Be My Bad Valentine...

I’ve always considered V-Day to be somewhat of a commercially contrived holiday designed to make singletons feel like they’re inadequate and missing out on something that the rest of the cosmos seems to be revelling in, yet at the same time make couples feel they’re under-achieving in their relationships and failing to provide the ultimate romantic experience on this one-off, rather un-impressive cold, grey February day. 

My attitude towards this day has always been that if you have someone who treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) this love does not have to be proved on a one-off, Hallmark-poster child holiday. I mean, I’ve always done the obligatory card, etc. and expected only that in return, and for the most part I have not been disappointed. However, despite my low expectations and indifference towards the day I’ve had some fairly dire V-Day experiences. There have been some spectacular, epic fails that shocked even apathetic-little-‘ol-me into an un-invited awareness of how cruel this holiday can be at times. There are three that stand out in my memory…

The first one

I was only 17 and had fallen for a boy I’d met on a cruise to New York. He was my first big emotional-something. I can’t really say love because in retrospect it was more like my first awakening to feelings

towards the opposite sex. Having attended an all-girls school all my life I’d had little interaction with boys, and as such when I did, I clearly failed the necessary life skills to cope with the situation and would reduce to an incoherent, blubbering, giggly mess. So, Mr Cruise-Boy was my first lovey-emotional-thingy and man, I was smitten. But, he lived in Washington DC, and I lived in the ever-so-exciting backwater-middle-of-

nowhere-north-of-England. Our first (and only) V-Day came five months later. I was a little surprised to receive absolutely nothing. This was, after all, my very first V-Day with a partner and I guess I’d been hoping for something (this was clearly long before my present day cynicism kicked in). But, nothing came, not even a phone call (pre-email days). I was fairly gutted, but opted not to say anything to him about it, yet was kicking myself for being such a sap as to send him a card. As he was five years older than me I thought that perhaps the holiday was more of a kids thing, and I’d shown my immaturity by partaking in the V-Day rituals. Again, having no prior experience with the opposite sex, or V-Day ceremonies I was on a whole new learning curve here.

One month later he came to visit me in England. Well, he was actually running an errand for his father in the UK, and coupled it up with coming to see me for a few days. They were magical, wonderful days showing him all over my little Kingdom, and I was so sad when they came to an end. On the drive to the airport I decided to pluck up the courage and ask him about the V-Day card…

Me: “Did you get the card I sent you for Valentine’s?’

Mr Cruise-Boy: “Yes, I did. Thank you for that.’

Me: ‘…..okay….I think yours might have got lost in the post.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘I doubt it. I didn’t send one.’ Now, I’m a little startled as this wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

Me: ‘Oh. Right. Ok.’ Ensue awkward silence…not quite sure where to go from here. Fortunately, he seems to pick up on my disheartenment. 

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You seem disappointed. I’m sorry if you are, it’s just that I couldn’t afford it.’ Eh? What?

Me: ‘…You couldn’t afford a card and postage??’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No.’

Me: ‘It couldn’t cost more than $5, and you couldn’t afford that?’ Absolutely incredulous now because clearly this isn’t a kiddies-only holiday, and clearly he should have sent me a card.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘No. I get a monthly allowance from my father whilst I’m at university, and I had no more of that allowance left to be able to send a card.”

Me: ‘Oh….” Not quite sure what to make of this…

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘If it’s any conciliation I did feel guilty for not sending one…” smug smile starts to spread across my lips… ‘but I’d spent all my money on Lucia, and had none left over for you…’ smug smile instantly vanquished from lips.

Me: ‘Who’s Lucia?’ Calm, calm, keep calm, it’s probably his mother.

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘My girlfriend.’ I’m sorry…your WHAT?? ‘I bought her a card, flowers, balloons, and took her out to dinner. After I’d paid for all that there was no money left over in my allowance to send you a card.’ Incensed, eyes darting from side-to-side, wildly considering dumping him in the middle of the Moors to fend from himself, foot getting heavier on the pedal, heart racing, blood boiling….

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You look angry….oh, you thought we were exclusive…”

Me: ‘Thought had crossed my mind.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘But, I never told you I was going to be exclusive with you.’ He laughs condescendingly, ‘how silly would that be considering we’re divided by an ocean!’

Me: ‘You’re right. You never said we were exclusive, but you also never said you were dating anyone. And given all the letters you’ve sent me pouring out your un-divided love and adoration, well, forgive me for assuming exclusivity.’

Mr Cruise-Boy: ‘You shouldn’t be upset.’ Shouldn’t I?! ‘It’s you I love, but you’re not around, so Lucia keeps me…occupied in your absence.’

Sometime later, arriving at the airport I kissed him on the cheek, gave him a hug, got back in my car, rolled down the window, ‘….just one thing before you go. Lucia can keep you…occupied for as long as you like’ He smiles, ‘yes, but you shan’t be occupying anymore of my life going forward’ The smile from his face vanishes as it emerges smugly on mine. I put my foot down and drove out of his life.

The Second One

The years passed after The First One, and each time I was dating around Valentine’s I knew not to expect much, and my expectations were met readily. Requisite cards and small shows of affection summed up the V-Day experiences, and I was content with that. Then, a decade after The First One came The Second One. From day one it was a tumultuous relationship, which shouldn’t have got out of the starting gate, let alone past any hurdles. We actually met at Christmas, and got together in the late January. For our first V-Day he was overseas in Europe on business. As we’d only been dating for 10 minutes I wasn’t fussed about the lack of arbitrary offerings.

Over the course of that year it became quite obvious to me that he wasn’t over his ex, and I often felt I paled in comparison to the memory of her, and paid for a lot of her sins. No matter how much he tried to convince me that I was being dillusional I just couldn’t allay this nagging feeling that he was only biding his time with me. Then came V-Day. He’d been promising me romantic dinners, and strolls by the river, and for the first time ever I got my hopes up. However, on the actual day I had to work late, so instead of going out for dinner he said he’d cook me dinner at his house. I was so excited at work I could barely contain my excitement. As soon as the clock struck the hour I was out of there like a shot, straight into my car, and on my way to his house. I tried calling several times on the way, but his phone just went to voicemail. When I reached the house it was in complete darkness. Ha ha! A surprise, I thought! However, upon entering, there were no warm welcomes, or shouts or ‘Surprise!’ Instead, I was met with darkness and silence. I went into the kitchen and turned on the light. There were vodka and tequila bottles strewn across the kitchen, a few up-ended cocktail glasses, and absolutely no food. I made my way around the house, turning on lights as I went, looking for Mr Requited-Love. Eventually, I found him passed out in the bedroom in a blind drunk stupor. I tried to wake him up, but he was having none of it.

Heavy hearted at the realisation of yet another dismal V-Day I trudged downstairs to pour myself a cocktail. On entering the kitchen I saw a single tulip sitting in a glass of water. I’d missed this before amid all the alcohol bottles. I went over to it and saw that it had a very small card attached to it, the type of card you’d normally get with a bouquet of flowers. I opened it up and it said, ‘To Susan. Happy Valentine’s day’ Oh, Ok, so he hadn’t totally blown me off. And, it might not be an actual bouquet of flowers, or a proper card,

but it was something, and it was definitely better than nothing. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little disheartened at the lack of sumptuous dinner I’d been promised, and his preference to get annihilated instead of spending the evening with me. Hey-ho. Such is the reality of V-Day, and this is exactly what happens when you come to expect something.

I set to cleaning up the kitchen of all the alcohol debris. As I was throwing the bottles into the bin I noticed a crumpled up piece of paper lying on top of the trash. There was nothing out of the ordinary about this, and nothing special either, but something, somewhere deep inside told me to look at this piece of paper….

“Did you get the bouquet of flowers I sent to you? I hope you like them. I know tulips are your favourite. I didn’t include the little card that went with the flowers because I was afraid of what your boyfriend would say if he knew they were from me. This is silly. I can’t stop thinking about you. We should be together on this day, not with other people. Please come back to me. I love you with all my heart. Susan means nothing to me and I would drop her in a heartbeat if you said you wanted to give us another go….”

The Third One

Another decade later and I meet The Third One. I’m older now, and wiser (marginally), possibly less cynical and a little more realistic. But, The Third One, is different. He’s honest, kind, caring, loyal and faithful. Qualities I hadn’t encountered before. And, in fact, he is The One, and in time becomes TH (The Husband). My mantra had always been if someone treats you well 365 days a year (and visa versa) you don’t need a

commercial holiday to prove this love, and this was never more the case than with The One. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t do, or say something to make me feel loved and secure. But, having someone so special in my life made me want to do something even more special for him on V-Day. Yes, for the first time ever I wanted to buy into the commercialism of this holiday. I wanted The One to know that he was special to me 365 days a year, but on this one day I get to put that affection on a silver platter and spoon feed it to him in love-heart-shaped dollops, and show it off smugly to the world.

Unfortunately, for our first two V-Day’s he was working away from home. But, the weekend after V-Day he’d always come home ladened with armfuls of flowers, a gigantic card and lots of kisses and cuddles. In return, I’d make us a sumptuous, candlelit meal, and we’d simper and coo at each other across the table. It was wonderful.

And then in 2013 he was actually going to be home for Valentine’s Day. I was so excited to be actually able to spend the evening with him for the first time that I decided to really push the boat out. When he got home from work I drew him a bath. Whilst in the bath I brought him the newspapers and a scotch on the rocks. Upon alighting from the bath I served him a three course candle lit meal. At the end of the meal I presented him with a large box of chocolates and his card. After dinner, we cuddled on the couch and watched Football (which I hate). By 10:00pm I could no longer contain my curiosity…

Me: ‘Have you had a nice evening darling?’

TH: ‘This has been the best Valentine’s ever.’

Me: ‘Oh yay. I’m so glad you enjoyed it…but…I was just wondering…’

TH: ‘Yes?’

Me: ‘Is there anything for me? A card maybe?’

TH: ‘You wanted something? You were expecting something?’

Me: ‘As is normally our custom on V-Day, yes, I was expecting something!’

TH: ‘Oh crap.’

Me: ‘Please tell me that’s an ‘oh crap’ because you’ve left it in the car and you don’t want to go out in the cold to get it’

TH: ‘No, not exactly. More of an ‘oh crap I didn’t get you anything’

Me: ‘You what?!?!’

TH: ‘Well, you said you didn’t like flowers on V-Day so I wasn’t about to buy you any.’

Me: ‘Roses. I said I didn’t like red roses on V-Day because they’re far too cliché! I never said I didn’t like flowers. And besides, you bought me flowers for the past couple of years, so why would you suddenly now decide to not buy them?!’

TH: ‘Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that.'

Me: ‘Putting the flowers aside, where’s my card? I can assure you I’ve never, ever said I didn’t want a card.’

TH: ‘I didn’t think you’d want anything today…’

Me: ‘No, of course not. Why would I want a Valentine’s card on Valentine’s Day?’

TH: ‘Oh crap. I’ve really messed up haven’t I?’

It turns out TH had got his wires crossed. As we’d always celebrated V-Day on the following weekend, he’d got it into his head that even though he was home for the actual holiday that we wouldn’t be celebrating until the weekend. Needless to say the very next day he came home with several bunches of flowers, the world’s biggest V-Day card, and proceeded to eat humble pie for sometime afterwards.  

The thing is when it’s someone you really, really love the disappointment is felt all the greater. Whilst the actual acts of betrayal from previous V-Days were more premeditated and harsh, and yes, I was hurt at the time, the actual level of disappointment was not that great because I expected little better from them. It’s when you have an expectation, especially from someone you love, that the pain of the disappointment is acute.

This Year

So, it comes to V-Day 2014 and I decided I’m throwing in the towel. I am not putting myself out, making dinners, or drawing any more stinking baths. I am having a man’s V-Day and not doing anything at all. I am sitting on the couch, avec un verre de vin blanc, and having dinner made for me. Ca va?

TH, still eating the last crumbs of humble pie from the year before, is conducive to this idea and agrees to make me dinner. Yippee! However, TH can’t cook. His repertoire of culinary delights include bacon/sausage and egg sandwiches, or crockpot surprise (the surprise being the varying number of odd combinations of food included in the Crockpot). So, my dinner prerequisite was that it couldn’t be made using a Crockpot, or a frying pan.

My man rose to the occasion, sought out my finest cookbook and set to the task. 

I have to say I was dubious, especially when he asked me what ground black pepper was, or if shallot was a relative of the carrot, or when it said a clove of garlic did it mean the entire bulb….but he battled on.

I was not permitted into the kitchen during the Culinary Festivalus, but was supplied with ample wine and contently read my book whilst delicious smells emanated from the kitchen. 

I did sneak in at one point on the premis of re-filling my wine glass, but I really just wanted to take a picture to mark the occasion! 

There was the occasional, ‘What the heck is this?!’ and ‘Why on earth would you do stick that in there?!’ but he sallied forth.

Two and a half hours of cooking later, and behold my feast. To start with - Salad Lyonnaise (Dandelion and bacon salad).

For main course - Carre d'agneau roti Provencale (Roast Rack of Lamb)

Accompanied by - Pommes de terre roties a l'ail (roast potatoes with garlic)

and Ratatouille

I have to say that is was magnificently delicious. Michel Roux Jr would be proud of TH. I know I was! And, I have to say it was the best Valentine's Day ever, for both of us. He loved cooking it as much as I enjoyed sitting back, relaxing and having dinner made for me. I think a new precedence has been set!

Of course, now I know TH can cook I might be taking advantage of this again soon...

New Year's Resolutions - 21 days later

So, it’s been a month since I started my New Year’s Resolutions, and I know you’re all dying to know how I’ve fared. Did I adhere to the 21-day challenge? What have I done that challenged me? Did I muster the balls to throw myself out of a plane? (As if, but I’ve got your attention now!)

 I’ve possibly been a little reticent about posting this article because in true Susan style I’ve somewhat failed spectacularly. Ok, I might be being a little harsh. Some areas have succeeded marvellously, some areas have (through no fault of my own, you understand) been subject to influences beyond my control, and other areas have been a direct result of my inability to assert any level of motivation/dedication/desire (delete as necessary).

 So, here you are; an update on my 21-day challenge:

• Drink 1 litre of water a day – Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy! I hadn’t realised before taking on this challenge that I was actually drinking about 1 litre a day (and not just wine!) But, when I added it all up it came to 1 litre spot on. So, I decided to up the challenge to 2 litres, which is more in line with what I needed to be drinking. Oh. My. Dear. Sweet. Departed. Liver. Who? Who in their right mind actually manages 2 litres of water a day? One litre was easy, but by 1.5 litres I began to feel like my liver had been set adrift and all my internal organs were floating around my internal cavity. By 2 litres the crossed-legged dash to the loo at two minute intervals coupled with my liver begging for a lifebuoy became too much. So I cut back to 1.5 litres. And there it shall stay until I feel ready to take on that last climb to the summit of 2 litres.

• Eat at least three vegetables/fruit a day – Yeahhhh. I thought I was doing well with this.  Either
  • I’ve been duped, or whoever came up with the rule book for this ‘5-a-day’ needs to be fired… So, I’d drink half a glass of orange juice at breakfast, half an apple at lunch, and the other half at dinner. Ta da! Three fruit a day. Only, it’s not, is it? Oh no, you have to eat a whole, entire apple for it to count as a ONE. Who wrote this rule book? Surely if half a glass of orange juice counts as one, then half an apple should count as one. But, oh no. So, I thought I’d supplement it with another glass of orange juice to up it to 3 a day. Yeah, turns out all I was doing was upping my calorie count because apparently no matter how much orange juice you drink in a day it only counts as one!? Again, I ask, who on earth wrote this rule book?! So, the upshot is that I’ve made it to two a day and have not yet fathomed how to eat an entire other vegetable to get it up to three.
    
    
    

• Do at least three exercises a week – pfft. Well, I tried. No, honestly I did. I went running around my local park, which is .5 mile all the way round. I got about a quarter of the
  way and collapsed in a wheezy, blustering, red-faced heap in the mud. Ok, so running was definitely not my game. So, I started going to a circuits class during lunch at work. I’ve been twice, which is a 100% improvement on the running. It’s not as bad as running, but I’m not sure it’s my bag either. I just don’t do jumping, and sweating, and sprinting, and contorting my frame into body-shaped-hieroglyphics all in the name of getting fit. It just seems so un-gainly. I like dancing. Why can’t there be dancing fitness classes? I’d love them. But, not Zumba. I hate Zumba. I end up tripping over my feet wearing big trainers whilst trying to do dainty salsa steps. Not at all lady like. I haven’t entirely given up the ghost yet on this one. Just having trouble finding my stride and something that suits my asthmatic, ill-conditioned, disproportioned body.
  
  
  

• Lose that blasted last stone – see above two items for all the reasons why this has not been in the slightest bit successful yet. I have faith though! I will lose that stone!

• Read 12 books – I read three quarters of one book…and then I started another. Nothing  wrong with the first book, but it was a case of, ‘concentrating really hard, concentrating really hard…ooh, look shiny thing!’ I am determined to read 12 books this year, even if I end up having to read 12 in one month.

• Start a blog – something in this list that I have succeeded at! I’m actually loving doing it, and getting some great feedback. I’ve also had the thrill of one of my posts going ‘viral’ (What it’s like being married to an MP), which I never thought would happen.

• Have 12 new experiences that challenge me – now this I have utterly excelled on! I have not just had one experience that challenged me, I’ve had two! *sniff* very proud of myself.  The first challenge came in the form of conquering my fear of those fugly fleshy funguses; mushrooms. Dear God, do I hate those little gray sacks of vomit-inducing hell, but I brought some into the house, actually cooked with them, and resisted all urges to go all GI Jane on the one that sat on my plate throughout a whole meal. You can read more about my culinary escapades with the devil’s haemorrhoids here.
  
  The other challenge came when I cut my hair. ‘So what?’ I hear you say. Yeah, well, my hair is the only thing I like about my entire body. The Only Thing. And, in being The Only Thing that I like about my entire body it gets treated like a Goddess. My hair and I have been on a special journey to get to this point, because trust me, when I was little it was quite possibly the thing I liked least about myself. You see, as a child my parents were exceptionally busy, and having a younger brother it was much easier to take us to one place to get our hair cut than to two. I lost out on this deal and ended up with a boys barber cut for the first 5 years of my life. Whilst my younger brother was a flaxen-haired little cherub of a bouncing baby, I was by contrast a rotund, chubby, bowl-haircut-sporting red head.

Someone took pity on me around the age of 6 and insisted that my hair should be grown out. You’d think this would solve the problem, but no. I went from child-sized red-headed bowling ball, to crazy red-haired banshee child. No matter how much my mother tried to tame my wild red locks, I always looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.

This continued until I was 12 when my mother decided in her infinite wisdom that I needed a hair cut. She must have really favoured the girls-looking-like-boys look that she’d opted for in my pre-5 years because I pretty much went back to the modern version of that; a short, back and sides. But, if that humiliation wasn’t enough, it was insisted upon that I have a rats tail; a long, straggly, streak of red hair creeping down my back like a hairy crimson spine. I hated it. The next day at school the girl that sat behind me made fun of me All. Day. Long. This then inspired everyone else to make fun of me too. Going home in tears I begged my mother to let me cut the tail off, but she was having none of it. A week of torture later and I cut it off myself and pretended to all un-sundry that it had miraculously ‘fallen off’. Thinking this would stop the taunts at school, I proudly went in the next day ‘de-tailed’. Pfft. Turns out the rats tail had been just the icing on the cake, and in fact the whole boys-cut in general was a source of merriment.

 So, some months later my mother figured they best way to stop the taunts was to have my hair permed. So, now I was a girl with a bright red, short, back, and sides, with a perm on top – I looked like a scalped little orphan Annie. The taunts became so much part of the daily routine that I’d only really notice if someone forgot to mock me. My humiliation was utterly complete, or so I thought.

It was then that I decided to try take control back of my hair, and I began to grow it out. So, I’m 12 years old, feeling all-hormonal and awkward as hell, not the prettiest creature out there, full set of braces on my upper teeth, and now I’m sporting half a head of straight hair, and half a head of permed hair. Those in-between years of desperately trying to grow out my hair, whilst daily straightening the permed bits (because we didn’t have straighteners back then), which actually only made the hair frizzy and stand on its end were awful. For most of my early teens I looked like Worzel Gummage. Needless to say I wasn’t inundated with a lot of interest from boys in my early teens.

Then, at the age of 14 something miraculous starting happening. Not only did my hair reach an acceptable length so that the last dregs of the perm could be cut out, but my hair started to turn lighter. It went from a real copper-knob-rusty-red, to a deep auburn colour, to a strawberry blonde. This is when I actually started to like my hair, and it’s also when I decided to never, ever-ever let anyone else decide a haircut for me.

By the time I reached my early 20’s my hair was long and completely blonde, and I loved it. And, so my love affair with my hair began.

This continued until last year. Who knew, but apparently losing a lot of weight in a short time frame can have a detrimental effect on hair retention. And this is what happened to me. I lost 5 stone in weight, but also ended up losing half a head of hair. When it first started coming out I was distraught. I’d wake up to handfuls on my pillow, and dreaded washing my hair as this is when the most hair loss occurred. My doctor said it was normal and would right itself in 18 months time. 18 months?!? To a woman that might as well be 18 years. So, I was sporting this really, really long blonde hair style that, by the day, was getting thinner and thinner. Eventually I had to face facts that my hair was no longer thick enough to hold a long hair style. Gutted. So, biting the bullet, I went to the hairdressers and had 6 inches cut off. That is the most I’ve had cut off since I was 12, and it took every ounce of gumption I had not to yank the shears out of the girl's hands and go all Edward Scissorhands on her. But, even though I couldn’t wait to get out of the salon and cry my heart out, I had to admit that my hair looked much, much better. This was a couple of weeks ago, and my hair feels ridiculously short to me now. I don’t feel ‘attractive’ anymore (not that I ever really did, but what vestiges I had of feeling attractive have been diminished), but I know I did the right thing. And when, in 18 months, my hair grows back, I will then grow my hair out and resume my love affair with my long hair.

What is it actually like being married to an MP?

“What’s it like being married to an MP?” is the inevitable question I’m asked when people find out who my spouse is, all the while looking at me with an eager anticipation as though I’m about to give them a glimpse into a life of wining and dining with movers and shakers. My go-to pithy retort is always, ‘I’ve never been married to anyone else so I have no basis of comparison.’ Cue a few obligatory laughs, the conversation moves on, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Phew. Awkward situation averted. Because the truth, which is definitely not the answer people want to hear, is that it’s not easy. In fact, it’s downright hard work.

 

Marriage in general requires work, and in what I've said and about to say I’m not detracting from that. But being married to an MP is a different type of work. In the beginning of our relationship I was quite blind to the repercussions and implications that went along with his job. And I never realised it would be quite so far-reaching as to consume my life too, turning it so completely on its head that it was no longer discernible from my previous life. I’d like to say I slipped into the role of WOMP (a Westminster nickname for Wife Of MP) with great ease, but I’d be lying. It has been the steepest learning curve I've ever encountered with many a pothole along the way that I've tripped up over. I've done my fare share of kicking and screaming, been wrapped over the knuckles for mis-behaving, and done a lot of silent, smiling steaming. But, as with anything, it gets easier over time.

 

But, what is it really all about? Is being married to an MP really that arduous? Most people think it’s the life of Riley with schmoozing galore, and a never-ending cycle of glitz and glamour. Read on for the real story!

The Reversion to the 1950’s family roles

I have always considered myself somewhat of a feminist. Among other things, I waited until in my 30’s to get married. OK, in part that was because I’d never met anyone I wanted to marry, but it was also because I often saw marriage as career-blocker for women. In marriage we become placated and comfortable. Shrouded in this security our sight line moves from the career path to the stove, and from ambition to the iron, making sure that our families have full bellies and clean, ironed clothes and finding utter contentment in just that. I admit my view was very jaded, and it was based on a few friendships I’d seen change irrevocably after nuptials. I am pleased (and quick) to say that this is no longer my attitude. But, nonetheless, I wanted to ensure that whomever I married shared, among other things, the more menial tasks that are more often than not placed on women. I wanted to be an equal partner. I found this in Alec. Being a confirmed bachelor when I met him, and a neat freak, he was deft with a hoover and handy with a mop (these obviously weren't his only strengths!)

 

Oh, how I've been mocked. The reality of the situation is that he’s never around to be able to help with household chores. Working in London four days, and three nights a week I keep the homestead fires burning in his absence. When he is home it is literally to eat a meal, change a shirt, and lay his head on a pillow for a few hours. He. Works. All. Of. The. Time. All of this, of course, means that I have been left with pretty much all the household duties. To be fair, when he does have a bit of spare time he does his bit, but he is well aware of the shift in balance within the house. I spent the first year of our marriage in denial about this seismic shift, but the ever-dusty home, and over-piled laundry basket knocked me out of the delusion of what I expected our marriage to be like, and into the reality of what it was actually like. I do have to say though that Alec always makes sure I know how much he appreciates everything I do. And, for that alone, it makes the monotonous tasks all the more durable. But there are times, like when I’m ironing the 16^th shirt from the load of washing he’s brought back from London, or cooking a meal at midnight because he’s come home from a late night meeting and is starving, and I’m possibly cursing the in-equality of the situation that I remind myself that making my husband look smart, feel loved, comfortable and secure (which is how he makes me feel everyday) is a great joy, and that this umpteenth shirt, or this late night meal is a small price to pay for that happiness. It is then that I smile because I have become the exact ideal I never wanted to be, and I’m OK with that…now.

The invisible social life

And it’s not just household chores that he gets slipped from. Above and beyond the routine errands, he also has little time for us. Yes, he comes home on Thursday night, but no, we don’t have a weekend together. He’s out all day Friday at surgeries, usually has an event on Friday night, out all day Saturday. We try to keep Saturday night and Sunday for ourselves, but this isn't always possible. So, at absolute best we have 1 day, and 1 evening together a week. During this ‘downtime’ he’s usually so tired that all he wants to do is sleep and relax. So, during the week I rush to get all the chores done so that what little time can be afforded at the weekend isn't marred by tasks, and we can have a few un-interrupted hours together. Well, I say un-interrupted, but I’m lying. His phone is never switched off and to that end he’s never ‘off duty’. This was hard to accept in the beginning. It was a while into this new lifestyle with Alec before I could fully appreciate the tranquility of staying in on a Saturday night.

All this means that we are pretty much busy all of the time, and because of this we’re always having to cancel, or re-arrange plans because an important meeting, or something has cropped up. And, trust me, nine times out of ten an important something always arises.

Because of this people tend to think we have these über amazing social lives full of glitz, glamour and highbrow social events, but the truth is far from that, and much more mundane. We’re just really, really busy, or really, really hibernating. I can’t deny that there are some ‘highbrow’ events that I've nepotistically received an invite for, such as lunch with the Prime Minister at Chequers, or meeting the Queen at Buckingham Palace, and I can’t refute that the exuberance of the Houses of Parliament isn't lost on me every time I walk those hallowed hallways, or that I deny the rubber-neckers a wry smile as I drive through the gates of Westminster. But for every ‘glamorous’ moment there are a thousand mundane ones in its wake.

As part of our resolutions for January 2013 we instituted a date night. Each month one of us had to take the other out, out of the house, out of the village, and spend some quality time together. We even put dates for the year into our diaries and told Alec’s staff that these dates were carved in stone and couldn’t be moved. It was June by the time we decided to abandon the idea after only managing to stick to a few date nights, because as always, an important something came up and like a tidal wave, wiped out all personal plans.

The big stuff

I can live with losing the date nights. I can tolerate having limited downtime with my husband, and I’ve even learned to accept all the household chores, but one of the hardest pills to swallow has been the solitude. There are times when it gets lonely, and no amount of interaction with friends is going to plug that Alec-shaped hole. I doff my cap to spouses of service men and women, for their loneliness must be far more acute with their partners being away for months at a time. You have my utter respect and admiration.

But, it’s not just the loneliness that’s frustrating. What’s worse is the doing things alone, enduring life’s highs and lows alone. You can guarantee that when something big happens he is persona non grata. The day I got moved to a new position in my job and was devastated? Alec was in a debate in Westminster Hall for 4 hours and couldn't be reached. The day I got a new job? Alec was in back-to-back appointments and couldn't be disturbed. The day I had surgery? He managed to get a half day slip and came to Leeds, sat by my bedside for one hour, and then went back to London. When I was taken to hospital and kept in for a few days and had no one to look after the dogs? Alec was on a three line whip and couldn't leave London. Thank God for friends and family who came to the rescue. Lately, the ‘big stuff’ issue is IVF. We’re about to start our third attempt. During the first attempt Alec could barely be there through any of it due to commitments in London, and it was quite hard to go through it alone. After that, we orchestrated the next attempt during summer recess. Now, we've moved to a clinic in London, in part because it means Alec can be more involved. But when he’s not there for the big things, good or bad, it is these times that are the hardest to endure because they are an awful reminder of that fact that for much of the time I live a single life. And, I don’t like it.

 

Modern-day Feudalism

Being a WOMP means that you are obligated, nay expected, to give indentured servitude. To this end your presence is sought demanded at dinners, events, functions, fetes, fairs, conferences…you name it, you’re supposed to be there. Actually, no one really cares when you’re there, and certainly even fewer actually speak to you, other than to ask you what it’s like to be married to an MP.  But, if you’re not there...woe betide you! The ferocity of the naysayers is un-rivaled, all quick to point out to anyone else who’ll listen that the lack of your presence was ruefully noted and won’t be forgotten. Ever. Tut tut. Naughty girl. So, as dutiful wifey, I go to these events, play my part, smile a lot, and then I sit through Alec’s speech. Now, I love my husband, and I find him engaging and interesting, but there’s only so many times I can hear the same speech  before I have completely exhausted my mental capacity for litany, and train myself to become a professional lagophthalmos (someone who falls asleep with their eyes open).

You’re also expected to take part in any charity event that your husband participates in. Again, no one really cares if you do it, but they sure as heck notice you if you don’t. To this end, in the name of charity, I have donned an ill-fitting wet suit and swam Lake Windermere. Everyone clapped Alec on the back whilst I silently suffered from what I can only deem to be a water-born strain of e coli. Recently, I wore a onesie to help Alec raise money for his latest charity (see www.justgiving.com/ashelbrookemp). These are the lengths you go to for your husband, and in the name of keeping up appearances!

Beyond the dinner and events, I am also expected to go canvassing. This is the art of knocking on people’s doors and asking their voting intention. In the name of canvassing I can lose a tremendous amount of my personal time.
Oh, how I would love to meet a friend for food, or go shopping, or sleep in on a weekend, but that life is not mine anymore. If there is one thing on this planet that I abhor, detest, and loathe it is canvassing. There is simply no joy in trekking door-to-door in the driving rain having people lob abuse at you. Of course there are the days when the sun shines and the

people are friendly. I think I’ve experienced one, sometime, a long time ago. However, the absolute worst aspect of canvassing is the letter boxes and doors. You spy a ‘bad door’ and covet the notion of slowing down to allow one of the other canvassers to get their first. A bad door, you ask? Well, a good door has a doorbell, and/or a door knocker with a letter box at waist height. A ‘bad door’ has neither knocker, nor bell and/or has a letterbox near the ground. Why so bad? Well, rapping your knuckles against hard wood all day long in the driving rain and bitter cold leads to dry, cracked, and bleeding knuckles. This is exasperated by shoving your hand repeatedly through letterboxes that act more like Venus Hand-Traps than mail receptacles. But, the letter boxes near the ground, they’re the worst. By the time you've got down on your hands and knees to reach the thing you've lost most of the pile of flyers in your grasp, so you end up crawling around on all fours shoving and retrieving flyers, whilst the rain is turning the whole lot into papier-mâché. Owners of ‘bad doors’ should be fined for cruel and unusual punishment. Why not wear gloves, you ask?: Obvious reasoning, except you can’t grab a single flyer whilst wearing gloves, so bear handed it has to be.

Canvassing gives you a whole new respect for the postman, but the postman seldom has to deal with the unpleasantness canvassing can incite. You don’t have to agree with my politics, but it takes as much effort to be rude as it does to be nice. So, if I happen to knock on your door sometime, please be nice to me!

Smile please, you’re on candid camera!

Alec is never off duty. Ever. Which means that I’m not off duty either. This means that no matter where we go or what we do we’re always on display and open to comment, discussion, or criticism. I learned this the hard way. During our first year together, being oblivious to this spotlight lifestyle, I tried to engage Alec in my lifestyle. Anyone who knows

my husband knows he’s a frustrated rock star, so for his birthday I rented a karaoke booth for him to sing his little heart out. Mid evening he left the booth to use the facilities and was confronted in the bathroom mid-stream. Every dinner, or event we went to, he was always recognised and his counsel was sort. So, I took him off to the coast for the weekend to have some alone time. Everyday we bumped into a constituent. That’s when I decided the next holiday had to be out of the country, so we spent a few days in Spain. Sitting in a little café having breakfast one morning, someone walked by and said, ‘Hello Alec, mind if I join you?’ And, poof! Alec is instantly working again. By the end of our first year I realised it was me that had to change my lifestyle to accommodate him, because it just wasn't possible for him to be part of the world I’d known up to that point. This is when we took to hibernating. Closing the doors, shutting the curtains, and spending time in our house, just the two of us, all alone. And we love it!



On the occasion that we have gone on holiday, something has always ‘come up’, that has in some way up-ended the vacation. We've never had a holiday that hasn't run into some kind of stumbling block. On waking up on the first day of our honeymoon in August 2011, in a quaint New England Inn, we were met with the news that Parliament was being re-called due to the riots. In April, 2013 we decided to take a long weekend in Scotland. We’d been there 2 days when Parliament was recalled for Margaret Thatcher’s death. At the end of August, 2013 we’d just failed our second IVF attempt, which happened on my birthday. We were both feeling emotionally bedraggled, and decided to go away for a long weekend, just to lick our wounds. Bags packed, about to walk out of the door, and Parliament was recalled for the Syria debate and vote, and I was left licking solitary wounds.

Whilst it is Alec who lives his life in the spotlight, mine is definitely skirting the edges. OK, I don’t get noticed in the street, but I have learned (again, the hard way) to be extremely careful what I say, what I put out on a public domain, and sadly who my real friends are.

This has been the steepest learning curve of all. I didn't want to believe any of my friends would betray me, or my husband. But, I had to re-evaluate this position when one of my ‘friends’ sold pictures from my Facebook to the Sun newspaper. Instantly, I found myself questioning every friendship and every friend. Because of this I’m very careful now whom I bring into my ‘inner circle’ of friends, what I say and to whom, and unfortunately along the way have had to make tough decisions on whom I could and couldn't trust.

There have been times in the past few years whereby I've been vicariously disliked e.g. someone doesn't like my husband’s politics and they lack the mental capacity to differentiate a dislike of politics with a dislike of the person. Being married to him, this dislike has been extended to me. You can spot these people a mile off; you've never/barely ever spoken to them, but they won’t shake your hand, or look you in the eye, they make disparaging comments, and walk away from you as you get close to them. I found this hard to take at first, and actually took it quite personally. I’d spend ages mentally ruminating what I’d done wrong to these people until Alec made me see sense. My response to them has always been a charm offensive; I will make you like me, and I will make you see beyond your limited parameters. For the most part, this has worked. But, then there’s always the anomaly, that person that really is a nasty piece of work, and it’s got nothing to do with politics. They just have a sadistic pleasure in trying to get you to let your guard down. It is because of all the above, but mostly this latter person that I have to be very careful about everything I say and do. No matter how riled, goaded, or provoked I am my response has to be placating, ambiguous, and executed with a smile. You have no idea how hard I have to bite my tongue sometimes!

Would I change my life?

Not for all the tea in China! Yes, my life has changed irrevocably since I met Alec. Yes, it’s barely distinguishable from my previous existence. Yes, it’s hard work, long hours, little down time, little alone time, everyone wants a piece of him, and you’re never off duty. But, my husband has changed my life for the better. I think back to my previous life and it feels cold, un-relatable, and definitely not a place I ever want to go back to. Despite the fact that Alec’s job is all consuming to our lives I know that I am a top priority for him, as he is for me, which makes accepting all the above all the easier.

One thing we do have in our favour is my interest in politics. You need to be interested in politics for this kind of relationship to survive. Without that interest you will suffer because the never-ending meetings, conferences and dinners will be excruciating. Even the conversations with your own husband will be limited because trust me, all politicians eat, sleep, breathe, and excrete politics and it’s all they know to talk about. At least Alec and I can talk the talk with each other, which keeps us even more connected.

I might have gone into this situation blind, but sometimes a baptism of fire is just what you need. As difficult as it may have been at some points Alec has always been there to support, help, guide, and defend. He really is my hero. He often says that he couldn't do his job half as well as he does if it weren't for me. But, the truth is he makes me a better person just by being him, and in fact it’s me that needs to pay homage to him because I couldn't have gotten through these past 4 years without his un-wavering support.

I conquered my fear of the devil's hemorrhoids!

As part of my new year's resolutions I set myself the task of trying 12 new experiences that challenged me and made me move outside my comfort zone. It's not even the end of January and I've completed one of these challenges! *sniff* very proud of myself!

Anyone who knows me, or has eaten with/cooked for me will know that I have a massive aversion to devil's hemorrhoids. You may know them better by their layman's term; mushrooms. They are evil, nasty, foul little tumours of grey fugliness and, I will never understand why they're called 'funghi' because I can assure you there is nothing 'fun' in them at all.

I first discovered my loathing at middle school. I opted for the cold/salad option one lunchtime, and it came with a cup of soup. I use the term 'soup' lightly because it was actually more like a cup of thick, grey sludge. I took one smell and knew I couldn't stomach it. I offered it up to the other girl's on the table, but all declined (having all smartly opted for the hot course none felt any obligation to relieve me of my sludge). The teacher on duty in the dinner hall that day was one of the strictest teacher's at the school, Mrs Tuvey. I tried to sneak past her with a napkin over my sludge cup, but she caught me, made me sit back down, and refused to let me move until I'd digested the lot. Some amount of time later, with tears rolling down my cheeks, I held my nose, threw back my head and swallowed the now cold, even-thicker sludge.
'There. Wasn't so bad, was it?' asked Mrs Tuvey smugly
'No' said I, weakly. I rose to my feet and promptly projectile vomited all down the front of her. That'll teach you to make me do something I don't want to do!

From that point onwards my mushroom allergy/aversion was born. Over the years I have gone to great lengths to avoid ingesting one of those pallid polyps. But, there has been the inevitable occasion where a slimy slug has gotten through, and on each occasion it was like gastronomical Armageddon. The stomach cramps that made me think I'd been impregnated by an alien and it was trying to claw its way out of my body. The bloating that turned me into an oompa lumpa, and then the most horrific noises emanating from my gut, like trumpets summoning the demons from Hell. When it did finally find an exit it would usually be in some kind of projectile format - like funnelling a waterfall through a straw. And the stench would be like a thousand rotting corpses had vomited, ate the vomit, then vomited again. Napalm has nothing on this stuff. When it's all over and done I'm exhausted and feel truly violated.

The worst occasion was at a dinner party in 2010 where the hostess, completely unknowing of my allergy, made a Wensleydale and mushroom tart for starter, and venison and mushroom stew for main. I circumnavigated the starter, but got caught out by the main, and totally ruined her fantastic dinner party (which are legendary, by the way) by incarcerating her porcelain God. The whole toilet area had to be a contamination zone for some time afterwards.

In all my years I've only come across one other person that had this same allergy. My friend, Tennille. Last year Tennille said that as she'd gotten older her allergy had eased up and she could actually eat food that had been cooked with mushrooms. This made me start to wonder if perhaps my allergy had gotten better? I'd obviously never noticed because I always had stringent methods in place to ensure a clammy clump never passed my lips.

So, I started to test the water. I tried a few bites of TH's food if he ordered something with mushrooms (just the sauce, not a mushroom). Hmmm...no reaction. This was new, and exciting! I continued to try sauces and dishes (just little bites) that had been cooked with mushrooms, and still no reaction. Then one day, the inevitable happened. Completely unintentionally, one of those sickly sacks made it past my palate and down into my stomach. I waited the obligatory 20 mins for the gastro-exorcism to start. But, it didn't come. About an hour after later, I experienced some intestinal cramping that was a walk in the park to the normal spleen-ripping cramps I normally get. And that was it! Voila!

This might not sound like much to you, but to me it was immense! It was the first time since I was 8 years old that I hadn't gastronomically exhumed the dead after eating a mushroom. And as for mild intestinal cramps, well, I can live with that! It's a small price to pay in comparison.

This is when I decided it was time to take the next step and actually bring a mushroom into the house and cook it. And, as if reading my mind, TH asked me to make Beef Bourguignon for his birthday, and *gulp* the recipe called for mushrooms! So, I bought a pack of lacklustre lumps and commenced the dinner. TH caught me about to throw them into the pot without washing them...well, how would you know what to do them if you've never used them!? The dinner itself was lovely, and I even put a mushroom on my plate. I didn't eat it mind, but it sat on my plate for the whole duration of the dinner and I resisted all urges to flick it across the table. And, what's even better is that I only had mild cramping and bloating later on, and no signs of a gastronomical exodus as usual.

I don't think I'm going to try actually eat a mushroom for fear of a gastro-apocalypse revival, but the fact that I can tolerate them being in the house and on my plate, and in food that's touched my food...well, that's ma-hoo-sive! I'm proud of myself for conquering this challenge, but I think it's a bit too early to suggest inviting the mushroom to my plate more often. He'd have to be a bit more of a fun-guy for that to happen!

Pet Peeves

I know this isn't in the spirit of the optimism that embroils New Year's, but I'm sorry, it has to be done. We've all got them. They annoy us so much that they can make our toes curl and our eyelashes straighten. Pet peeves! Here are just a few of mine:

1. The Card Coveters - you know who I'm talking about. Those people that make sure you have their address because they want a birthday or Christmas card but never actually send a card back?!?
2. The Microwave Vigilantes - the ones that would rather traverse the length of the office to inform you that the microwave has 'dinged' than physically remove your food container and put theirs in. Do I have cooties, or something? These are also the ones that do the toe-tapping-dance when waiting for you to finish using the kettle.
3. The Better Offerers - those so-called 'friends' that always seem to cancel almost every thing you arrange with them. Little Johnny's got an ear infection? Again? Tenth time this year, isn't it? More like a euphemism for having received a better offer.
4. The Fly Catchers - those people that eat with their mouth wide open. How do they not know they're doing this?! I mean, seriously, with your mouth acting like the Channel Tunnel you must have caught enough flies over the years to know that something's amiss!
5. The Punctuation Ignoramuses - you went to school you must know some grammar or punctuation so please please use it do you like reading a sentence like this that has absolutely no grammar no I didn't think so yes well neither do we
6. The Crop Dusters - those lovely folk that fart in public. Hold it for Pete's sake! Worst offenders are old people. Sorry if I'm being ageist, but you go to Morrisons on a Friday afternoon when all the silver surfers are out in force. It's like the trombone section of the Salvation Army Brass Band, only I wouldn't light a match.
7. The Bag Swirlers - so, you offer someone a crisp/sweet from your bag and they swirl and swirl their hand around until they get what they want...as if each crisp/sweet is different and the choices are immense. They're not, but thanks for your hand germs.
8. The Movie Spoilers - those people that insist on asking questions during a movie. I'm watching the same movie as you, so how do you think I know more than you?!
9. The Duck Facers - how, in the entire history of ever, did anyone think this was an attractive, sought after look? You look like you're sucking on wasps.
10. The Literalists - literally, and I mean literally, those who inaccurately use this word. Let's face it, if the number of people in the world who'd said they were "literally scared out of my mind" or "literally dead" were being accurate then we'd literally have a whole lot more to worry about than literally inaccurate vocabularists.
11. The Professional Tautologists - those people that just lurrrve the sound of their own voice so much that they feel the need to say the same thing over, and over, and over again just using different words. You are the reason I learned to sleep with my eyes open.
12. The Salt Shovellers - those condiment-slathering-sodium-chloride-liberalists that put salt on food before they bother trying it. Clearly, you're some kind of NaCl-superhumans that can spy depleted levels of salt in food at ten paces. 
13. The Eye-ballers - those people that only seem able to hold a conversation with you if you're eye-ball-to-eye-balling each other. Don't you dare blink! Or you'll you'll be asked that inevitable question, 'are you listening to me?' Yes, well, last time I checked I didn't hear through my eyeballs.

Christmas fuddle food

Every Christmas TH and I have a fuddle at Chez Shelbrooke. It has become as much a hardy feature of Christmas as Disney re-runs. Each year I try to get a little more adventurous with the fodder because the lowly mince pie, fruit cake, pork pie and Branston can only go so far to tantalise the taste buds. In 2012 I pushed the boat out and offered just about every Christmas hors d'oeuvres available from M&S. It became known as my 'food porn Christmas'. However, post fuddle I was left with a load of bite sized food to consume in a mad rush before the onslaught of turkey week.

So, this year I went for the option of 'less is more'. I stuck to the traditional food, didn't go down the bite-sized route, but instead I gave some of the food a bit of Christmas bling. What I ended up with is an über pretty table, that was not only aesthetically pleasing, but cost a damn site cheaper than the year before.

First up for a make over was the cheese board. TH and I lurrrve cheese. I mean we worship it. And the stinkier and runnier it is the more we bow to its malodorous epicarp. But, Christmas is very much about your bog standard cheeses, your Wensleydale, Cheshires, Red Leicesters, and Cheddars. Quite frankly these bore the pants off me. So, I opted for one cheese board of opulent ambrosial delicacies and one of workhorse stalwarts. The odoriferous board needed no titivation; it's aromatic blends, and rotund semblance sang for itself. The peon board, however, looked as tempting as a a plate of tripe; pallid and lackluster in comparison. A little Christmas magic was needed!

So I cut up all the plebeian cheeses into small chunks. I then took one colour and arranged it in two lines on the bottom of the cheese board. I lay two sprigs of rosemary above it. Above that I lay a two-deep line of plum tomatoes. Next, I used a lighter shade of cheese and arranged it in two lines above the tomatoes, but this time coming in on each side by one chunk so that a tiered effect was created. I followed this with more rosemary and plum tomatoes, and alternating colours of cheeses, always remembering to come in a little at the sides to keep the tier. When I got to the top of the board I simply cut a star shape using a knife out of a lump of cheese and placed it at the top of the tier. The result is a cheese board that looks like a Christmas tree! Everyone thought it was brilliant, and it certainly brightened up an otherwise boring food addition to the table.

Patting myself on the back for being so inventive with the cheese, I decided to give some fruit a makeover. Next up for the refashioning were the strawberries. I decided that, given their shape, they were begging to be made into little Santas! I'd looked up a couple of recipes and they all called for either whipped cream from a can, or whipping cream. Lovely, yes, but if you have to sit on a table for several hours in a room full of hot, mulled-
wine fueled people, then I'm quite sure they'd melt and congeal into a hot, pink blancmange all over the table. So, instead I opted for a cream cheese frosting. And, I cheated! I used store bought! Christmas is busy enough without whipping up a frosting from scratch.

To make the Santas I de-leafed the strawberry, inverted it (so it sat on the counter fattest part down), and sliced off it's 'bum' (the pointy end) and put the 'bum' to one side. I then put some cream cheese frosting into a piping bag and piped a good daub (if you don't daub enough your 'hats' won't stay and there won't be enough room for the face) onto the sliced off fat end of the strawberry. Once all strawberries were 'daubed' I replaced the 'bums', which have clearly now become the 'hats'. I then daubed a little frosting on the front of the strawberry to make a 'button' and on top of the hat to make a 'bauble'. Lastly, using tiny chocolate balls meant for cake decoration, and a pair of tweezers, I inserted chocolate 'eyes' into each Santa. Make sure you chill them before serving to ensure they set and don't melt. And voila! Everyone absolutely loved these and they were gone within minutes of me putting them out!

Here is what my table looked like in the full (minus the strawberries, which were still in the fridge chilling), oh, and Merry Christmas from the Mooblings!

New Year's Resolutions - 2014

So, here we are, at the threshold of a new year and I'm debating what token effort I'll make to giving up something in the name of the almighty 'resolutions'. In our household new year's doesn't actually start until January 11th because of TH's birthday, which we must make merry for. So, having an extra 11 days to concoct a resolution I figured it might as well be something I won't miss too much because, let's face it, resolutions seldom last past the end of January. Last year I decided to give up swearing, but by February, I realised I'd cursed too many times to actually merit sticking to it any more. 

 

Then I read an interesting article that said it takes 21 days to form a habit. Hmmm...that quickly? Really? Intriguing. And the more my little mind pondered the thought, the more I realised that resolutions didn't necessarily have to mean giving something up (after all, we have lent for that) but it could imply taking something up instead. In fact, if the 21 day rule is correct, then lifestyle changes as part of a new year's resolution were doable IF you could make it past January....

 

 So, I devised a new set of resolutions with the intent of not cutting anything out, but instead taking things up, and slowly, slowly (catch the monkey?!) start some much needed lifestyle changes. And here are my NEW new year's resolutions - let the 21 day challenge and the new experiences begin (well, on Jan 11th):

 

• Drink 1 litre of water a day - My mantra has always been; unless it's wine it just doesn't get drunk. Yes, I wake up every morning with a mouth as dry as Gandhi's flip flop, but I've learned to live with it. But not anymore! As part of IVF I have to remain very, very hydrated, so this is my attempt at changing my lifetime of dehydrative behaviour to enhance my chances of successful IVF (and hopefully have better skin along the way!)
• Eat at least three vegetables/fruit a day - Yes, I know you're supposed to eat 5 a day, but I'm being realistic in my goals here. I actually love fruit and veg, the problem is I love junk food more. So, when I go to the cupboard to get something to eat I find it's the snack food that's winking at me and not the fruit. When TH is home we have at least two veg with every meal, but when he's not here (4 nights a week) I tend to eat microwave meals and junk food. Now, in the past I would have tried to quit the junk food and instant foods, but this would last a week at most. This time I'm telling myself I can keep having the junk, but I have to have fruit as well, and I have to have it BEFORE the junk - that way I'm hoping the need for junk will decrease over time.
• Do at least 3 exercises a week - I am your proverbial couch potato. I'm a slob. The thought of physical exercise is abhorrent to me. I'm in no way, shape, or form anatomically built for exercise; I have asthma so running is out of the question, I get shin splints very quickly so high impact anything is impossible, and I have a large chest that gives me a black eye every time I so much as venture a bunny hop. But, exercise doesn't have to be labour-intensive and physically-impeding. It just has to involve getting off the couch for 20 mins three times a week and doing something other than walking back and forth to the pub, or letting the dogs off the leash in the local park.
• Read 12 books - I actually got this idea from a friend who set herself this challenge last year, and I thought it was a great idea. So, consider it pilfered! I love to read, but the first time I picked up a book last year was August, and I then devoured 4 books in the space of a month having realised how much I loved it and missed it. Not this year though; this year I aim to read one book a month.
• Have 12 new experiences that challenge me - This is also pilfered from the above friend, but I put a slight twist on it in the form of challenges. I was fortunate to have many wonderful new experiences last year, but I also realised I avoided some potential experiences because of inner insecurities and things falling outside my 'comfort zone'. This year I want to challenge my comfort zone and stretch those boundaries, but no, I will not now, or ever sky dive. That's beyond comfort zone parameters and into downright insane territory. I have enough issues getting onto the damned plane at ground level, never mind tossing myself out of it at 20,000 feet. Nutters.
• Lose that blasted last stone (14lbs/6kg) - I'm going to be forty this year, and doggone it I'm going to be fabulous if it kills me! I lost 5 stone (70lbs/32kg) last year, but that last stone has evaded me. I'm hoping with the measures above I will lose that last 1 stone/14lbs/6kg and enter my 40th year as the true diva/goddess that I was always meant to be!
• Start a blog - Oh, look and here it is! It's been something I've wanted to do for a long, long time, but as usual life gets in the way and I never got round to it. But now the seed has been sown, so let's hope it blossoms nicely.

          To anyone who'd like to offer support in my new year's endeavours I welcome it     
          wholeheartedly. To everyone else, I'll see you down the pub!