The Perks of being a Wallflower

Have you seen this film? It's incredible. Not flawless but pretty amazing nonetheless.

I wish that this film (or book) had been around when I was a teenager. If it had, then perhaps that painful period of intense isolation may have been alleviated somewhat by the knowledge that there were many others going through the crusher at the same time (And there I was thinking I was unique!)

It features lonely and sensitive CHARLIE (Logan [Percy Jackson] Lerman), who is dealing with the fallout from the suicide of his best friend, last year, along with other personal demons. In the first few frames of the film, it is agonising to watch his experience of alienation and isolation as he starts high school. He has no friends, he seems to be surrounded by a bunch of insensitive, boorish sociopaths (but, hey, it is school!) and his family don't understand him. He deals with his feelings by writing letters to an imaginary friend. Things look up when he befriends a couple of quirky high school Seniors - charismatic, articulate PATRICK (Ezra Miller) and his step-sister, SAM (Emma Watson), who Charlie, instantly falls in love with. The pair introduce Charlie to their friends (other sensitive, quirky types). They open up his social life to parties and The Rocky Horror Picture Show, where many of the gang take the 'live' sing-along parts.

One of the things that makes this film exceptional are the exquisite performances - Ezra Miller fizzes onto the screen and mesmerises from the outset. It didn't surprise me at all to learn that he had played the title role in We need to talk about Kevin, if anyone could pull that off, he could. Logan Lerman is also excellent. He is totally convincing as the sensitive, troubled teen; writing down the answers to the questions in his English class rather than raising his hand, as he is too shy to speak up (I heavily identified with Charlie). His performance is quietly understated as opposed to Miller's Catherine Wheel turn but they both shine in their own ways. I also loved Mae Whitman as MARY ELIZABETH. I could empathise far more with her as the angry, chubby-faced girl who was passed over in favour of her fragile, beautiful friend, Sam. I confess that I do (usually) find Emma Watson a teeny bit irritating, with her vibrating, expressive eyebrow and tremor-in-the-voice acting, but she pulled off a creditable performance too.

It's been a long time since I was a teenager so why did this film speak to me so much?. Perhaps it was because it struck so many chords. The feeling of being an outsider until you finally meet a group of like-minded weirdos who become your social tribe. The main character's love of books. The memory of not really having anyone to talk to and dealing with difficult feelings. Weltschmertz. Then there is the really cool music, although it was slightly frustrating that none of them knew that the song 'Heroes' was by David Bowie.

The film occasionally seems a bit sentimental and slightly clichéd but overall I stand with my first statement - it's incredible. It has been compared to Dead Poet's Society and The Breakfast Club and there is a touch of both films about it, but to my mind, this one is far better and encompasses the teenage experience (or perhaps that's just my own experience) far better.

The Mitford Sisters

I love the books of Nancy Mitford and, like many people, I am intrigued by the Mitford family, so I was very happy to receive the biography  - The Mitfords by Mary S. Lovell, for my birthday last year.

The biography details the lives of the eccentrically diverse, aristocratic family, tracing them from the late Nineteenth Century to the end of the Twentieth. With it’s eccentric father David - Lord Redesdale, - Mitford (the basis for Uncle Matthew in Nancy’s Pursuit of Love and Love in a Cold Climate, the six sisters with their polarised political affiliations and early life of the only brother, Tom, you can certainly see the rich source material that Nancy drew on for her books.

It is no mean feat to write about such a large and vastly different cast of characters and it does make for a captivating read. However, I felt moved to write about this biography (which was published in 2001, so it’s hardly a current publication) because many of the issues illuminated in the book are still very pertinent today. I found myself having an almost visceral reaction (of disgust) to some of the things I read and I wanted to explore this reaction by writing about it.

Despite loving Nancy Mitford’s fiction, I only knew a little about the Mitford sisters, with a vague idea that they counted a fascist, a communist and a devotee of Hitler, amongst them.

The author of the biography states at the beginning that she won’t be making any judgement on the sisters’ political affiliations. But I feel that, given the subject matter, this is slightly irresponsible of her, not to say disingenuous. One of the reasons I felt moved to write about this book is because in places, Mary S. Lovell comes across as an apologist for fascism. She also makes frequent comments, excusing certain ‘character’s behaviour or condemning others, which give the distinct impression that she is not nearly as unbiased as she purports to be.

Of course, any writer is going to bring their own prejudices, preconceptions and political ideology to the table; it’s impossible not to, just as it is impossible for me as a reader, not to apply my own feeling, thoughts and experiences to the table, as I read it.  I felt deeply uncomfortable when I read about Diana Mitford’s fascination with and subsequent marriage to Oswald Mosley, as well as her frequent visits to and friendship with Hitler, in the lead up to the Second World War. I then felt physically sick while reading of Unity Mitford’s idolisation of Hitler and her close links to various members of the Nazi party. Unity’s fascination with Hitler took her to Germany, where she studied German and she orchestrated meetings with him. She was in love with him, she trembled violently whenever he entered a room and he eventually noticed her and befriended her, she used to take tea with him. (It all sounds so ridiculously domestic and mundane. She wrote letters to German newspapers praising Hitler and the Nazi regime and professing a wish that England would adopt similar methods and do something about the ‘Jewish problem’ in England. Lovell writes that Diana and Unity, with their blonde hair and blue eyes, embodied the Aryan ideal, and she states this without a hint of self-consciousness.

Moving on to Diana Mosley, nee Guinness, nee Mitford. The author makes much of her looks; indeed the way in which the author rhapsodises over Diana’s beauty throughout the book is nothing short of nauseating. A photograph of Diana, aged twenty nine is captioned ‘Diana, at the height of her beauty’.  Much is also made of how in love Diana and Mosley were (despite his many affairs!). Their posture in one of their later photographs is taken to illustrate how well suited and fond of each other they were. As if we were reading about any old society couple - look at those fond old dears! She also reproduces Mosely’s party line that he was not anti-semitic but was merely responding to the aggression his party met with when they marched through the East End. I have just read an article in the serial, ‘History Today’, which repudiates Mosley’s claim that he wasn’t anti-semitic. Unfortunately I can’t provide a link to the magazine as it’s a subscription only publication. But I’m sure that very few people these days would be convinced by claims that Mosley had nothing against Jews. He certainly seemed to be a racist. When he tried to relaunch his political career in the ‘60s, he campaigned against ‘non white’ immigration. It seems rather distasteful to harp on about a person’s physical attractiveness and their supposed great love affair when their whole belief system was so discriminatory and punitive.

I also feel rather frustrated by the author’s seeming lack of psychological insight. For instance, many of the sisters said that their mother never showed them any affection. Nancy in particular is quoted as saying that her mother never picked her up, cuddled her or kissed her. Lovell brushes this aside by saying that Sydney (the girls’ mother) was typical of someone of her class and at that time in history. That may be true, but I feel that a more searching/excavating writer would have made the link between this lack of affection and the way that the children of the family latched on obsessively to certain people and movements and why Nancy had an unhappy and unfulfilled love life. Perhaps this wasn’t the only thing forcing them to extremes. The sisters, Nancy and Jessica in particular, felt resentful that they were denied the right to the proper education, enjoyed by their brother, Tom. Here, Lovell makes the point that had the girls had access to a formal education, perhaps they wouldn’t have achieved as much as they did or been so independent and ambitious as they seemed to be. Perhaps this is true, there’s no way of knowing but I did find myself sympathising with these desperately intelligent young woman who wanted to learn and go on to University.

As I said, I brought my own views and belief system to this book. I mentally applauded as I read of Decca (Jessica) Mitford’s raising social consciousness, her life of political campaigning, and her participation in the Black Civil Rights movement in the States. I had the sense that Lovell is more critical of Decca than she is of Diana (or Unity for that matter!). Why is this? Is it because of Lovell’s own political leanings or was it because in 2001, when the biography was published, Diana, along with Deborah (Debo) was one of the only two Mitford sisters still alive?

We don’t really get a clear picture of Pamela Mitford from the book; she seemed destined to be the one relegated to being the most domestic and least ambitious sister (her nickname was ‘Woman’). Nancy comes across as brilliant, acerbic and capricious. Debo as faithful and level-headed, Unity as insane (literally). Decca is portrayed as someone who is quarrelsome and mischievous but also compassionate, dynamic and in possession of integrity. That they were all clever, witty, articulate, charismatic and (sorry) beautiful is re enforced. That their mother Sydney was rather unfairly represented by some of them is explored. That the family were irrevocably changed and damaged by the Second World War (as were all families who lived through that period) is stated. We learn a lot about what the family did, dates and times and are shown some fabulous photographs. What we don’t get, unfortunately, is a thorough exploration into the motivation of the people featured. But perhaps this is difficult to achieve when writing about such a large ‘cast of characters’, spanning such a large space of time

I did quite enjoy the book (although this may sound hypocritical after all my carping) and I don’t want to sound ungrateful to the friend who bought it for me (thanks, Michelle). But I expected a book which featured photographs of women sitting next to Hitler with rapturous looks on their faces to come accompanied with a little more censure or at the very least, exploration.

The Weighty Issue

There was a brief period in my early twenties when I tortured my body into a slim, (relatively) healthy machine. I achieved this by basically eliminating all fat from my diet. I ate my toast dry and there were certain foods that never crossed my lips; butter, cheese (with the exception of cottage cheese), nuts, avocados, cream, mayonnaise, and any kind of oil. I don’t eat meat anyway so there was no question of lean vs fatty cuts, but I do eat fish and if I had tinned tuna, it had to be in brine. One memorably dismal lunch at a supermarket cafe consisted of a limp salad without dressing, accompanied by a dry wholemeal roll and glass of water. I was nothing if not dedicated. Food had to be functional rather than enjoyable. I did eat  sugar and I ate carbs - the current bad guys of the dietary scene, but because, in not eating fat, I cut one food group completely from my diet, I lost a lot of weight.

The medics approved of me -  according to the charts, I was the perfect weight for my height. This state of being required constant vigilance (as Mad Eye Moody would say).  I was forever scanning food labels to see their fat content and I even took my low fat, low calorie meals round other people’s houses so I wouldn’t be tempted to share the takeaway they were having. (convivial, eh??) In many ways this fat-free diet seemed perfect as you didn’t need to restrict the volume of what you ate and as a consequence, (in theory) you never felt hungry.

When I lost weight I was totally intoxicated by the approval of others; “Haven’t you done well?” They’d say. “Well done you! You look amazing, you’ve lost so much weight.”

I loved hearing it, felt morally superior to my former, ‘fatter’ self. How weird and schizophrenic we become when we enter the world of dieting - I blame those ‘Before and After’ pictures you get in magazines; you’re encouraged to jeer at the former fatso with the comically large, clown trousers and you begin to look at your former self as this disgusting, idiot twin. It’s not the real you, the ‘real’ you has broken free of the fat chrysalis and flown out as a beautifully svelte butterfly.  I felt that I’d cracked the code. I’d finally learnt how to be thin and being thin was the way to be.

Then gradually, from my mid-twenties onwards (after I got my first, ‘proper’, full-time job), something began to go wrong, I started to put on weight. Without me making a conscious decision to do so, I started to introduce fat into my diet again; a bit of cheese here, some marg on my toast there, a Danish pastry for breakfast. I also ate too much, I ate very large lunches, reasoning that I would burn it all off at work. My weight crept up - only a little at first, but eventually to the point where I could grab handfuls of flesh (Like Alan Partridge, I had a ‘fat back’) and where I had to move into a larger size, then a larger one again!  So, I’d gained almost all the weight that I’d lost - why did I not just go back to the fat-free eating again?

This is a difficult question for me to answer.  Was it because I was sick of eating dry toast? Or was it because I didn’t want to be on a diet for the rest of my life? Or was it because of the theory put forward by Susie Orbach in her book Fat is a Feminist Issue, that, on some deeply unconscious level, I wanted to be fat? Did I want that protective layer of fat to act as a barrier - a protective wall, between me and the rest of the world? At first I baulked at the idea - who, in their right mind, would want to be fat? But then I looked back at the times when I put on weight and patterns seemed to emerge. I did seem to put on weight when I felt that there were a lot of external demands on me. The weight gain was gradual - it wasn’t that I went to bed one night a slim 25 year old and woke up fat, the day I turned 26. So perhaps I thought, in the beginning - so I’ve put on a few pounds - does it really matter? Maybe this is just the weight my body settles at.

I’ve always been a comfort eater - ‘’You’ve had a hard day - you deserve this.’ I’d tell myself, as I ate something with little nutritional value but a high calorie content. Invariably something sweet.

I never let it go too far; I was never morbidly obese. Whenever I went over 12 stone I would pull back, cut out sweets and cakes and biscuits (all the sweet stuff) and try to exercise more. I lost weight when I was a bridesmaid, twice, and for my own wedding but I never seemed to be able to get down to my ‘goal weight’. Whenever my weight got down and neared those magical and mythical goal posts, it had an abrupt turn started to creep up again, seemingly of its own accord. Was/Is my conscious desire to be slim and fit, in conflict with a deeply unconscious desire to be fat?

I do think that how you are exposed to food as a child is pivotal in whether you become overweight or not. I don’t really place much importance in a ‘fat’ gene (but hey, what do I know), rather, I believe that if, when you were unhappy or upset as a child, you were offered food rather than a hug/chance to talk, then you will associate food with comfort and this will become ingrained into your way of operating. I remember being offered chocolate, even as I vomited into the sink, after reacting badly to an anaesthetic as a child.

It’s not our parents fault - that’s how they were brought up themselves. And society itself is geared towards smothering problems rather than dealing with them. (For god’s sake don’t talk about your feelings; have a biscuit. You’ve broken your arm? Never mind, have a biscuit. You’ve been a good girl, have a biscuit. You feel like ending it all? Have a tablet!)

If your parents were part of the post-war, rationing generation or they come from a country where food is scarce (and mine tick both boxes, respectively) then you would have been encouraged to clear your plate - another fat-inducing habit.  Habits are very hard to break, especially when they are associated with something essential to our survival. I don’t have any answers, if I did then maybe I would be thin...

Now, for the first time in my life I am only too aware of the need to ‘manage my weight’ for my health, rather than for aesthetic reasons. And do more exercise. Best get myself away from this computer. Happy New Year!

A Christmas Story

Crackers

Lee wrote ‘Happy Christmas’ in the condensation on the window.  She forgot to write it backwards so it would read properly to people outside and Arun did a mongi face at her.

“Do you celebrate Christmas?” Mrs Jakes had asked in that high-pitched, slightly girlish voice of hers, head to one side, eyes leaching understanding.

“Yeah.” Lee had said, and Mrs Jakes gave her a card for her Mum and Dad. It was one of those cheap ones that didn’t stand up properly. She wondered what her teacher would have done with the card if she’d said that they didn’t celebrate Christmas, but when her mum opened the card they saw that it wasn’t actually addressed to anyone, simply signed;

‘Best wishes, Caroline Jakes’.

The teacher had seemed very grateful for the present that Lee gave her.

“I shall put it under my tree.” She'd said.

Dad had wanted to get her a bottle of gin but mum said it wasn’t appropriate as they didn’t know whether she drank or not, so they’d given her a bottle of bubble bath instead.

Dad and Arun met Uncle Ray and Auntie Priya at the station. Lee liked Auntie Priya, she was pretty, she smiled all the time and she never asked them about their homework like the other grown-ups.

Uncle Ray clapped Lee on the back, looked around and told Dad that they really should move to a bigger place but Auntie Priya just said;

“Oh, the tree looks so pretty - did you decorate it, Leora?” (Auntie Priya was the only person Lee didn’t mind using her full name).

Lee nodded proudly and stuck her tongue out at Arun - he had said that pink, green and blue tinsel didn’t go.

Because Auntie Priya was pregnant she was going to sleep in Lee’s bed and Uncle Ray would sleep on his own on the sofa-bed in the lounge. Lee was to sleep on a lilo on the floor next to Priya and she was excited about that.

“We can be like sisters.” She said.

“Yes, I always wanted a sister.” Priya, smiled.

In the morning she did Lee’s hair in a French plait.

“Shame you have to spoil the effect by wearing your exercise kit.” Dad said, looking at Lee’s A-Team tracksuit.

“It’s not an exercise kit; it’s a tracksuit!” Lee said, scathingly.

“Don’t be rude, Lee.” Her mum said warningly while Auntie Priya busied herself with the kettle.

Uncle Ray was watching Star Wars with Arun.

“I love this film!” Uncle Ray shouted. Lee wondered why he always had to shout.

“Peter Yates is getting a computer for Christmas.” Arun said, to no one in particular.

“Good for Peter Yates.” Mum said, pouring the tea.

“And he got a BMX for his birthday.”

“His mum must have robbed a bank.”

“Hardly!” Arun snorted. “She goes to Church.”

“Are you going to Church tonight, Cee-Cee? Midnight Mass?” Priya asked Mum.

“Oh no, I gave all that up-” She looked towards Dad who had taken the back off their old radio and had the bits all over the kitchen table. “I gave that up ages ago.”

“And what do you want for Christmas, Leora?” Priya asked.

“I’ve asked for a ‘Mr. Frosty’ and a ‘Magna-Doodle’.” Lee said, meaningfully.

Mum raised her eyebrows.

The Grown-ups went to visit their Uncle Raj and Lee went downstairs to play with Louise.

Louise’s Mum, Pat was pouring candied peel into a bowl while Lee watched in fascination.

“I suppose your mum makes the pudding weeks in advance, like you’re meant to, does she?”

Pat asked Lee.

“No, she buys it from the Co-op.” Lee replied and Pat smiled.

Lee went into Louise’s room and they played with her ‘Speak and Spell’ but the batteries were running low and the voice sounded even weirder than normal.

Louise lay back on her bed.

“Do you remember when you were little and your dad used to dress up as Father Christmas?”

“My dad never did that.” Lee said. “He always told us that Father Christmas wasn’t real.”

“He didn’t!”

“Yeah. Maybe he didn’t want us to believe in anything…”

“Are you really going to have curry for Christmas dinner?”

“No! I never said that.”

“Your mum told my mum.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know...”

“I wish we could have curry, I hate Turkey; it’s so boring!”

“Yes, I think we are having curry, actually.”

“Can I come round and have some?”

“Yeah, O.K.”

“Really? Your mum won’t mind?”

“Erm, no. She won’t mind.”

“Can Debs come too? She loves curry.  She likes your mum’s curry, anyway, she doesn’t like it from the Taj; she doesn’t like all those seedy bits they put in the rice.”

“O.K.” Lee was starting to worry now.

“She’s allergic to nuts so your mum will have to make sure that there’s no nuts in anything and that no nuts have touched anything; otherwise her neck swells up like a balloon.”

“Oh. O.K.” Lee said, thinking about the oval dish filled with Brazil nuts that her Dad loved.

On her way back upstairs, Lee stressed about the next day. Her parents always offered her friends food whenever they came round but how would they feel about Debs and Louise joining them for Christmas dinner? They didn’t even have enough chairs for everyone; not with Uncle Ray and Auntie Priya there.

When she got back to her flat there was a line of fizzy, yellow drinks on the sideboard.

“Your father has been making snowballs!” Uncle Ray boomed.

“Can I have one?” She picked up a drink.

“Yes, why not?” Ray said.

“They have got alcohol on them.” Mum said, doubtfully.

“Only a little bit; let the kid have a taste, it is Christmas!”

Lee had already put it to her lips.

“It tastes like ice-cream, it’s yummy.” She said, gulping down half the drink.

“What is Advocaat, anyway?” Auntie Priya asked, holding up a neon yellow bottle. Her cheeks were flushed.

“Ad-voh-car; it’s like eggnog, it’s made from eggs and brandy.” Mum said.

“Brandy! I’d better not have any more.” Priya said, patting her tummy.

“I’ve got some ‘Five Alive’ in the fridge; it’s alright if you mix it with soda.” Mum went to get some fruit juice for Priya and one for Lee and Arun too. Arun gulped down his ‘Snowball’ before Mum could take it away but Lee didn’t catch on in time and Mum wrestled her glass away from her.

They were curled up on the sofa watching The Sound of Music, with the big blanket over their legs when the doorbell rang.  Mum, thinking it was carol singers, got her purse from the table.

“Lee - it’s Louise.” Mum called.

Lee felt like she’d been hit - she’d forgotten to tell her Mum about the extra ‘guests’.

Louise looked rueful.

“I can’t come to your house for Christmas dinner.” She said. “Mum says me and Debs have to eat with the family.”

“Oh...Shame!” Said Lee, hoping that her mother was too engrossed in the film to hear what Louise was saying.

“Tell your mum and dad to pop up for a sherry tomorrow.” Mum called out from the sofa.

“O.K. Auntie Cee-Cee.” Louise called.

“I’ll save you a bit of biryani too, if you like.” Mum said, passing Lee a long look.

“Oh, thanks!”

Louise went away happy and Lee went back to Julie Andrews, light of heart.

Darts

Delirious with flu the other night, I watched and enjoyed a programme about the history of televised Darts (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it).

I remember watching the competitions in the ‘80s at a time when the T.V schedules were packed with snooker, boxing and Darts and when (in our house at least) it was against the law to turn your T.V off. Well, not until the little white dot/striped lines/high-pitched whine of shut-down, appeared anyway.

I remember quite enjoying watching Darts, as a sport I found it far more interesting than football or cricket, and the documentary reminded me of how tense the finals could be. It also reminded me of how much people sneered at it (they showed that infamous ‘Not the Nine O’Clock News’ sketch where the ‘sport’ involved the number of times you raised the pint glass to your mouth). I feel that I should champion Darts because it’s very much a working class sport, with its origins in local pubs, and also because it was a sport in which women excelled.

It really bugs me that people take issue with Darts being defined as a sport. If you break down any sport, or any activity, for that matter, it seems rather simple and pointless. I don’t really ‘get’ football but I dislike the nihilistic definition of it as just a load of men kicking an inflated bladder around a field. You could say that of any activity - embroidery is just someone sticking a sharp object into some fabric to decorate it with coloured thread. Cooking is just putting some chemical components together to make something else...And so on. Do we want to be watching ‘open heart surgery’ live or something equally ‘valid’? If people find it entertaining, then it qualifies as entertainment. I know this could bring forth a barrage of comment and criticism of the dire state of T.V and the depths that people stoop to in the name of entertainment. But the point is, is that it’s all subjective, innit? We all like different things. It turns out that I could still quite happily watch a Darts match but football, car racing, and pretty much any other televised sport you could mention, make me want to curl up into a ball and hum gently with my hands over my ears (there is something about the noise of a football match or that buzz saw whine of a F1 race!)

It seems that Darts, like most sports, is a game of nerve as well as precision. Champion player, Eric Bristow (The Crafty Cockney), began to suffer from ‘Dartitis’ a condition which meant that he found it very difficult to actually let go of the dart. He saw psychiatrists and specialists but no one could help him. His then partner, fellow darts champion, Maureen Flowers (Goldfinger), suggested that he practice with someone else, he spent spent hours practicing with and coaching an up-and-coming player and the results were quite interesting.

If you fancy watching the programme there should be a link here:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p0287mq6

Of course, it may only be interesting to those of us doped up on Lemsip!

“It’s your job to pick things up off the floor…”

These are the words that my (almost) four-year old daughter greeted me with when I tried to encourage her to pick up the food that she had dropped on the floor;

“Mummy; it’s your job to pick things up off the floor.”

“It most certainly is not!” I protested, ponderous and plummy in my outrage.

But I must admit that I’ve been reading the book Longbourn - the reimagining of Pride and Prejudice from the servants’ point of view (a brilliant book, would highly recommend it) and have been heavily identifying with the servants. O.K. so I don’t have to render pig fat into soap or stand on the back of a moving carriage while my ‘masters’ are cosily ensconced within, but I do have to get up ridiculously early and be at the beck and call of a couple of capricious despots. Although I don’t actually get a cuff round the ear for any perceived transgression, I do suffer from many little sharp elbows in the ribs, (accidental) head butts and pokes in the eye. I am handed messy things to clean up and I an almost invisible provider of food and have to satisfy someone else’s needs before I even think about seeing to my own. In fact, as soon as I dare to sit down and try to eat or drink anything, the tyrants are already demanding more.

I don’t want this to turn into one of those whinging, when is it ‘wine-o’clock’? I am so hard-done -by posts, not really, I do realise how lucky I am to have my family, I just thought it was interesting that my daughter genuinely thought that my job was to skivvy! And I am splitting hairs here because it is me who cleans up after them but I just don’t like to hear it in black and white! ‘Your job to pick things up off the floor’ - and me a feminist and all! Perhaps she was just trying it on - she is demonically clever, maybe she was winding me up and I’m too easy to get a rise out of. She also asked me what her job was.

“Your job is to play and to learn.” I told her, wishing that we could switch jobs for a minute. “And also (futile attempt to turn things my way) to pick up the things that you’ve dropped, when I ask you to!”

Optimum Health course - part 2

Optimum Health course - part 2

So the optimum health workshop wasn’t so much about health this time and more about helping you realise your dreams. I know that sounds a bit wanky and there’s no way I can make it not. But the workshop was about planning for the future and setting tangible, measurable goals for yourself.

My god it was exhausting; not least because we were talking about what we really wanted to achieve in our lives and what we wanted to change and in the course of discussing these things we opened up about our aspirations and I found this quite exposing. To expand, I felt like a worm under a microscope at times. What did I want? What was stopping me? Had I done everything I possibly could to help me realise these dreams? (Turns out not) Why did I want it? We had to take turns in being the life coach and the client and it very much felt like therapy at points and as such, was immensely draining.

And now I’m thinking - I wish people didn’t know that I wanted to be a writer, I wish I’d just kept it to myself and quietly scribbled away…

One of the things that stops people taking risks and putting themselves out there is fear of rejection, the other is fear of failure, but I like our tutor/life coach’s analogy of watching his children learning to walk, knowing what they wanted to achieve, emulating their role models (parents and siblings) and falling over a good few times before they reached their goal.

And the moral of this story is:

You have to get on board with the fact that you will fall and you have to get back up and try again (and again).