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Or rather, to be precise, mixed blessings and things-where-you-have-to-look-hard-to-find-the-blessing-if-there-is-one-at-all-and-sometimes-I-do-wonder-about-that.
It rained last night, and the weather has cooled off enormously. Very refreshing; but being British I am already catching myself thinking "I hope I don't get rained on on my way home."
I am going to WOMAD in ten days time. Going to WOMAD is great, but I am now worrying about the weather (see above).
My Mum is having eye problems and her optometrist wants her to see a specialist; she is desperately worried and unhappy about it and there is nothing I can do except say reassuring things and listen while she worries.
And my blood sugar levels are Not What They Should Be, and I have to take a glucose tolerance test (which involves drinking a whole bottle of lucozade - a seriously ugh situation) to see if I have developed type 2 diabetes. I'm in the low-risk group, except for being overweight. So I'm hoping that it will turn out to have been a blip of some kind in the initial test results. Really, really hoping. Diabetes is manageable, and properly managed it doesn't have to have that much impact on one's life - after all, Steve Redgrave is a diabetic, and it clearly hasn't held him back - but it is a progressive and irreversible condition, and a diagnosis is truly a life sentence. So I am really, really hoping it turns out okay. And I am pledging myself firmly to go on working to shed the excess weight accumulated during my broken-wrist-inspired months of comfort eating, comfort drinking, and cheese-indulging, this past winter.
Feeling a little low, and determined to find the good in it. Not sure what good I can find in Mum's woes, though, and I hate seeing someone worry themself sick. If only there were something concrete I could do to help.
Showing posts with label cycling in rain. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cycling in rain. Show all posts
Tuesday, 13 July 2010
Tuesday, 16 June 2009
Colour Therapy?...
or, is red food restorative?
My mother has a theory that it is. If I were living with her at the moment, I would go home and wail pathetically at her, and she would give me beetroot and tomato risotto and a glass of red wine for supper. And she would say "That'll put some blood back into you."
I had beetroot for lunch, thinking of her, and I'm tempted to do the risotto and red wine thing for supper too, although I really shouldn't be drinking mid-week. But - well - what can I say? Holy hormones? - holy cow, yes! Boy I just love (not) being a woman at these times. I'm tired and crotchetty and washed out, and I feel as if something has beaten me about the midriff for twelve hours straight.
Hoping to cycle home without being rained on tonight, after being caught in a spectacular cloudburst yesterday evening thanks to stopping for five minutes to buy ibuprofen at Boots on the Chiswick High Road.
My mother has a theory that it is. If I were living with her at the moment, I would go home and wail pathetically at her, and she would give me beetroot and tomato risotto and a glass of red wine for supper. And she would say "That'll put some blood back into you."
I had beetroot for lunch, thinking of her, and I'm tempted to do the risotto and red wine thing for supper too, although I really shouldn't be drinking mid-week. But - well - what can I say? Holy hormones? - holy cow, yes! Boy I just love (not) being a woman at these times. I'm tired and crotchetty and washed out, and I feel as if something has beaten me about the midriff for twelve hours straight.
Hoping to cycle home without being rained on tonight, after being caught in a spectacular cloudburst yesterday evening thanks to stopping for five minutes to buy ibuprofen at Boots on the Chiswick High Road.
Tuesday, 19 August 2008
Tuesday evening...
Spider's comment on Thursday last stuck in my mind; she wrote of having to be
"...bold, and asking for more than you think you deserve"
and that just about sums it up, doesn't it? The biggest hurdle to creativity is not the infamous blank page, and certainly not, in my case at least, the pram in the hall, it's the personal insecurity and the effort involved in asking for "attention to be paid". No matter how much one tells oneself that one is a grown adult, capable, talented, with successes and triumphs under one's belt - still those little nagging inner voices are there in the background, saying softly and insidiously "you don't deserve to get anywhere, stay safe, don't try anything risky, spare yourself the humiliation". UGH. The legacy of internalising goddess-knows-what individually-harmless minor comments in early childhood. I do not believe for one moment that any of the people who said to me "Don't overreach yourself, play it safe" when I was a small child had any desire to undermine my confidence; I was, after all, a demanding, ferociously bright, competitive and short-tempered kid endlessly trying to beat an equally bright, taller, stronger elder brother. Not match him; beat him. Hence the broken collar bone, the impalement in the laurel tree, and a number of other injuries (- A&E Doctor:"Where did you land, dear?" Me, aged six: "Half on the stairs and half in the hall, but it would have been all in the hall if Stephen had let go of my leg." Another A&E doctor, on another occasion: "What was it that hit you?" Me, aged seven: "The toy rhinoceros my brother threw at me.").
Lack of self-confidence is one of the most crippling things I ever deal with. At least nowadays I DO deal with it; for years, I just hid. It took a very odd experience to force me to see that I was not helping myself by never facing up to anything that scared me.
I was discussing "Red Dwarf" (remember "Red Dwarf"?) with a colleague and found myself saying I identified with Rimmer. Her appalled disgust and disbelief brought me up short. Was this really such a dreadful concept? I found myself seeing myself momentarily through another's eyes, and it took me aback. In my lunch break I went out and sat in the rose garden of Eliot College, and thought about the whole Rimmer/me issue at some length. I saw myself over time turning more and more into a Rimmer-like character. The sun was shining, there were roses blooming all around me, and I was imagining a future as a sour, embittered, disliked tagger-along on the lives of others. I took my diary and wrote in it "I have seen the future, and it doesn't work."
A week later I went to an open day at the local adult education centre, got chatting to one of the art department staff, and on impulse signed up to do an art course in the autumn term. It cost me £120, and it was the best £120 I have ever spent, because it changed my life.
If I ever meet Chris Barrie, I must thank him, because in a way he changed my life, too.
Since then - that was in 1993, good grief - I've overcome many blockages, done many things that were difficult or challenging, and faced many fears. It does get easier with time and experience. But I wouldn't say I'm particularly good at it yet.
I'm in a new job at the moment, and it's bringing me up against some of the same issues. I cannot bear getting things wrong. Other people can make mistakes when they are learning a new rôle; I cannot. I feel like screaming with frustration at my inadequacy, over minor errors that I would comfortably excuse, were someone else to make them under my tutelage. It's as if the job is a new Stephen, and I'm playing catch-up once again, competing against a standard I cannot beat.
Sorry, this has all gone rather cod-psychology tonight. I'm tired after a rather mad day and last night's very enjoyable (if frustrating at times - why? - because I'm not good enough at it!!) lesson at the Lindy-Hop club. I'm going home now, which means cycling in the rain because like a mutt I came to work by bike today in defiance of the weather forecast.
Not feeling terribly creative; I chiefly want to sleep, in fact. The fresh (& wet) air will do me good, no doubt. Goodnight, all.
"...bold, and asking for more than you think you deserve"
and that just about sums it up, doesn't it? The biggest hurdle to creativity is not the infamous blank page, and certainly not, in my case at least, the pram in the hall, it's the personal insecurity and the effort involved in asking for "attention to be paid". No matter how much one tells oneself that one is a grown adult, capable, talented, with successes and triumphs under one's belt - still those little nagging inner voices are there in the background, saying softly and insidiously "you don't deserve to get anywhere, stay safe, don't try anything risky, spare yourself the humiliation". UGH. The legacy of internalising goddess-knows-what individually-harmless minor comments in early childhood. I do not believe for one moment that any of the people who said to me "Don't overreach yourself, play it safe" when I was a small child had any desire to undermine my confidence; I was, after all, a demanding, ferociously bright, competitive and short-tempered kid endlessly trying to beat an equally bright, taller, stronger elder brother. Not match him; beat him. Hence the broken collar bone, the impalement in the laurel tree, and a number of other injuries (- A&E Doctor:"Where did you land, dear?" Me, aged six: "Half on the stairs and half in the hall, but it would have been all in the hall if Stephen had let go of my leg." Another A&E doctor, on another occasion: "What was it that hit you?" Me, aged seven: "The toy rhinoceros my brother threw at me.").
Lack of self-confidence is one of the most crippling things I ever deal with. At least nowadays I DO deal with it; for years, I just hid. It took a very odd experience to force me to see that I was not helping myself by never facing up to anything that scared me.
I was discussing "Red Dwarf" (remember "Red Dwarf"?) with a colleague and found myself saying I identified with Rimmer. Her appalled disgust and disbelief brought me up short. Was this really such a dreadful concept? I found myself seeing myself momentarily through another's eyes, and it took me aback. In my lunch break I went out and sat in the rose garden of Eliot College, and thought about the whole Rimmer/me issue at some length. I saw myself over time turning more and more into a Rimmer-like character. The sun was shining, there were roses blooming all around me, and I was imagining a future as a sour, embittered, disliked tagger-along on the lives of others. I took my diary and wrote in it "I have seen the future, and it doesn't work."
A week later I went to an open day at the local adult education centre, got chatting to one of the art department staff, and on impulse signed up to do an art course in the autumn term. It cost me £120, and it was the best £120 I have ever spent, because it changed my life.
If I ever meet Chris Barrie, I must thank him, because in a way he changed my life, too.
Since then - that was in 1993, good grief - I've overcome many blockages, done many things that were difficult or challenging, and faced many fears. It does get easier with time and experience. But I wouldn't say I'm particularly good at it yet.
I'm in a new job at the moment, and it's bringing me up against some of the same issues. I cannot bear getting things wrong. Other people can make mistakes when they are learning a new rôle; I cannot. I feel like screaming with frustration at my inadequacy, over minor errors that I would comfortably excuse, were someone else to make them under my tutelage. It's as if the job is a new Stephen, and I'm playing catch-up once again, competing against a standard I cannot beat.
Sorry, this has all gone rather cod-psychology tonight. I'm tired after a rather mad day and last night's very enjoyable (if frustrating at times - why? - because I'm not good enough at it!!) lesson at the Lindy-Hop club. I'm going home now, which means cycling in the rain because like a mutt I came to work by bike today in defiance of the weather forecast.
Not feeling terribly creative; I chiefly want to sleep, in fact. The fresh (& wet) air will do me good, no doubt. Goodnight, all.
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