The word(s)

There are three words in the Italian language that send shivers down the spine of women from Bolzano to Messina: 'cambio di stagione'. That is to say, the biannual ritual of putting away spring/summer clothes and getting out the autumn/winter ones, or vice versa.
Today, it was my turn.
As I announced my intentions, The Man hid for the morning in one of his sheds, only to return when the swearing was over, and Roger Daltrey, screaming down the speakers, didn't need to cover his ears to avoid my profanities.
There are a number of reasons why the seasonal clothing update is a gigantic pain in the butt, especially if, like me, you are short, allergic to dust and have wimpy arms. There are hangers covered in clothes to move about the house, high shelves to reach on tiny step ladders, plastic bags to neatly fold everything into that reek with mites. Shoes, bags, sweaters, trousers, dresses and coats: all need doing. Then, time to move to the male counterpart. Even when you think you are finished, it doesn't end there. Oh no. Dirty clothes go to the cleaners' or have to be hand washed. Then put back where they belong. Shoes get reheeled, big bags dropped at the charity shop. What a palaver!

You do find out a lot about yourself in the process, though. In my case: I own way too many black dresses that look almost exactly identical; same for trousers; surprisingly my bags are on an all-time low - need more, lots more; my shoes are mainly beautiful and incredibly uncomfortable, as if I had a personal chauffeur driving me around London; I only buy clothes when I look good, so my wardrobe is full of impossibly small size 2 (US that is) items.
But there may be pleasant surprises too. Like my great grandmother's pink silk gloves and fur stole; my mum's jackets; my adored hats; Best Friend's presents; my dad's sweaters; my leather dress and trousers (yes, I have a fetish, live with it).
Hmmm, it seems to me, I have this year's trends sorted out. Leather, lots of it. If only I could indulge in Celine dresses, skirts and tops. And, considering all the hooha around the new series of Mad Men, this winter I am going to attempt the vintage look and use my inherited classic pieces. Just need to stock up on Spanx...

I should know better

And avoid very high blood pressure first thing in the morning..

It may be sound surprising, but I actually do a bit of research for this blog. Which is why this morning I was reading a book about relationships. Well, I had to put it back in my bag, as it was seriously annoying me. What a bunch of clichés!! 'Men want to live near a pub with a dart board; women near a shop where they can buy birthday cards'.. 'Women tend to see sex a bit like housework'.. 'When you are in a long-term relationship you can go out for long walks without looking like a saddo, or stop wearing heels..' You can see my blood starting to boil while I write this, can't you?

Maybe I am weird, different, but this pile of rubbish does not resonate at all. Maybe that's why I am an EI: I should just conform, bake cakes and be concerned about the colour of my curtains.. Sod it. I'd rather be on my own. Or with a man who loves shopping and drags me out to buy sexy underwear.

Shout (let it all out) - Part 2

Second discovery. Life cannot always be all bells and whistles.
And this is a tough one for a firecracker.

There are times when you need to learn to chill out, accept your environment, keep calm and carry on. Being yourself, while at the same being able to channel your energy, to modulate it in order to avoid the emotional tsunami effect. In life, like in business, going out there shouting 'hey, here I am, and I am wonderful', is no longer enough to have success. You have to listen, to pick up signs, to understand what is required to fill a need. While being your best, fun, unique self. Easy, uh?

Maybe I have ahead of me one or two quiet years. Not bad, not revolutionary, just fine. And instead of fretting, looking for the next Big Bang, I shall stay put, make the most of these calmer times, make space for friends, for myself, for what/whom I love, and take it easy.
To do so, and this is a first, I have actually questioned my behaviour. And didn't go from feeling the most amazing creature on earth to completely worthless. I just set myself some personal goals (aaahhhh, how did that happen???), and now I am trying to live by them.

I do have a favour to ask, though. Can someone please let me know if I start to become boring? That is not a good look.

Shout (let it all out) - Part 1

There are a couple of things I discovered this week that I would like to share with you.

First of all, our evolved brains can be very misleading. Especially when they try and silence our innate ability to process the environment irrationally. Res cogitans versus res extensa. Mind versus body. Head versus heart. Truth is the two are actually in agreement most of the time. What we tend to see is just a projection of each. Even better, two sides of the same polyhedron. And then we march on to squash the defeated party.
Often, it is a matter of background noise. We talk ourselves in and out of decisions, and forget what it was we were questioning in the first place. When all we need is silence. To allow the inner voice to speak on behalf of both brain and guts.

It may be simplistic, but I have discovered that what feels right is usually right. In the short, medium and long term. That nagging feel, that itch at the back of the brain, that is a sign that something is off key. Something is wrong. And the worst thing we can do is to cover up the discomfort with coping mechanisms: food, alcohol, cigarettes, sport, work, whatever.
However, be warned. This is incredibly painful. Being mindful about feelings can result in embarrassing bursts of tears, for no apparent reason. The first step is not to look for solutions to the problems, just acknowledge them. To stare at them in the eyes without running away. Or burying them.

I know, nothing new. But it is very novel when you start acting by it. And I have to say, it makes a lot of sense.

Signs

In Roman times, augurs famously studied the flight pattern of birds to interpret the will of the gods. These days, if, like me, you are a bit daft and pretty bad at making decisions, you may find yourself looking for signs pretty much everywhere. How often and in what way depends on how daft you are. Me, you can guess.

Some, let's face it, are just plain excuses. 'Hmmm, I almost tripped and fell on the way to the underground station, it is a sign, I should get a cab'; 'this bar of chocolate was left on my desk, with the wrapper half open, I have to eat it'. Some are a matter of coincidence. Like when you are thinking about a guy and his name appears in a book or on television, and then he calls you! Others are just stupidity: 'if you read my birthday backwords you get his second cousin's wedding anniversary: we are meant to be together!'
Oh, get this, somebody's phone just went off and the ring tone was 'Paranoid Android', the title of one of my latest posts. While I was writing another post! OMG, this is cosmic harmony!

You get the gist.
It is basically delegation to the nth degree. A complete surrender of responsibility. 'If you look around hard enough you will find the answers to all your questions'. As well as a desperate search for connections, cause and effect relationships, the reassurance of world order.

Of course, this could lead us to a whole new discussion around fate and free will. And the good old question: does everything happen for a reason?

Does it?

The Morning

Run, run, run; work, work, work; talk, talk, talk; read, read, read; type, type, type; drink, drink, drink; catch a train/tube/taxi; listen, listen, listen; cook, cook, cook; nod, nod, nod; load/empty/load dishwasher/washing machine/shopping bags; phone, phone, phone; text, text, text; smile, smile, smile; think, think, think; worry, worry, worry; shout, shout, shout; cry, cry, cry; feed, feed, feed; buy, buy, buy; exercise, exercise, exercise; wish, wish, wish; wonder, wonder, wonder; plan, plan, plan; walk, walk, walk; dream, dream, dream..

Still, why am I permanently exhausted these days?

Are you talking to me?

I have to admit that a few weeks back when reading about Robert Crampton's privacy-protecting, anti-technology firm stance in The Times Magazine, I slightly smirked. I can understand facebook-phobia, but having never shopped on Amazon? Had my favourite columnist committed to a battle to preserve local bookshops, I would have marched by his side. But being scared of leaving a cybertrace of your literary preferences.. Really?

Until.. until this morning. When, shock and horror, I received this email:
Amazon.co.uk recommends: "You: On a Diet: Lose up to 2 inches from your waist in 2 weeks"

What??? Just because I bought books about fitness and health, poetry, business and physics, I need to go on a diet??
You can just imagine some idiotic programme adding up the information, can't you? Poetry: woman (name sounds like it too), business (probably spends too much time sitting on a chair), fitness and health (yep, she definitely does, and instead of moving her butt she prefers to read about how she should be moving her butt), physics (that's it, a deformed fatso). Whatever you do on Amazon, unless you don't mind being called 'fat', never ever order this deadly combination.

As far as I am concerned, on top on concealing my age, my height and my weight, from now on I shall also segregate book purchases by theme. Waterstones for fiction, Borders for music and verses, Foyles for science, my local for fun, Fopp for whatever they stock on that day. And Amazon for.. nothing. That's it, I am highly offended, thankyouverymuch.

Now, if you would excuse me, I need to go for a run, followed by a low-calory salad with no dressing, and a spirulina body wrap. Have a nice weekend, everybody.

Simple things

The last day of summer. An unexpected joy. A sunny evening after a storm. An amazing view on the way back from work: the stretch South of the river from Tower Bridge to London Bridge. One of the most spectacular sights in the world, in a privileged group with the Sydney Harbour, the San Francisco Bay and the Gulf of Naples. An impulse food buy: a pot of chips with plenty of mayo, eaten on my own on a bench by the Thames. A bunch of beautiful flowers at the train station, from myself, to myself. A cigarette at dusk, in the garden, with a grumpy cat, a tiny frog and dozens of noisy ducks.

A little treasure to preserve, as the days get shorter and darker, as the clouds gather again. A sudden sense of happiness at the end of a hard day.

Paranoid android

As you may have guessed from my previous post, I annoyed a friend with my paranoid EI behaviour. How silly of me. I know. One day I will hopefully learn to shut up, or at least to tailor my words to my audience (which is ironic, as targeting audiences with the appropriate copy is actually my job). Two nights of sleeping over it, and 20 cigarettes later, I hope of being slightly wiser. Although I don't play golf, will I learn from my mistakes? As they say, watch this space.

Most importantly, though, something slightly magical happened yesterday. On top of my paranoia-induced scuff, I am also having a couple of long and rubbish weeks at work, and some other sad bits going on. So, while sitting at my desk feeling sorry for myself (self pity being one of my specialities), I thought I could really do with a friend. And, bzzzz, a text arrives from Antipodean Friend #1 asking me to join her for dinner on Friday. Followed by an email from Single Friend #2 for drinks. And a message from English Rose for cocktails. Emails from Twin Friend, Married Friend #1 and Writer Friend to share and understand our worries. I even got hold of Best Friend on the phone, after weeks of chasing each other. While the ever so evasive Male Friend #3 called me from a plane about to take off. And, finally, Male Friend #2 kept me company via messenger while I was up until late to finish some work.

So, for a few minutes, I shall put my paranoia aside and dedicate this little illiterate blog to all my friends. Near and far away. Angry or sad. Happy or disappointed. Thank you for being you. And sorry for being a bit difficult at times. I am trying.

One - 8

George had enough of all this nonsense. What the hell was going on with him? The incessant fever, the nausea, and then the visions? That was way off the limit of acceptability.
George decided that he needed to get a grip. The thing about London is that you can buy whatever service you may need. He was therefore going to get himself a caring stranger to squeeze fruit juices, buy medicines and make his bed.
There. Back to reality. Back to normality.

George also decided that three days of illness were more than enough. He was going to return to work. To her bed. To his mates.
But sometimes our believes, our convictions are not meant to translate into reality. Because our narrow minds are just unable to see the big picture.
George was most certainly in for a surprise.

The ripple effect

Few things are as contagious as a loud laugh.

Where: the London underground.
When: a boring afternoon on the way home from work.
Who: some strangers and I. And a very funny book.
What: a ripple of laughter propagates from my shaking shoulders and watering eyes to the neighbouring seats, edging towards the carriage door.
How: I read a passage that is at the same time witty and silly, and cannot stop myself from laughing out loud in public. The more I read, the more I laugh. I try to hide behind the book. The lady sitting in front of me starts laughing too. So does the couple on my right. And the one opposite. And the girl on my left. I look up and two rows of seats are now in stitches.

Awesome. It makes me smile every time I think about it.