people on the same BA flight, hiring 4 people carriers, splitting people into transit groups and cooking groups, eating preference groups, cleaning groups and activity groups and groups of groups and subcategories of groups and well, groups for the sheer hell of it, it seems.

Why? Because a disproportionate number of our ‘group’ (for want of a better word) are primary school teachers. And frustrated ones at that. This is all the more complicated as we are now grown ups and this means the addition of baby x2 and dog x 1.

I am in the ‘blue team’ alongside Steve, Mac and Janice and Neil and Nicky. I have been informed that this means we are responsible for feeding the castle on Sunday. Breakfast, lunch and dinner. We have a budget of £20 per person (per day), which means we have almost £400 for a day’s food. Sounds a lot doesn’t it?

Not only that but we must serve dinner at, or before 7pm, to allow for the mum’s to join us before the rug-rats go to bed. We are also responsible for the washing up and tidying of the castle on that day. I reckon we ought to just sod it and pay a chef and a cleaner to come in for the day and cook for us all, whilst we put our feet up and laugh retrospectively at all the other’s slaving in the kitchen on Friday and Saturday, and I intend to put this to my team in due course. We might even have enough left over for a stripper. I’ll let you know.

Either way we fly on Friday morning and I fully intend to make the most of the gorgeous landscape, lots of fresh air, walking, pony trekking, gully jumping, pot-holing and perhaps a spot of xtreme abseiling, intermingled with whiskey appreciation and dog walking. Ah, the joys of being a grown up.

*only joking Anita

Sir Sugar's Apprentice

I am a self confessed 'naff' TV addict, and despite Sir Alan vehemently denying the Apprentice could ever be classified as 'Reality TV' I would beg to differ. How else would the last series have created it's very own class of 'e' list celebrities, the 'badger' (that matronly scary one) who now has her own TV show, that gobby asian guy who frequents the likes of Nobu and other London celeb haunts and most famously got the winner, Michelle Dewberry, up the duff within a month of her being awarded the holy grail...a 6 figure (yep, count em) salaried job in one of Sir Alan's many business ventures.

Anyway with some fairly serious PR, I'm sure you can't have failed to notice that Sir Alan is back on the prowl in his helecopter circling and swooping and trying to nail an Apprentice for 2007. Why he couldn't just employ a high brow head hunter we'll never know, but I guess then we'd miss out on all that FUN!

Last year, Sir Alan was none too impressed with the calibre of his wannabes, and so this year, he endeavoured to really get his teeth into the selection of the 'finest young business brains in Britain'. And didn't they do well?

I'm sure if you saw the first show last Wednesday you would have delighted alongside me watching the two teams, led by Andy the car salesmen and Jadine the erm, annoying women with a big chip on her shoulder, setting up coffee companies and trying to flog cheap nasty coffee and kelloggs cereal bars to discerning punters in Islington, and other spots around town. It was brilliant TV. I'm no bright spark so watching a quantum physicist fumble her way through basic common sense calculations whilst the rest of the team stood around and nodded was great. They based their ordering calculations not on forecasted demand for coffee, but on the capacity of the machine. So, they calculated the machine that could make 1,000 cups a day would require 200 litres of milk to do so. 200 litres! How very very embarrasing. I haven't even mentioned the fact that they purchased the wrong coffee, that one of team leaders called back their mobile unit from it's most lucrative position only to stand dormant and unused, it was heinous business error after error. Not complicated ones either.

But what's really amazing about this show are the boardroom appearances where Sugar interviews the startled candidates to select someone to fire. This is an unadulterated forum for blame, backstabbing and humiliation to try and save your skin. In life you'll rarely bear witness to people stooping so very low for their own personal gain. In some ways, I admire their absolute dogged perseverance, but in others it's truly terrifying. I'm such a softy when it comes to work, 'ambition' and general 'go gettery'. I have no qualms when people younger than me overtake me at work and it makes me feel queasy just thinking about putting myself in a situation where I'm pitting myself against someone so self-assured.

So grab your cushion...because you will need it for the cringy moments. Even Steve, Steve, Steve of the (corporate) jungle had to hide behind one when porky car salesman met his fate in a most unbecoming manner. Grab some decent wine, tune in on Wednesday and enjoy a damn good heckle.

We all love to pretend we could have done better than all of them, but only from the comfort of our nice, cosy sofas.

You too can have a perfect life....at a cost

Well, it turned out to be quite a hectic weekend, a quick dash to the Natural History museum for the Shell Wildlife Photographer of the year exhibition- well worth a visit if you happen to find yourselves around the South Ken area, and then Gavin's 30th birthday party, which strangely enough, marked the end of any further weekend activity. Not to mention the fact that it has left me without voice, and with a nasty hacking cough.

This is the mark of great party I suppose and thanks to Sam and Gavin, for a heck of a bash. I haven't arrived at a party at midnight recently to find the carnage is already so extreme that there are several bodies in beds, and people pegging it to the toilet to empty their stomachs at regular intervals. I was well positioned in the bedroom to watch all these antics with great amusement, and it made me happy to see well, we can all still be very childish when we want.

Sunday morning I was lying in bed battling with the sleep demons and I received a call from an old work colleague. Strange, as this was someone who never calls, and whose number was really only my phone due to an occasional 'car share to work' agreement some years ago. When you get an out of the blue call like that from someone fairly distant, it always alarms me somewhat. I suppose it's out of my comfort zone.

Perhaps it was rude, but I was too hungover and pickled to consider answering a call and making small talk so I let the call go to my voicemail, and out of curiosity, listened to the message. Alarm Bells. My friend spoke of a 'great thing' she's been doing, a course in London which has 'changed her life' and she wanted me to come along on Tuesday night so 'I could experience it'. She ended the call saying she was so excited about the prospect of sharing this with me, and would phone back in a couple of hours.

I could think only of two words.

Landmark Forum.

If you're someone who's ever had any dealings with this organisation, either directly or through a third party, then you'll be familiar with my reaction. Perhaps if you have 5 minutes you could even go as far as to plug Landmark into google and see what is said. I think you'll find that it will go some way to validate what I am about to type.

The reason I'm familiar with Landmark is that one of my close friends got involved with them and enrolled in several of their courses a couple of years ago. At the time she was perhaps somewhat vulnerable, questioning what she wanted and needed from her life, questioning the way she interacted with others and basically suffering from a period of low self esteem. She discovered Landmark and she loved it. It had an alarmingly powerful impact on her, and she preached it's effectiveness to all who would listen. She was increasingly encouraged to promote the course to all her friends, to organise introduction meetings and to 'push' the ideas.

The frightening effectiveness of the thought process behind Landmark makes its success easy to understand. Once you are enlightened to their thought patterns, you then take it upon yourself to spread the word. To improve your friends lives as well. It's a lovely sentiment. I want to make my friends lives richer, happier and more content.

But is it? Is it a nice thing to make people feel that if they don't want to attend this course, it's because of fear and cowardice. That they owe it to themselves and their friends to undertake this and to spread the word and that if they don't they are somehow living a lessor life.

These are the Landmark Forum's 'seven commandments' for being an extraordinary person:

· Be Racket-Free: give up being right - even when you know you were.

· Be Powerful: be straight in your communication and take what you get.

· Be Courageous: acknowledge your fear (not necessarily get rid of it) and then act.

· Be Peaceful: give up the interpretation that there's something wrong.

· Be Charismatic: give up trying to get somewhere. Be entirely fulfilled in the present moment.

· Be Enrolling: share your new possibilities in such a way that others are touched, moved and inspired.

· Be Unreasonable: in expectations of yourself and others beyond what you would think they are capable of.

Funny how they don't mention the ability to be an effective salesperson, to be manipulative and glib and make money by trading on people's fears and vulnerabilities. This is essentially a massive commercial organisation, and they make a lot of money. People are encouraged to pyramid sell, to friends and families.

I love the idea of enlightenment, but I don't believe it should come at a financial cost, or that it should come as a result of peer pressure, guilt or self-doubt. If you make a decision to make your life happier, turn to trusted sources for ways to help you, and if you ask me, don't trust the Landmark.

By the way, the friend I mentioned who completed all of their courses, she won't have anything to do with the forum now, and certainly wouldn't recommend them to anyone.

Be wary.