STRICTLY COME DANCING!!!

Yes, Strictly Come Dancing has come and gone leaving a sequinned storm in its wake! To start with, I am going to go off topic but I have just noticed that when Strictly Come Dancing is abbreviated to SCD, it comes close to sounding like a sexually transmitted disease and the way some people reacted to it this year, it is almost comparable - first pleasure, then pain, accusations, disgust and diseased comments! Now, I am not saying that everyone reacted in this way but there was quite a sizeable part of the Strictly population that were apoplectic at the final result.

When Strictly 2016 started in September, it was with great anticipation that my younger daughter and I sat ourselves down to watch. Something we have been doing quite religiously from the first season when Natasha and Brendon won. Only then, Rebecca would dance behind the sofa, for which I am grateful; it would've been distracting if she'd chosen to dance in front of the sofa. A couple of years later, she stopped dancing (having achieved perfection) and joined me on the sofa and together we have loved every single minute of our Strictly 'journey'!

The good thing about SCD (hee hee) is that I actually recognise some of the 'celebrities' unlike some other reality shows. This year was no exception. I thought Naga would be good but  she turned out to be nada. If you think that is harsh, I was being kind and resisted playing around with her surname 'Munchetty'! I confess to judging poor Ed Balls. I thought he was going to be the token 'laugh' factor. One of those irritating 'can't dance, won't dance' people who delude themselves that they are entertaining us when most of the time they are irritating the hell out of most of us, Ann W., John Sargeant, et al. Some viewers vote them through and everyone it appears has a good laugh until good dancers start getting voted out. Then those same people, along with the silent audience who didn't find them entertaining in the first place, start hissing with disapproval and they then thankfully get voted out.

Ed Balls turned out to be quite a revelation. Perhaps because the BBC haven't yet started same gender couples, he wasn't given Anton as a dance partner. He got Katya who actually gave him proper routines which he usually accomplished with no mistakes. He is single handedly responsible for Gangnam Style receiving a revival on all dance floors this Christmas. I dread to think of the dislocated shoulders and fractured spines that might result from drunken attempts at jumping on partners' necks and riding them! However that is not my favourite dance routine performed by Ed Balls. 'Love potion no.9' wins hands down. Every time he swung his hips to 'ooh' and 'aah', Rebecca and I howled with laughter and at one point we both fell off the sofa clutching our sides! Who knew Ed Balls would provide so much entertainment and be camper than a Pantomime Dame at Christmas.

Fast forward to the semi finals. It appeared, from all the comments on social media, that Danny and Claudia were set to sail through to the finals.Shock horror, they were in the dance off and poor Claudia had to leave." Unbelievable!" "Fix!" were some of the more polite reactions. The outrage was palpable and comments, particularly against Ore grew quite venomous. I have to confess I was surprised, particularly that Louise got voted by the public to go through to the finals. I thought she was by far the least accomplished dancer that evening and was in the bottom two despite Bruno's '10' for her Samba. Contender for one of those Specsavers' advertisements if you ask me. I definitely felt for Claudia. In my opinion, she was subjected to age discrimination both with the choice of music she was given most of the time and from the judges, particularly Darcey. Claudia's quick step (to an old classic) was brilliant yet she only got  two 10s (from Len and Bruno). It appeared that Darcey was happy to award 10s to some contestants despite the odd mistake but for some reason she could not bring herself to pick up that 10 paddle for Claudia.  I no longer call her Yah Yah Darcey. After this year, I think Farcey Darcey suits her better.

Leaving all the fuss, accusations and vitriolic comments on social media aside, a week later, we sat ourselves in front of the TV with much anticipation to watch the finals. Personally, after Danny and Oti performed their Samba to Magalenha, I would have been quite happy if they were awarded the glitter ball there and then! But back to the finals, Ore and Joanne performed all their dances amazingly well. Their show dance was brilliant! Unfortunately, Danny and Oti's quickstep wasn't perfect, which is a shame. Their show dance, in content, was the exact opposite to Ore and Joanne's but equally brilliant, as was their Samba; repeated with as much perfection as the first time. Louise's 'What a Feeling' cha cha cha had a few wobbly moments that apparently none of the judges noticed. Perhaps they are all due a visit to Specsavers! What can I say about her show dance except that it moved poor Bruno to tears. Perhaps it was the realisation that his favourite wasn't on par with the others.  Or perhaps he did pay a visit to the aforementioned opticians and  realised that he had been over marking her all along. Not that I have any thing against Louise. However,  her celebrity supporters on the BBC claiming that everyone loved her (speak for yourselves luvvies) and that she was going to win, didn't help her case.

You may wonder from my comments (I flatter myself that you care) who my favourite contestant was this year. Well, for the first time I had no favourite. First  it was Danny. I know he is supposed to be a trained dancer but the non trained competitors, I am sure, are aware of this after all these years. It is not a level playing field, or dancing floor in this case, so please stop bleating on about people being trained. As long as they improve I don't let it spoil my enjoyment, if I did I would miss that fabulous Samba. Then Ore started improving - his jive was amazing, so he became my favourite. Then Claudia with her Argentine Tango became my favourite, particularly after Craig commented on her, to paraphrase, 'studied landing on the floor'. A studied attempt to not award her a 10 in my opinion.

Another Strictly season has come and gone. On the night and in my opinion, Ore deserved to win. Danny Mac, who I had not heard of before, will have benefited enormously and Louise will carry on smiling! Before you know it, nine months will pass and it will all start again!

PS Ore appeared on the BBC Breakfast show and mentioned that the contestants got on so well that his partner Joanne would admonish him for being too friendly with the competition. Now we know why he burst into tears sporadically... he wasn't allowed to play with his friends! Dee dums.

Strictly come cruising

Okay, as a family we are unitedly coming out of the closet. We like going on cruises.Surprising, since none of us is a hundred and twenty years old; maybe if you pooled our ages together but we are not going there. Also, I have another confession; Rebecca and I are and have always been avid watchers/fans of Strictly come Dancing since day one.

Three weeks ago Strictly had their 'launch' show of this year. There was glitz, glamour and enough cheese to feed a small nation. There was also enough tanning spray to drown that same nation. But we loved it.....only just. Every year, the BBC seem to get a gigantic nervous tic and run around trying to fix things that aren't broken as far as strictly is concerned.. For example, when they got rid of Arlene and replaced her with that Dixon woman (can't remember her name and can't be bothered to google it either). Her laugh made hyenas green with envy and many viewers purple with irritation.  Thankfully she left and we got Darcy Yah Yah Busell in her place. Even if you don't agree with her opinions or comments, you can respect her right to have them. I am sure you're nodding your head and saying 'yah, yah' in agreement.

Another thing of great irritation to me was their decision to have the judges dance their way to the judging table. We all know that one way or the other, their credentials include knowledge of, and experience in, dance. So why on earth would they change things to include Craig spinning like an out of control top, every single week. For a choreographer he seems to lack imagination when it comes to his own dance moves. One of these days he is going to over spin and land on someone in the audience. Darcy has definitely retired from dancing since she doesn't bother to do any dancing. She sashays her way, while Len strikes a pose. Bruno's idea of dancing appears to be swatting imaginary flies while being given electric shocks  in strategic parts of his body.

Anyway, after 'launching' the show this year, three weeks have passed and Strictly starts tonight in earnest. Can't wait!
24.9.2016
Well, last night's show was fun. Once again, Craig spun, Darcey sashayed, Len posed and Bruno? Well, he actually danced! Must've taken his medication. Judge Rinder was a revelation! He spun around not unlike the hyphenated judge but with more panache. Craig acknowledged this (the dance moves not the panache). To paraphrase, "You (Judge Rinder) did the Shanay turns which I do at the start of the show and replicate every week." Well, I have a suggestion for you Craig. Why don't you stop shanay turning, sit behind the judges' table and replicate that every week.

Anyway, as usual, I went slightly off topic and published this post before I made the 'cruising' connection. This summer we went on a Norwegian cruise. As I've said before, as a family we all love going on cruises and this just like the others, was fabulous. Except this time there was entertainment from an unexpected quarter. The dancing. I am not talking about the super dance entertainment from the professionals, I am talking about the dancing from the passengers. For some reason, 'normal' dancing where couples hold each other and move to the music, occasionally following dance steps, seems to be a thing of the past. Strictly seems to have taken over! The female singer of the band would announce "we now have a cha cha cha" and the band would strike up a song quite unlike any cha cha I've heard. The flock (of about five, the rest were just voyeurs) would then dutifully and in some cases labouriously, clomp their way through the 'cha cha' or whatever dance the singer told them it was. I couldn't take my eyes off one couple doing the cha cha. The lady flung her left hand (heaven help anyone within striking distance) and the man simultaneously slapped his waist. Her fingers were placed exactly as the strictly judges recommend. She was quite taken with herself and so were we... taken with amusement. I wonder how the passengers who just want to dance normally in the good old days before Strictly got so popular, feel? I know I would be miffed but I am not. How can I grumble when we are provided with additional entertainment from an unexpected source?

Shatterred Vaz

While most people have heard  of non-stick pans,  I have heard  of a non stick vase......  Keith Vaz. Some babies are born with silver spoons in their  mouths (off spring of William and Kate for example), some are born under a lucky star, some may even be lucky enough to have stardust sprinkled on them at birth: however, I am convinced that KV had fairies and angels working overtime painting a coat of teflon on him. That is the only 'logical' explanation I can think of to explain his longevity in politics.

.I remember his first visit/holiday to Goa many years ago, after he was elected a British MP. He was feted and lauded by the Indian and Goan press, much to my annoyance. Yes he was of Goan origin and he appeared to be a successful (if minor at the time) MP in England.Big deal. Throw a marigold garland on him, picture him sipping  coconut water and be done with it. But no.We had to endure reams of newspaper columns dedicated to him. To add to it, he was single. There was speculation as to whether he was on holiday to choose a prospective bride. Some single women (with aspirations) and their mothers (with bigger aspirations) held their collective breath but to no avail. He went back to Britain a single man and later married a barrister by the name of Maria Fernandes (could you get a more Goan  name than that!).

Anyway, many years and alleged accusations later, teflon Vaz survived and as with all people who manage to (allegedly) hoodwink for a significant amount of time, the cloak of invincibility descends.At some point he thought he could get away with calling himself 'Jim', the washing machine man and hiring rent boys. At this point, I am going to get on my feminist high horse. Not something I do often, In fact my high horse bucks in surprise when I do jump on it - so rare is the occasion. But this time, I feel I must. Why are women who sell themselves called prostitutes and whores but men who do the same are innocuously called 'rent boys' Those 'rent boys' that KV used were grown men (thankfully)and therefore (male) prostitutes. I have never heard anyone call (women) prostitutes 'rent girls'. Okay, my rant is over.

 The stupidity and enormity of what he did and more so, what he tried to get away with by turning against the newspaper when exposed, indicates a man so pompously blinkered and used to getting away with his (alleged) misdemeanours that he actually had the gall to be upset at being caught. His first reaction was not embarrassment or remorse at what he'd done but annoyance and anger targeted at the newspaper that exposed him. We are now left with this question - Is there still a thin coat of teflon left or is this the end of the line for non-stick Vaz?

Mother Teresa

Over two decades ago, something special happened to me. Something that lives with me to this day. I had finished work one evening and was heading to the bus stop to get my 'should take 7 minutes but takes half an hour' bus ride home.I think it was fortuitous that this was my intention, since it meant that I passed the first junction that I would normally turn into, had I decided to walk home. Some people thought I was insane to walk home since it took a good 45 minutes in the heat in my baby heel shoes (offspring of Mr and Mrs High Heels) my favoured form of foot wear. However walking served a dual purpose; first of all it meant that I didn't have to exercise when I got home (I wistfully remember doing this quite regularly in my twenties) and secondly, it meant I avoided the aforementioned bus ride home. Now you might wonder how a 7 minute bus ride could possibly take half an hour. Well if you have ever taken a bus ride from Panjim City to Miramar, you will need no explanation. If you haven't, let me paint a picture.

I would wait for the bus at a stop that was almost midway, so the chance of getting a place to sit was non existent. Also non existent was any form of a queuing system, so you were pushed and jostled and you either gave up or you pushed and jostled back until you managed to get on. After the bus was full to capacity, the bus conductor would blow his whistle and the bus chugged along (cyclists and joggers overtook us) to the next (market) stop, where yet more passengers would be waiting to get on the already overcrowded bus. Now the bus conductor would be in full voice, instructing the standing passengers on what pose to strike, so as to enable more passengers to squeeze in around you. Finally, after the bus was packed enough to give a sardine a severe case of claustrophobia, the conductor would shout "barik zao" which loosely translated means 'make yourself thin!" Stupid man - if I knew the secret to that, I would be rich and would be travelling in chauffeur driven luxury instead of the transportation of torture that was his bus.

Anyway, to get to the point, I took the second turning which took me past Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity's House. As I approached, I noticed about a dozen people waiting outside the house, most of whom were poor migrant workers. There was a buzz of excitement and anticipation. I stopped when I got closer to the house and to my utter delight, a car drove up and Mother Teresa got out! The joy on the faces of those workers  is something that I remember to this day. Although diminutive in stature, she had a presence and aura about her and intuitive intelligence in her deep set eyes. She smiled at us and spoke gently to a couple of the workers, holding their hands. She then went inside the house, leaving me inexplicably, euphorically happy. An effect she had on a lot of people. I am so grateful that fate (and some rude bus conductors) made me decide to walk that route on that day when Mother Teresa was visiting Goa. Today she is being made a saint but to me and millions of others, she always was a saint. It is just official now.

BREXIT 2!!!!!

Yes, the United Kingdom has left the (EU) building. No one expected it; the Brexiters hoped for it and the Bremainers were cautiously optimistic that it wouldn't happen.There seemed to be a perception that bigots, nationalists and racists were the only ones that would be voting to leave. Well, one thing is clear - it wasn't only bigoted racists who opted out because we all know that 52% of the British public are far from being either bigoted or racist.  It's not to say that a percentage of those who voted out are not bigoted racists, I am sure a few are, but the rest came to a decision - whether it is the right decision or not, only time will tell. It is a democratic referendum and the people have voted and it is time, disappointed or not, to come to terms with it, in my humble opinion. Also, I did say before the vote, that Brexit may win if some people said that they were voting to remain but would secretly vote 'out'. And who can blame them if the perception was that they were either bigots, racists or xenophobes if they did so.

Like most people, I assumed that the UK would vote to remain and since the next day was a working day, I decided to have an early night. I was gobsmacked to hear the news in the morning. Once I (and my gob) recovered,  I naturally expected that those who voted to remain would be bitterly disappointed and those who voted out would extremely elated. Unexpectedly, and much to my surprise, I didn't see too much gloating from the Brexiters.  In fact, other than a certain politician ('toad-face' is my nickname for him; quite unkind I know - I choose the people I insult quite carefully) grinning like a Cheshire cat, I think most Brexiters  have been quite gracious in victory. On the other hand, I didn't expect tolerant, liberal people (most Bremainers would describe themselves as such) declaring that they were 'gutted', 'crushed', 'scared witless', ' doomed'  and most of all, I didn't expect young people to call the older generation 'selfish and short sighted', declaring that 'those wrinklies are going to die soon anyway'. Immediately, a petition was set up for another referendum.  Two and a half million people have signed it. It gives rise to so many 'what if' scenarios. What if the next referendum favours the 'out' campaign yet again. Are the Remainers going to demand yet another vote just to be on the safe side?Alternatively, if enough of the younger generation bother to turn up this time around and Bremain win the second referendum, does anyone seriously expect Brexiters to shrug their shoulders and walk away wearing 'whatever' tees shirts? Unlike some countries, we are lucky enough to live in a country where no vote rigging or corruption took place and due democratic process was observed.

In my earlier post 'Brexit!!' I hoped that the scaremongering would stop. No such luck. Brexit came out with that shameful 'immigrants' poster and Bremain weren't much better.The morning after the vote, while the nation was coming to terms with the result of the referendum, someone on Radio 4 commented that the Remainers had over egged the pudding. I couldn't agree more. Instead of calmly refuting and counter attacking the claims made by Brexit, Bremain threw in a few nuggets of their own, even threatening the older generation with their pensions. It probably incensed the 'wrinklies'  enough to thump their walking sticks in rebellion and vote the other way!  Unfortunately, the over egging continues even now. I do hope it stops because I don't want this nation be an example of a self fulfilling prophecy. I hope somehow, enough ingredients get put in the pudding to balance it out and make it edible. And someone please keep it away from Nicola Sturgeon and her giant Ostrich egg,which she obviously has no qualms about cracking and delightedly flinging into the pudding.

In the meanwhile, Juncker and his cronies in Brussels demanded that we 'GET OUT NOW'. Oops, force of habit I guess, someone forgot to tell them that they can't dictate terms to Britain any longer. With their bulging salaries, bulging pensions and bulging egos, they are understandably furious and possibly scared about their own jobs. However, Angela Merkel is being conciliatory and one can only hope her calm attitude rubs off on the rest, as we forge ahead into unknown territory.

Clean eating

I was thinking (I do that sometimes) that I do not know anyone who is Vegan.I know of Vegans but I am not personally acquainted with anyone one who follows a vegan lifestyle. I know some vegetarians, although some of them eat fish, which makes them Pescatarian of course. Calling themselves vegetarian while tucking into a fleshy haddock is a bit of a contradiction in terms but perhaps they are afraid that they may be mistaken for Presbyterian.

Not that there is anything wrong with being Presbyterian at all but perhaps they imagine placing an order in a restaurant, "I am Pescatarian, so please could I have a cod and a loaf of bread". The waiter shouts the order to the chef. "The Presbyterian lady wants a cod and a loaf of bread. The chef shouts back, "is she hoping to feed the whole restaurant?" 

One friend said to me that she calls herself vegetarian and not pescatarian because she doesn't want to sound pretentious. Actually it doesn't matter what you call yourself, once you restrict your diet on ethical grounds, you appear to be taking the moral high ground and the rest of us defensive apathetic humans (self-judgement is always harsh)are secretly, rightly or wrongly, going to think you are pretentious. Trying to dumb yourself down and calling yourself vegetarian while eating fish is terribly patronising. 

I remember the first time I heard of a vegan was  almost twenty years ago. Some friends were expecting a young lady from across the pond as a guest. I was told that she was vegan and that they had to find a supermarket that sold almond milk. Twenty years ago, almond milk wasn't a supermarket staple as it is now.

I learnt two things that day - that vegan wasn't short for vegetarian and that you could get 'milk' out of almonds! Now, I don't want to judge this young lady, I am sure she was perfectly lovely but I did think it was a bit of a cheek sending her lifestyle choices and requirements before her visit. If my friends visited her in turn, would she stock her fridge with steaks and dairy products I wonder? hmmmm...

Anyway, that was a long time ago. In the interim, for a select few, all that self deprivation seems to have led to restless dissatisfaction with being called just 'vegan'.  Perhaps it sounds too much like 'vegetarian' and they no longer want to be related to vegetarians; after all vegetarians have the luxury of drinking milk and wearing leather shoes. 

Also, heaven forbid, there are some pescatarians masquerading as vegetarians. So some vegans appear to have decided to elevate their moral high ground so that the lack of oxygen at that height has made them unable to see how insulting it is to the rest of us that they call themselves 'clean eaters'.

Unheard of fruits and powders have become 'super foods' and unqualified people have become food gurus -  a dangerous mix for the vulnerable and infinitely irritating to the not so vulnerable. The 'bandwagon' I've spoken about in previous posts, is getting overcrowded with all these clean eating 'gurus' and their followers. 

Lets hope someone slams the brakes on this particular bandwagon and all the 'pretentious' eaters (a much more suitable name I think) get thrown off. That way impressionable people will not feel tempted to swap their perfectly well balanced meals for chia seeds and spirulina smoothies.

You might wonder why I am ranting about clean eaters. Well, in addition to their smug, sometimes ill advised dietary tips, I think vulnerable people could get taken in and spend money they don't have, to follow a diet that may do them more harm than good. Unlike scientists and nutritionists with qualifications, a clean eater can offer tips and dietary advice that is completely misleading, and vulnerable people could get sucked in with misinformed optimism.

I was diagnosed with a life changing though not life threatening disease, I researched natural healing methods and  'clean eating' was offered as a possible way to go. First of all, there was a subtle implication that  I probably brought it on myself because I wasn't a clean eater (how dare they!) and second of all, isn't it bad enough and depressing enough to have a disease that no one on the planet can find a cure for, I now have to joylessly eat grass flavoured cardboard and most likely have no positive result.

Fortunately, I am cynical and older (just) and mature enough to dismiss this unqualified nonsense and get on with my life. But what if this had happened to me in my twenties. I can see myself spending loads of money on things I couldn't afford, on ingredients that would possibly make me miserable (I love my food) with no positive outcome. I think I am quite justified in calling this a rant.

Who let the Pigeons out?

It's been awhile  since I have posted on my blog. One might wonder if one is suffering from writer's block,  if one presumes to be a writer and is presumptuous enough to assume that one has readers. One is going to stop now and speak (or write) in the first person. I actually don't think I am afflicted with writer's block because I think  that when I called this blog 'To rave or to rant' I exaggerated how much I may have to rave or rant about. Sometime back this would not have been a problem but since I have been practising 'Mindfulness' (with limited success as I established in my previous post) I monitor my conversations with myself. Yes, I do have conversations with myself - we all do. Most of these conversations are judgements or constant opinions about everything that takes place in the present, sometimes making links with the past and occasionally, projecting into the future, which ironically keeps me (and most of us) from participating actively in the present moment. 

For example, if I am  driving along and a pigeon decides that the middle of the road is quite a good place to be and despite my approaching vehicle and the sound of the motor, the bird continues to occupy the middle of the road, I might even have to honk my horn at the last minute before it takes the hint and moves out of the way. The reality is that disaster has been averted (albeit mostly for the pigeon) and I should enjoy the rest of my drive and more importantly concentrate on my driving. But do I do that? Do any of us? Absolutely not. There is conversation to be had in our heads. "That stupid bird! Now I know where the term 'bird brain' originated, just as well I noticed it, if I hadn't I would have run it over and then I would have felt awful, even though it wouldn't have been my fault"......... and on and on it goes.Our mental conversation never stops. Ironically, the poor bird has taken flight and moved onto other things. No thoughts like 'stupid humans with those big, moving, noisy machines We were here long before there even was a road here. How dare she honk at me like a prancing goose, no respect at all. Why couldn't she have waited until I was done?' No, while the bird hasn't given the whole incident a second thought, I have given it a second, third, fourth and possibly a fifth thought. Who is the real bird brain here one wonders. 

So that is my problem; My life is quite ordinary like most peoples' lives. Mindfulness has taught me to rave and rant in the present moment, if indeed a situation calls for one or the other, and then to move on. But most of the time, everything that happens falls somewhere in between. I have now decided to take a leaf out of the book of those people who have decided to fuse words together and come up with words like Brangelina,  Brexit and Bremain. Yes, I have decided that since most situations in my life are somewhere between raving and ranting, when I am undecided, I shall now 'Ravant'! Yes all you Brexiteers and Bremainers, three can play that game. From now on, I shall ravant about my life observations and situations unless they are worth raving or ranting about, in which case I shall happily let rip and rave and rant to my heart's content. 

Having made up a blended word, ravant, you would expect me to end this post on a ravant. But I could not possibly be predictable, so I'll end on a rant. The other day, I was driving down a road where there were parked cars to my right. I of course had right of way (unless you live in that part of the world where you drive on the right hand side of the road, in which case don't tax your brain to understand, just trust me on this) although you would be hard pushed to come to that conclusion if you saw the behaviour of the motorists coming in the opposite direction. Although I was mildly irritated by this, in retrospect, I appreciate the fact that most of them had the decency to slow down and stay quite close to the parked cars on their side, as they passed me. That was before a white van came hurtling towards me. The driver had obviously crowned himself king of the road and obtained his licence from the Driving School for Imbeciles. As there was no sign of him slowing down or moving closer to the cars on his side, I was forced to swerve at the last minute and hit the pavement with a thud. My handbag and its contents went flying and my chest and it's three dimensional bits hit the steering wheel. Fortunately the driver in the car behind the van was considerate enough to stop (speedy Gonsalves carried on) while I collected myself before driving on to pick my daughter up from the train station, with trembling legs, concern for Boo (my car) and a fuming mind - where is Mindfulness when you need it. Later that evening, I recounted what happened to my husband and he asked me if the driver had stopped. With a rush of justified sarcasm I answered,  "Yes,"  And added  "He also apologised profusely and promised never to do it again." On reflection, the driver was probably using speed and bullish behaviour to compensate for the lack of something in his life, I could take a few guesses but your guess is as good as mine.

Mindful of being Mindful

I genuinely thought that my next blog was going to be a continuation of my previous post 'Fifty Shades of White', which I ended on the promise, or threat depending on your opinion, of 'to be continued.....' Well, I actually did go and see a Specialist and she did confirm that I had Vitiligo and I did get emotional but right now I am not in the mood. I felt so low last weekend, I developed a new found empathy for snails and slugs and any other of God's creatures that rise less than an inch above the ground. The Consultant was kind, supportive and empathetic; I couldn't ask for more, unless you're talking about a cure. The truth unfortunately is that although she offered me lots of advice and alternatives, finding a solution to Vitiligo is like shooting in the dark. You may or may not hit your target - its all down to luck or something that rhymes with it.

Anyway, I decided that I cannot afford the luxury of wallowing. Besides I have very little patience for people who wallow and I'll be damned if I am going to let this disease turn me into a 'wallower.'  Another thing I can't abide by is using the word 'fight' when referring to a disease. The disease is in my body and if I fight the disease, I fight my body, which means I am fighting myself. Now, now, don't go calling me names like 'hippie' and 'moong eater,' even if the latter is true -  I am rather fond of moong. And if you don't know what moong means, just Google it for goodness sake. In my time (yes I am of a certain age) we had to look it up in the Oxford dictionary (or indeed any other dictionary). 

Well, I don't 'fight' diseases and I eat moong, so I hardly expect anyone to raise their eyebrows in surprise when I say that I am a believer in Mindfulness. If you have read any of my previous posts,you will get the impression that I am not a bandwagon jumper. In fact very selfishly, when I discover something that works for me, I secretly hope that it doesn't attract too many bandwagon jumpers. I am going to go slightly off topic now because I have had a terribly exciting light bulb moment. I am imagining a lovely jumper with the picture of a wagon and 'Mindfulness' written above it!! I am also imagining getting rich with this idea and now I am back to earth with a thud!

When I was 15 years old, I discovered yoga. I did my yoga exercises almost everyday and became impressively flexible. If I had any illusion that it also made me svelte, that was quickly put to rest when I met a family friend. "I heard you do yoga?" she enquired. "Yes", I said with reasonable pride. "Oh," she said looking me over, "you really don't look like you do." That's when I discovered meditation. I practised yoga for nearly 15 years and meditation on and off till today. I had a bit of a break from meditation when I had children. If anyone dares to ask me why, I would dare to say that you either don't have children, or you have children and a nanny, or you have children and a live in mother-in-law, in which case meditation would be your lifeline!

About ten years ago, at a particularly stressful time in my life, I noticed that whatever was upsetting me kept going on in my brain as if it was on a loop. (I was practising awareness without realising it.) Anyway, I decided to stop all thought for a couple of minutes just to give my brain a rest. I did this from time to time and then realised that it was like very intensive meditation. So I started meditating again and didn't think too much about the stilling of my mind until I watched an Oprah Winfrey show. She was interviewing Eckhart Tolle who was talking about stillness and being in the present moment, also known as awareness and mindfulness. I was excited (and disappointed that I hadn't discovered mindfulness!). I bought Eckhart Tolle's book 'A New Earth', loved it and completely converted to the thought of being present and living life in constant awareness. Some years of practising mindfulness before the bandwagoners arrived. 'Mindfulness' became a buzz word. Courses started being run and certificates started being dished out. I thought and still think it's great. What I don't think is all that great is when you take an original idea and don't have the guts to stick with it. I remember reading somewhere where a course was being run, that the course involved no spirituality at all. I understand that it was meant as a reassurance but to me, whether it is meditation or mindfulness, getting in touch with your spiritual side is hugely important. Discovering that spark of God inside you (yes I know 'hippie', 'moong eater', 'sandal wearer' keep them coming!) is extremely important to attaining peace and awareness.

Now I would like to say that after ten years, I have peace pouring out of every pore in my body. I would like to say it but I can't because I don't. Far from it. I have actually developed what I call 'a venting moment', where I vent (to put it politely) either to myself or to someone unfortunate enough who I trust and is in the vicinity and then I bring myself to the present moment. No brain chatter - I ban it (and if you belief that, you'll believe anything!) Ideally, I would like that to happen every time but I haven't reached there yet. If it is something that really upsets me, like my Vitiligo, I resort to what has always worked for me - writing about it and using humour.

To kick off the humour thing, I would say that I laugh in the face of Vitiligo - even if it is not the face I have been used to all my life! The other day I chuckled to myself while applying my 'tanning' lotion (which in itself is a joke considering I am brown skinned). The reason for my mirth? I reminded myself of the middle aged female equivalent to balding men who indulge in 'comb overs!' They don't kid anyone and I suspect neither do I. I am big on empathy these days although I will definitely draw the line when it comes to a certain man who is not kidding anyone with his ridiculous wig, whose name rhymes with Chump and who has aspirations to run the most powerful country in the world!

The other day, a friend asked if the doctor had given me anything to help with the Vitiligo. I said that I was given some potent steroid creams that may or may not work. If they work, fabulous! If not the creams might result in stubble which will hide the white patches! To be honest, I am exaggerating. Most people assure me that they don't even notice my patches, mind you, maybe they are just being polite, I do live in Britain after all.  I can only imagine the comments if I still lived in Goa. "My God, what happened to your face?!" "So sorry no?!" (I am Goan - I'm allowed to make fun. Besides,remember the family friend's comment regarding my yoga practice?).

I guess I am preparing myself for if/when it gets worse. In the meantime, I will carry on writing and using humour. 

Bye, until next time when I have something to rant or rave about. Don't bother wondering whether I was ranting or raving here.  I am the author and even I'm not sure! 

BREXIT!!!!!!!!!!

BREXIT!!!!!! Really?????  Mind you this is not an opinion about whether we should stay or go. This is an opinion on the word ‘Brexit.’ From the land of Shakespeare, at an important time, with an important decision to make, instead of being generous with our words and starting up important debates like ‘to go or not to go that is the question’ or ‘to stay or not to stay that is the other question’, we lazily fuse words together and come up with ‘Brexit’. Something that sounds like a bran remedy for constipation!

 Now I have used the word ‘we’ but really, who actually came up with it first? There is no doubt that we certainly turned into sheep and jumped on the baaaaandwagon. I can’t remember the last time that I actually heard someone say, ‘Britain’s exit from the European Union’ or ‘Britain’s exit from the EU’ or indeed just ‘Britain’s exit’. Since I do not know who came up with the word, I have a theory – it was a ‘smart’ phone (probably one named after a fruit). I have always smiled at the irony of a ‘smart’ phone that has sent a completely different and idiotic message to the one I intended, using words that don’t make sense and making me look anything but ‘smart’. Actually, I lie. I don’t always smile – I sometimes shout or use a cross word (to put it politely). I have this scenario where a hack was on his fifth whiskey, missed some keys on his laptop while typing about the referendum and the word ‘Brexit’ jumped out and he thought (in an exaggerated British accent that you hear in American shows) “That will do, couldn’t be ar*** to change it”. And created an unattractive word that no one will thank him for. Please remember, I am indulging my imagination here.

A couple of Sundays back, I watched Boris Johnson being interviewed by Andrew Marr. He was his usual blustery self (which is why his hair is permanently tousled – all that blustery air blowing upwards). He was very enthusiastically informing us about the exciting opportunities we could have if we were Brexiters (or Brexiteers as I recently read in a newspaper – heaven help us all, it keeps getting more ridiculous). A picture of pure Utopian proportions was being painted. It was Brexit this and Brexit that and then to my complete and utter horror, just when I couldn’t think of a more irritating word, BJ came up with one – ‘Bremainers’! He was so taken with himself and his use of ‘Bremainers’ that he appeared to forget the adage ‘there is no such thing as bad publicity’ and used it repeatedly. Fortunately for me, I didn’t forget that the TV has an ‘off’ button.

Seriously, I am finding it difficult to make a decision. It would be easier if both sides didn’t dramatically exaggerate the consequences, behaving as if they have access to a huge crystal ball and predicting extreme doom and gloom if you voted for the opposite side. Will this island really sink from the sheer weight of migrants, as the Brexit camp will have us believe? (Yes I know that I have jumped on the baaaaaandwagon but it’s only a joyride, I will be jumping off in a minute.) Will we have an ending that is opposite to Cinderella’s - ‘from riches to rags’ as the Bremainers will have us believe? I don’t know - as I type this, I am shrugging my shoulders the way they do in films about the Mafia – just painting a picture in case (and I flatter myself here) someone is actually reading this.

The best thing I have read recently on this topic is the referendum prayer that the Church of England has sanctioned – ‘God of truth give us the grace to debate the issues in this referendum with honesty and openness.’ Are you listening, all you Brexiters and Bremainers? No more scaremongering, just honesty and openness. If that happens (and pigs might fly but please send them in the opposite direction of David Cameron), we might actually listen, and if you are really honest and open, we might actually come to an informed decision. The God of truth might then prevail and Britain might carry on being Great.

Fifty shades of white - Vitiigo

Should I rave or should I rant? Well, it should come as no surprise that I am going to rant yet again! This time it is against my decision to use this attention seeking title. I know many people pretend not to have read the book ‘Fifty shades of grey’. Well, I am not one of them. I don’t pretend; I have genuinely not read the book because from what I hear, the best thing about the book is its title. All smut, no substance doesn’t actually entice me to read a book – give me a good crime thriller any day (or night which is when I tend to read). Anyway, I digress, as one often does while ranting. Just to be clear, I am not ranting against the book, its author or its readers. I haven’t read the book (or books, I have heard, horror of horrors, that there are sequels) so, despite the impression I am giving, I am fifty shades of neutral.

I guess the reason I am actually using a slightly frivolous title is because it is a terribly non-frivolous and personal topic that I am writing about. A few months back, I noticed a small white patch (the size of a 5 pence coin) on my face, between the left side of my mouth and my jaw. I squinted to get a closer look and then dismissed it. But it kept getting lighter and lighter (hence the title) until I could ignore it no more. It also increased in size very gradually. The corners of my eyes near my nose started to lose pigmentation and a few more white spots decided to take up residence on my face, like unwelcome guests at a party thrown by teenagers when their parents are away. And, just like those parties, it appears to be leaving devastation in its wake.

My GP has referred me to a dermatologist and it remains to be seen what the outcome will be. I suspect it will confirm Vitiligo. I don’t recall any member of my family having Vitiligo and as with everything that doesn’t affect you personally, it is easy to dismiss it or feel mildly sorry when you see someone who suffers from it. I remember when Michael Jackson’s skin colour changed and he said that he had Vitiligo, I harrumphed in disbelief. A likely story I remember thinking at the time. In my defence, I wasn't the only one who thought or said it, or indeed harrumphed. I have done some research and apparently it is an auto immune condition and, with no familial connection or physical cause, it can be caused by stress. Now, I am not a medical person but I have a sneaky suspicion that ‘auto immune condition’ and ‘stress’ are sometimes polite ways of saying that no one has a bloody clue! And if the word ‘idiopathic’ is thrown in as well, your suspicions are confirmed and your goose is well and truly cooked.

So, if I do have it, how do I cope? It’s not like a ‘proper’ disease where people trip over each other to offer ‘thoughts’, ‘prayers’ and hope for a ‘cure’. To start with, there is no apparent cure. And thoughts and prayers appear to be reserved for life threatening diseases (please forgive me for sounding ungrateful and a bit sorry for myself).Never mind that psychologically this disease can be life destroying. It can also be extremely isolating. No one calls to find out how you are; how you are feeing;  whether the disease is contained or spreading.The reason for this, I suspect, is that at some point I am sure most of us dread getting a serious disease, hence we can empathise but I suspect no one actually imagines suffering from Vitiligo. Why would they? It always happens to someone else…..until it happens to you.

I will be seeing a specialist next week but I am not holding my breath. That would be plain stupid, since a whole week of holding my breath would lead to fifty shades of blue! Seriously, I can guess what the outcome of the diagnosis will be, but until then I will keep calm and avoid looking in the mirror because, superficial though it may seem, it saddens me to gradually see the face of a stranger looking back.

To be continued.........

25-10-2016

Well, I did see the dermatologist and as predicted she diagnosed Vitiligo. I got emotional and thank goodness she was very empathetic. She prescribed a very potent steroid ointment which I started using and amazingly, after about two months, my skin started re-pigmenting! Not a 100% but enough to make me cautiously optimistic. I was loathe to stop after two months as advised, so I carried on for a bit longer and watched as more pigment kept filling in,very slowly but going in the right direction. 

 I had an appointment with my dermatologist in August and it could not have gone better. She and I celebrated the fact that my lesions were practically re-pigmented bar for a slightly speckled look. I actually didn’t have any makeup on because I was seeing her and I wasn’t self-conscious for a change. BUT and that’s a big but (hence the caps) I had to stop the very potent steroid cream as it would thin my skin and cause even more problems. Thanks to the internet I have actually been able to see the result of overuse of this steroid. She cautioned me as well, so I moved to tacrolimus and the patches started reappearing. Not like wild fire but spreading nonetheless. And back I go to feeling self-conscious, depressed and all the rest. This is a cruel disease. Not just because it changes your appearance physically but it can sometimes change it in a cruel way like someone with a paint brush and a sick sense of humour. For example, the pigment below my nostrils started fading. Which is bad enough but it decided to leave a thin line of pigment, thereby giving the appearance of two brown streams pouring from my nostrils. Yes a disease with a macabre sense of humour and I had to get it.

I have been reassured that the tacrolimus can actually work but it can take a while, so I am waiting (though not holding my breath just in case I turn blue and heaven knows I don’t need another shade to add to my already ‘interesting’ face!) with a touch of optimism and some cynicism.

It is now March of 2017 and I am up and down on this roller coaster Vitiligo ride. Unfortunately there appear to be more downs that ups, so I have developed a new philosophy, "it is what it is". With acceptance comes peace.

Sugar Love

How do I start my first ever personal blog? Should I rave or should I rant? Well, against my better nature, I've decided to rant. And, believe it or not, I do have a better nature; it makes a rare appearance but it is there buried in layers of cynicism and one day I may actually have something to rave about. But not today. Today I have decided to befriend that much maligned ingredient – sugar and rant against the maligners. The biggest modern day nutrition crusader of all – Jamie Oliver – had an opinion and he brought out his pained expression, the same one he used when informing us about the disgraceful school lunches our children were consuming, to accompany his opinion. I thought that we would see him and his expression on a ‘School dinners revisited’ programme. I was wrong. That ship has sailed apparently, leaving behind a cargo of fat it was meant to take with it.

Now let me make it clear – I do not dislike Jamie Oliver. I don’t love him the way millions of people do but I don’t dislike him either. In fact, I have on a couple of occasions googled his recipes and tried out a couple. I won’t tell you the results because that is probably an indication of me as a cook – I did say that I had a better nature. Just as I neither like nor dislike Mr. Oliver, I neither like nor dislike sugar. It has its place in my food cupboard and if it wasn't for my fondness of wine, I probably would not consume much sugar at all. So you might wonder why I am ranting. Well, it’s to make the bigger point of our apparent inability to listen or understand anything unless it is endorsed by a ‘celebrity’.

I remember before the school meals exposé by Jamie Oliver, I had watched a programme on the BBC showing us exactly what went into chicken nuggets. It was quite horrific. It was disgusting. It was sick making stuff. The reconstituted meat was pretty awful to watch much less come to the realisation that it was what went into our children’s bodies. I remember mentioning it to some friends who tut tutted and simulated outrage, more out of politeness I suspect rather than real shock or anger. No one appeared to notice, no one made a fuss and chicken nuggets and their reconstituted contents, continued to be cheerfully consumed both in schools and at home. Fast forward to a few months, bring on a celebrity chef and everyone starts to froth at the mouth.  How dare our children be forced to eat this awful food! In schools no less! How dare the Government give just 3p (I exaggerate I know) for each child’s meal! How dare! How dare!  Changes were made, Jamie Oliver was declared a saint and saviour of school dinners and everyone moved on.

Press that fast forward button again and everyone’s weight appears to be up. Mine included. And I am aware that it is probably because of my liquid consumption of sugar found in grapes. But I take personal responsibility to do something about it. Not saying when or where! Exercise and moderation will sort most weight issues out. Before I go any further, I have to apologise and say that not everyone’s weight has gone up. A certain chef trimmed down before agilely jumping on his soap box to tell us what we already know – that sugar is bad for us. The Government, made up of politicians, that rare breed of human beings who resist temptation with every fibre of their being, decided that the right and pious thing to do for its people is to tax sugary drinks. Do they really think that the personwho goes to a vending machine for a coke, will actually reach in his or her pocket, stop midway, remember that is a 20p extra and walk away for their own good? If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.

Apparently, the slogan ‘sugar is the new fat’ is now passé; the latest information that we are being given is that bacon is worse that smoking. Any takers? Not JO surely. He must be exhausted from his last ‘fight’ and besides doesn't his friend own a pig farm?

By the way, if like me, you cook most evening meals and are a tiny bit fed up, don’t worry. Recently, guess who popped up on a TV advertisement? Yes, he has joined forces with a company and together, they have pledged to take all the hard work away from cooking meals. The solution? Well, they will send us the ingredients and recipes for our meals! Doesn't that warm the cockles of your heart? Before anyone thinks of getting their heart and its cockles warm, may we all please remind ourselves that there is another option – on line recipes and on line supermarket shopping! I suspect it will be just a tad cheaper as well.

I shall stop now and rant no more…….until the next time!