I warn you now I am feeling combative and I intend on taking no prisoners with this post so, if you are up for it, here goes. If there’s one phrase that is guaranteed to get on my nerves its: But it’s alright for you. It is usually uttered in a whiney voice by
people who are, for one reason or another, wallowing in regrets about their own life choices whilst imagining that everyone else has it easier than they do. 
 
Granted some people do have it tough, sometimes through limited opportunities and sometimes because fate seems to have dealt them a particularly cruel hand. Ironically though, these people are usually too busy dealing with whatever life has thrown their way to spare any time for a pity party. No, the moaners tend to be people who, in the grand scheme of things, have nothing to complain about. However, they are somehow harbouring under the illusion that they deserve to be happy and successful all
of the time and any feelings of discontent cause them to lash out in bitter disappointment. 

The truth is nobody is happy all of the time. In fact, we are lucky if we are happy some of the time and, frankly, I’ll settle for not being in abject misery. Those of us with any sense, learn early on that life is a series of ups and downs. When you are doing well and things are going your way, make the most of every single moment because it’s a slippery slope back down again and, sure as eggs are eggs, at some point you will be skidding and sliding your way back down. 

The moaners of the world tend not to see this and carry around with them an air of wronged bitterness that makes me want to slap them. Only today I had someone say to me, “But it’s alright for you, you don’t work.” Fair enough I am not currently working but I will run out of money soon enough and have to go back. This person has the same options that I have. She could take the risk of not getting another job or knowing that, when the time comes, she will be in the worst possible conditions because, let’s face it, anything worth having is taken up by permanent workers. Workers who, like this woman, enjoy the security of day to day familiarity and knowing they will have a pay cheque at the end of every month. It’s all about choices. Both of these options come with their pros and cons but please don’t start complaining once you have made your choice. 

Another ‘but it’s alright for you’ I get a lot centres around children. I don’t have any. That’s my choice but all of the people I know who are parents made their choices also. None of them were teenage mothers who made a mistake and had to live with the consequences. No, we are talking about intelligent women, some of whom were well into their thirties when they decided to give birth. How then can they say, without a trace of self awareness that they didn’t know how hard it would be? How could they not
know? I find looking after myself complex enough so God only knows how hard it is looking after a small child. 

The thing that particularly annoys me though is the way they turn something joyful into a chore. Like I said, I don’t have children but I like them. They’re funny, weird and enormously entertaining and yet, whenever I point this out to parents, I can’t tell you the
number of times I get the grumpy assertion that I don’t have them full time as a response. That’s my choice and I have to live with it. Maybe when I’m older I’ll regret not having had kids and grandkids. Mine is always going to be a quiet and solitary old age but one thing’s for sure; you won’t hear me whining about it. 
 
There are other types of moaners, the ones who seem to feed on anxiety and who seem to have a black cloud permanently overhead. Their favourite ‘but it’s alright for you’ stems from the assumption that if you are not bleating about your anxieties morning, noon and night then it’s because you don’t have any. The truth is we are all anxious; the world can be a big, bad, scary place. Yet again though it’s all about choices, we can allow our fears to cripple us or we can find ways of ignoring them and getting on with life. Whoever said that a problem shared is a problem halved was delusional. In my experience a problem shared is a problem quadrupled. The minute you give credence to your fears by talking about them,they spread like wildfire. 

I’m sorry if I sound harsh but I am doing this for the good of mankind. We have to stamp out this bleating tradition and try counting our blessings instead. Life is no easier for anybody else, we are all just trying to find our way the best we can. And if I ever utter the words, ‘but it’s alright for you’, then please, do me a favour, and bludgeon me to death.

I know it’s probably not normal and I am wishing my life away but I'm already scouring magazines and shops for sightings of autumnal fashion. It’s my favourite season of the year for no other reason than I love autumn clothes with what can only be described as a passion. 
 
Winter’s okay, there is nothing finer, after all, than a jaunty winter coat and a pair of boots. Spring and summer though leave me cold; maxi dresses and spaghetti straps just aren’t my thing. No, as far as I ‘m concerned, autumn is where it’s at. 

I sometimes think that my ideal job would be a personal shopper. I know the layout of Hobbs and Jigsaw better than the people who work there anyway. I wouldn’t need any training, 35 years of reading Vogue has served me well. In the spirit of philanthropy then, I thought I would share with you some of my life’s work to help you embrace the coming season. 

1.  If you are over the age of ten, never ever ever wear leggings outside of the house. The reason for this is twofold. Firstly, unless you have the body of an athlete, and even then it’s hit and miss, they simply do not flatter. They serve only to add girth to the thigh and hip area which, in my experience, is never a good look. That problem aside, even if you are happy with the thought of a fat arse, those leggings will drag you down. They are the first step on the road to slobbery. Let’s be honest here, we all like to slob around in our pyjamas and sometimes the thought of never having to get dressed can be appealing. But I beg you do not take that route; the next thing you know, you’ll be trudging around the supermarket in pyjamas and hair curlers. Leggings, my friends, are the first step on a slippery slope. 
 
2. One of my mother’s favourite sayings is, “Buy cheap pay twice,” and never were truer words spoken. This goes for all things and my advice is to always spend as much as you can afford and don’t skimp. This means decent skincare products, those people who tell you that supermarket home brands work just as well are lying. Same goes for hair care and cosmetics. Spend more and you will notice the difference. Likewise with clothes, unless you are a teenager and looking for throwaway fashion, spend more and you won’t regret it. In my experience, expensive clothes last longer and so in the long run cost less. Plus they look better because they tend to be well cut and better made. I have made the mistake of buying cheap only for it not to survive
even one wash which probably made it the most expensive one wear garment ever. Buy less but spend more and you won’t even notice the difference. 
 
3.  Stick to what suits you and you feel comfortable in. Experimentation and change is for teenagers and fools. By the time you are thirty you should have found your favourite style and my advice is stick to it and care not what anybody else is wearing. To step out of your style zone merely makes you feel self conscious and that will undermine any sense of style that you are hoping to achieve. I love hats. The minute I see someone in a hat, be it chic or quirky, I know that I will like them. However, I am not a natural hat wearer and so can’t pull off the same panache that veteran hat wearers seem to achieve with ease. Over the years I have succumbed to folly many times and bought magnificent hats only for them to sit unworn on a shelf. The moral of the story is stick to what you know and you won’t go far wrong. 
 
4.  Moving on to my gentlemen readers, you have my sympathy, you really do. You are in a double bind. Sadly we live in a society where we are all judged by appearance and yet vanity in men is so very unappealing. My advice to you is this, whatever efforts you may devote to your grooming and style, simply deny it. Go to the death swearing that you have been favoured by the Gods. As far clothes go remember, comfort = confidence = style. Thus stick with what you know. Jeans will always serve you well just so long as you remember that double denim is the cardinal sin. 
 
There you have it then my life’s work is done. I know to some this will all seem shallow and silly but I happen to believe that feeling good about our appearance plays a large part in determining how happy we are in our own skin. Keep your eyes peeled then for autumn ideas and before you know it you’ll be strutting your stuff and ready to take on the world.

Well here we are, the Olympics are upon us and, far be it from me to question the wisdom of ploughing millions of pounds into paying for them, when we are in the grip of the worst recession since the Great Depression. I would never be so churlish as to deny other people their pleasure but I have to confess I'm not all that excited by the whole shebang. Be that as it may, the games will be going on in the background of my life; like expensive wallpaper. 

The thing is sport just doesn’t interest me. I don’t play it, watch it or concern myself with it in anyway. It’s something that other
people do. I suspect it all stems from my aversion to being a joiner. The last thing I ever joined was the Brownies when I was about seven and it ended very badly. I somehow found myself involved in an undignified scuffle with Brown Owl’s daughter over the toadstool, in an incident that shames my mother to this day. Suffice to say that pretty much put an end to any joining ambitions I may have had. 

Although I am not one for sport, I do however, like a good sporting story. The kind which emphasises sportsmanship and fair play and the more sentimental the better. Recently, there was the tack incident during the Tour de France. Someone, either protester or random nutcase, threw tacks into the path of the cyclists causing some to have punctures. I became quite
tearful reading how all of the cyclists who didn’t get a puncture waited for the others and then resumed their previous positions so as not to gain an unfair advantage. I even felt compelled to track down the clip on YouTube so that I could give full vent to my sentimentality. 

The Olympics, if good for nothing else, have historically provided many fantastic stories. I like the one that came out of the 1936 Olympics which was later verified by Jesse Owens himself. Apparently during the Long Jump Owen’s technique was off and it was his competitor, the German Luz Long, who offered him the advice that saw him win a gold medal. At a games that was shadowed by possibly one of the worst periods in world history, what a glorious story to show how sport can, and so often does, transcend politics. 

There’s also the now iconic image from the 1968 Olympics when Tommie Smith and John Carlos gave their black power salute. A stirring story in its own right but made more so when you learn that the Australian silver medallist, Peter Norman gave the two men his gloves to wear and wore a human rights badge to show his support of their stance. No mean feat when you consider that Smith and Carlos were consequently ostracised by the sporting establishment and subjected to abuse and death threats. 

Although I am not a sports fan, I do think that it has the potential to be a massive force for good in our society. At a time when so
many young people are struggling to find their way in life we need inspiring stories, where fair play triumphs over less worthy ideals, more than ever. Young people need an alternative world view to counterbalance the prevailing capitalist dogma which leaves so many of them feeling excluded and disenfranchised.

That’s why it makes me sad that so many footballers fail to see the influence they have on young boy’s lives. Boys, who may not have any other male role models, look to these young men who are paid exorbitant amounts of money but who persistently let us down. Countless examples of misogynistic and thuggish behaviour permeate our culture until kids start to perceive it as normal. The prevailing attitude seems to be that if a young man is good at football then rape, assault or blatant racism is his birthright. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it is money that has tainted football. It has become big business and there is no room in
the modern business model for fair play and social and moral conscience. The glorious game has given way to the profit margin.

What would be nice then is if the 2012 Olympic Games, whilst plunging us into financial ruin, could maybe inspire us as a nation to reclaim some of the lost values that we used to hold dear. A return to a code of conduct of which to be proud; where the best person wins and everybody pulls together for the love of the sport and not the money. 

Having said that, I doubt I’ll be watching any of it. I will be scouring the newspapers, however, looking for sentimental stories and, should I find any, I can always watch a bit on YouTube. 

My recently single friend is looking for a gentleman friend and she has made me join her in a 2 for 1 dating site deal in order to help her bag one. It could obviously be quite stressful were it not for the fact that, I am as certain as it is possible to be, that I am not likely to be ticking any of the said gentlemen’s boxes. 

For a start there is my own profile to consider. Let’s face it, I don’t imagine there is going to be a stampede for: Middle aged spend thrift, between jobs, can’t cook or perform even the simplest of domestic tasks, not much time to spare but can probably fit you in every other Wednesday. Okay so maybe I didn’t express it as starkly as that but there’s only so much you can dress it up. 

Next up, there’s my list of demands and this was where it got more tricky than you might imagine. If you have never experienced a dating site questionnaire then my advice to you is make sure you have several hours at your disposal and a stiff drink in your hand first. My friend whizzed through the list with a ruthless determination that left me speechless whilst I floundered and dithered. 

Appearance was the first category and we had to specify height, weight, hair colour, age, shoe size. Actually I made that last one up but it was a very comprehensive list and the truth is I don’t care. However, before you start jumping to conclusions and imagining that I am far too profound and enlightened to judge someone on their looks, get a grip; I am the fussiest person I know. The problem is I can’t define what it is that would make someone attractive to me but, whatever it is, has nothing to do with being fat, thin, bald, hairy, small, tall, blonde, dark or grey. Consequently, I ticked all of the boxes and can only assume that this makes me a perfect match with the entire world. 

We then moved on to status. Did we want employed or self employed? There was a long list of jobs with corresponding suggested salaries attached. There wasn’t a box for I don’t care so again I ticked them all. Apart from farmer that is, given my phobia for all things countrified. My friend surprised me when she revealed, somewhat shamefacedly, that she wouldn’t want to date someone who earned less than she does. The very idea of joint finances gives me the shivers so as far as I’m concerned it wasn’t remotely relevant. I have friends who have to hide their purchases from spouses who disapprove of their spending habits and, frankly, I would find that grounds for instant divorce. 

Moving along then we came to personality. Did we want quiet, outgoing, serious, fun, calm, passionate, blah blah blah. How in God’s name can you be expected to be so specific? It was like going shopping for a boyfriend and, once you had submitted your list, they were going to make you one up in the back who would meet all your criteria. Surely though most people are all things and there is no such thing as either or; nobody is serious or fun, quiet or loud.

My friend wasn’t in the mood for my philosophising, however. By this point we had been pouring over the questionnaire for nearly two hours and, to be honest, most of the fun got sucked out of it as soon as the novelty of ticking boxes wore off. Anyway last up was hobbies and again, I ask you, why would I care? It’s not like I am going to be going fishing, hiking or playing cricket. I have got my own hobbies thank you very much. 

Finally we submitted our profiles and my friend got four potential matches in our area. You’ll no doubt be surprised to hear that I didn’t get any. In fact, the whole experience took me back a few years when a friend and I, fancying that we would like a change of career, consulted a careers advisor. Having completed a similarly lengthy questionnaire I was informed, much to my outrage, that I was unemployable. My friend fared slightly better when he was told he would make the perfect life guard. As we excitedly discussed his new career plans it was left to his wife, who had joined us for coffee, to point out that he couldn’t actually swim. 
 


 

I was asked today which attribute I would most like to possess and it has set me off pondering on the subject all day long. I suppose the answer depends upon our image of ourselves and the idea of who we would like to be; our better selves if you like. 
 
I have a secret fantasy; well it’s not actually that secret, given that I’ll tell anyone who stands still long enough. I once even felt compelled to divulge it to 40 children in my charge, who laughed so heartily and for so long, I seriously thought I was going to have to resuscitate a couple. Strictly speaking it’s two fantasies but they are born out of the same intention and have the same outcome; they are different merely in their particulars. 

Both involve being airborne and one has me spotting a potential shoe-bomber mid-flight and wrestling him to the ground in order to save the entire plane. The other is less dramatic in that the plane simply gets into difficulties and, after pushing the beleaguered pilot to one side, I have to land the plane safely. I feel duty bound to point out here that I can’t even drive a car but that’s the beauty of fantasies; reality matters not a jot. Anyway both of these scenarios culminate with me appearing on the news and explaining modestly how it was human instinct and anybody would have done the same. I’m thinking also a possible medal from the Queen and maybe the key to the city. 

It would seem then that my better self is a whole lot braver than my real one. The reality is that I am so fearful of flying; I spend long haul flights self-medicated on gin. There was one occasion when I used valium instead but it was a disaster. My panic wasn’t diminished one little bit; in fact I think it was intensified. It was like being trapped in the locked in syndrome that some stroke victims have; I was slumped in my seat for the entire journey, unable to communicate my distress. Thank God I was travelling with my sister, who completely ignored me and watched the in-flight film, or I could have been ambulanced off to a stroke unit. 

Anyway the point is, were there to be a shoe-bomber aboard or the plane suddenly began to plummet, I would be in no fit state to do anything. In fact, should there be any kind of emergency, I would probably be too incapacitated to find the exit and have to go down with the plane. My secret fantasies then are obviously the subconscious manifestation of my desire to be more heroic rather than pinned in my seat like an emotional wreck. 

Bravery is a very admirable quality and I am not just talking about the physical heroics of saving a plane load of people either. I admire the quiet bravery that you see every day from people who put other people’s needs before their own. People who volunteer to help others when the easier thing would be to look the other way. I don’t care in what capacity people choose to volunteer, be it one day a week in a charity shop or dodging bullets in a war zone to save orphans, I applaud them all. 
 
There’s also the bravery of people who keep going in the face of adversity. For example, people who suffer from health problems but don’t give up the fight even though it may seem insurmountable. Worse still must be the plight of parents whose children are
ill. The strength and bravery of these people is often super human. I admire them all and wish I had just a fraction of their resolve. 

There we have it then, the attribute that I would like above all other: Bravery. Bravery in all its shapes and forms. They do say that we never know how brave we are until we are put in a situation that requires it to come to the fore. All I can say is that
I am not holding my breath and I just hope to God I never have a plane load of people counting on me.

As a lover of lists, I have found myself scouring the internet, usually it has to be said when I am supposed to be working, comparing my own, as yet unwritten listings, with those of other people.

It seems we can’t get enough of all things list-ish because they are not only online but invading our TVs as well. Just this week, I watched Top 100 Olympic Moments, Top 100 Celebrity Meltdowns and Top 100 Pop Songs. I realise that this window into my tawdry little life is quite possibly off-putting but, in my defence, I didn’t watch them in their entirety. Does anybody? Is that even possible? I can only imagine that you would never be able to leave the house, glued to the TV for 24 hour marathon stretches. 

Much as I love a list, I have been unable to find any that match my own. Only this morning, until I realised that I was in fact bordering on list lunacy, I was reading list after list of pet peeves and, annoying as some of the things on the lists may be, I can’t say I would elevate many of them to peeve status. I don’t care how long I am standing in a queue or how slow the cashier may be and, little did I suspect, how other people care so greatly. Queues and waiting, it would seem, are most people’s number one pet peeve. 

Studying these lists has made me realise why I am so intolerant of other people; I think it’s because my pet peeves don’t mesh well with those of others. Most people are all about efficiency and speed whereas my own peeves are the antithesis of this. People rushing around like maniacs and behaving as though their time is somehow more precious than everybody else’s can put my hackles up like nothing else. 
 
Efficiency, in my opinion, is the enemy of civilisation and, what’s more my friends, I will tell you why. I like nothing better than idling my time away in cafes and bars. Now I understand that people want to get home, I have worked in bars and cafes and know that you are only paid for the hours that the establishment is open, and that lingerers are your worst nightmare. My argument, however, is this: Why when a place is open until say 7pm, do employees start putting chairs atop tables and mopping
around your feet, from as early as 5? I’ll tell you why, it’s because some bright spark of a manager has come up with the idea of efficiency in the workplace. The idea that during the quiet late afternoon periods, workers might reap the benefits of having nothing to do, is so alien to the modern work ethic mentality, they would rather drive customers away with irritating industriousness. And there you have it – my number one pet peeve. 
 
My number two is a source of great mystery to me because it seems this is the one that I do share with the rest of the world. People who talk and text in the cinema. I have done a lot of research on this subject and compiled some pretty conclusive evidence. This problem is almost exclusively a drawback of multiplexes; independent cinemas tend to avoid such inexplicable behaviour. Groups of youths are invariably loud but, if you don’t have the sense to avoid films and times that appeal to the
teenage market, you are a fool and deserve all you get. There is also a gender distinction as women are much much worse than men. I have been seated behind women who have talked non-stop throughout the entire film, begging the question, why not meet in a cafe if you want to have a chat? The real question that should be posed, however, is one to which the answer eludes me completely; if it is on everybody’s list of pet peeves then who are these people who are talking and texting and ruining films for the rest of the world?

The rest of my list predictably is far too long to detail. I fear that if I enlighten you any further, there is a strong possibility that you could find yourself featuring at number 17 or 72 for behaviour that you had no idea could cause offense. Just speaking to me and expecting a coherent response before 10am, not to mention looking at me the wrong way when my nerves are frayed or worse still telling me in a rational voice that I am being irrational. I know, I know, I will stop now but list studying is not a bad way to waste a couple of hours if you are so inclined.


 

Customer service in the UK has always been notoriously bad, viewed as something of a joke by visitors from overseas, who are often used to something better. Well let me tell you it is getting worse. 

It at first seems a little bit ironic, when we are in the grip of a recession and the resultant mass unemployment, that people seem so keen to play Russian roulette with their livelihoods but, in actual fact, the two are probably interrelated. I am not a complainer, I prefer to vote with my pocket but some of the individuals I have encountered have not only been rude and unhelpful but downright combative. They must be in conflict daily and I am sure their days of employment are probably numbered. 

This week alone I have found myself reeling from the spectacularly bad service provided by my mobile phone provider. I had occasion to call their customer services when my phone inexplicably stopped working. I am approaching the end of my contract and foolishly imagined that I might be wooed into extending it with pleasant, helpful advice. Sadly that wasn’t to be and when the young man dealing with my enquiry demanded, “What do you want me to do about it?” I knew my days with that particular company were coming to a close. 

I have no doubt that the young man in question hates his job; minimum wage and battery hen style conditions in a call centre. A consequence of this will be that he not only hates the company by whom he is employed but by extension all its customers as well, who no doubt verbally abuse him for a large proportion of his day. The recession it seems to me will have made this young man’s plight worse in two ways. 

Firstly it has created a climate where the emphasis is on short term profit and the labour force is seen as disposable. Companies expect employees to be grateful for minimum wage and whatever crumbs they throw at them, rationalising that it’s better than the dole queue and there is probably a long line of people waiting to fill any positions that become available. Worker’s rights are constantly being eroded as the government and media perpetuate anti-union rhetoric and a fear of unemployment makes people
afraid to rock the boat. 

This is exacerbated by the fact that, as companies vie for custom and no business it seems is safe from liquidation, the public become infused with their own sense of power. The idea that they can choose to invest or withhold their custom can be a heady thing and it doesn’t always bring out the best in people. It can lead to them treating sales assistants or customer sales advisors as though they were somehow inferior beings. This in turn strengthens the vicious circle of abuse that sees the quality of customer service deteriorate even further. 

It’s long been known that the most industrious work force is a happy work force but why do so many companies choose to ignore this. If you walk into any shop you can tell within minutes what kind of working environment it is from both the demeanour and attitude of the employees. I am sure I can’t be the only consumer who is more inclined to part with my money when I am treated well by happy, smiling people; people who don’t have the haunted look of someone in abject misery or the scary manic look of someone who has been indoctrinated by the company religion. 

Having said all this sometimes appalling customer service can be refreshingly hilarious. The best example of this I have ever seen was when queuing behind a particularly fussy and demanding woman in Costa Coffee. After inspecting every sandwich she asked the bored and petulant girl who was serving if there were any gluten free ones. Barely hiding her contempt the girl replied in the negative to which the woman replied, “But they have them in Starbucks.” The girl didn’t disappoint when she uttered the
very words I was thinking.
“Well go to Starbucks then!”

I was told today by a rather intellectual colleague that my novels are clichéd. I think she only read the samples and she also said that her mother brought her up to believe ‘trashy, low end fiction’ is for maids. I can only assume that she grew up in Downton Abbey and spends all of her time reading Dickens. 

That’s all fair enough, she is entitled to her opinion but, as these things are want to do, it got me thinking. My novels are clichéd, that’s the whole point of them. They are written for entertainment, pure and simple. If we take the much quoted maxim that there are really only 7 stories in the world then in my world there’s probably just the one and I keep retelling it. The crux of the matter for me being do I tell it well?

I write the kind of stories that I like to read and, for those escapism moments, I don’t want to read gritty realism or challenging literature that makes me think but drains the life out of me. All of these things have a place but it’s not while I am trying to unwind with my mug of cocoa. I write for a specific audience then, namely me. Obviously if someone else reads them and enjoys them as well it’s all to the good. 
 
The truth is I write for the pleasure that it affords me. I would write, like most people who enjoy writing, whether there was the opportunity for publishing or not. The only novel I submitted, unsuccessfully, for the scrutiny of agents was my first one, Business
As Usual. I found the whole thing so time consuming and demoralising, it threatened to tarnish my writing pleasure and consequently I decided to not bother with any of my subsequent novels. Self-publishing involves very little scope for rejection, readers either download the books or they don’t.

Obviously once they have engaged with you as a writer and chosen your work, they then become part of the dynamic.
Hopefully your work will inspire something positive but there’s always the risk that it won’t. When you put your work out there, in whatever form, you are basically asking readers what they think and you can’t then complain if you don’t get the response that you’d hoped for. There has recently sprung up lots of petty online squabbles between writers and readers, which are ridiculous. You can not invite someone to read your book and then attack them for expressing their opinion on it. 

That’s the beauty of literature; everybody brings something different to the table. The only criteria I had when I was creating my characters was that they would be people who I would like and want to be friends with. As with all things in life, however, we all have different tastes and one person’s friend is another person’s foe. The characters I hold dear could be thoroughly loathsome to some people. Georgie Connelly, the lead character in three of my novels, is blundering and foul mouthed, riding roughshod over everyone she meets. None the less, she has a good heart and that, in my book, is enough to forgive anybody anything. But that’s me; others of course are free to disagree.

In an ideal world we would take criticism on the chin and learn from it. Nobody writes the perfect book and I am
very much aware of the faults in my own. Other people’s evenly expressed opinions can, if we let them, inspire us and move us along as writers. That’s not to say that hearing our failings pointed out to us doesn’t sting. We are all sensitive and thin skinned where our creations are concerned and anyone who says otherwise is a liar. It’s really hard sometimes to listen to criticism but if we want to develop then we have to bite the bullet and face the truth no matter how harsh it may seem. Constant praise is meaningless and, in the end detrimental, as it leaves us with nowhere to go but treading water in the illusion that we have somehow arrived but arrived where?

The minute we put pen to paper we are putting our hearts on the line. We are inviting a relationship with whoever may decide to read our words. Like all relationships we need to remember, honesty, kindness and respect and I don’t think we can go far wrong. I for one love the idea that my writing can mean something completely different for the reader than it does for me but in accepting that I have to also accept that they might not like what they read.

As I am inching ever closer to my twilight years and getting all reflective, some have even said maudlin, I keep reading online letters that people have written to their more youthful selves. Some are successful, famous people others just regular people but they all basically offer the same reassurance, to their former, angst ridden selves, that things will work out okay. 


Anyway, it got me thinking; what would I say to my younger self and it’s not as easy as you might think? It’s tempting to say, don’t work so hard but, if I hadn’t laid down the foundations in my youth, where would I be now? For my younger self to work less hard, I or that is my current self (I have a feeling that this is going to get messy) would have to work more hard and that wouldn’t do at all. 

Lots of the letters seem to focus on physical attributes and the writers urge their younger selves to be more body confident and make the most of the fact that they are probably in their physical prime. Nora Ephron is famously quoted as urging young people to wear a bikini and not to take it off until they are 34 but I have never wanted to wear a bikini. Not at 16 and certainly not now. I don’t regret any of my fashion choices, not even the hideous ones and it would be a bit rich telling the younger me to accept her curly hair when I straighten it to within an inch of its life every single day. All in all then maybe I had better just leave young me to it where looks are concerned. 

I would tell myself, however, not to waste time worrying because in my experience the things that will bring you to your knees are not the things you have worried about but the other stuff that blindsides you. Stuff you never could have predicted, not even in a month of Sundays. What’s more it’s probably a blessing that you don’t see the really bad things that could be heading your way. What would be the point? You can’t prepare for tragedy or the pain that it brings, you simply have to endure it and hope that somehow you survive it and come out the other side. If I could give young me a piece of advice it would be to accept the fact that life consists of good and bad and to worry about the bad will only taint the joy of the good. Instead enjoy the good for as long as it lasts and ride out the bad as best you can. 

I would also urge young me to be braver and not be afraid to take more risks. It really doesn’t matter if you trip or fail, nobody other than yourself cares enough to remember and six months down the road it’s all just a distant memory. The positive thing about mistakes is, the more you make, the more you realise they don’t matter. The only thing that does matter is that you pick yourself up and try something else and if that doesn’t work out either then c’est la vie.

Nothing in life actually matters other than people and I would tell young me to cherish all of the people that she loves because you don’t know how long they will be around. Ensure that nothing is left unsaid, the only true regret that you can have is not telling the people who you care about how dear they are to you. When we are young and feel invincible we don’t appreciate how quickly people can be taken from us, sometimes without any warning at all. 

In fact, do you know what, the more I think about it the less inclined I feel to offer any advice whatsoever. Surely the whole point of life is to just meander along and see where it leads us. If we were armed with prior knowledge, would that not just cushion us from the things that make us who we are? So I will merely say to young me; keep on putting one foot in front of the other and make sure you enjoy the journey along the way.

I like to think of myself as a friendly welcoming type of person. However, I’m starting to wonder if somehow, unconsciously, I got to a point in my life where I shut up shop where friends are concerned. 

I say this because I know that although I am able to handle unlimited amounts of acquaintances and casual friends, as far as real friendships go, I think I am full up. There are always those occasions when you sense that people are making overtures to take the friendship to the next level but I can’t remember the last time I took anybody up on their offer. It sounds callous but I just don’t have the time or the space. 

So when did this happen? How did I slide, without noticing, from seeing friends as something exciting and fulfilling to something onerous and time consuming? I feel horrified to even think in these terms but, there it is, the ugly truth. As a student and beyond, in my 20s and 30s, I made new friends constantly. Some of these relationships have stayed the course; some are now just Christmas and birthday card friends. Even though the intensity of our friendship may have waned through distance or circumstances, I still hold them in my heart and I like to think, if they were in trouble, I would be there for them. When then did I stop letting people in?

I suspect for a lot of people who feel the way I do, it’s a sign of the times, as everyone is rushing around trying to fit as much as they can into 24 short hours. This must be especially true of people trying to juggle careers and children but I have no such excuse. I’m ashamed to say that in my case I’m too selfish to want to invest anymore of myself into new people. I am sociable to an extent but I also value that precious time spent alone and to develop new friendships would cut into that time. 

A woman was recently pilloried in the press for refusing her friend’s invitation to be a Godparent because she didn’t want to offer the kind of commitment that being more than a token Godparent would dictate. She was held up as a freakish symptom of modern times where we are all supposedly only out for ourselves. I sort of admired her though, surely it would have been easier but worse to agree and then take a backseat. I have friends whose children I am fond of because I love my friends but if I am being brutally honest I am not emotionally present for them. I lavish them with gifts and money because that’s the easy bit, time and relationships take a lot more effort. 

The paradox to this was a childless woman I met recently who was fostering strong bonds with her friend’s children in the cynical hope that she would have someone to care for her in her dotage years. Are we all becoming so cold and calculating? Frankly, even if I had children, the last thing I would want for them would be to see them lumbered with caring for me. I would rather be euthanized.

The realisation that I don’t have an open mind and heart, where new friends are concerned, is not something I am proud of. The people I admire most are the ones who go through life giving of themselves and encouraging others to do the same. People who welcome friends into their hearts from all generations and, no doubt, consequently enjoy rich and fulfilled lives. 

And so I am going to be kinder and less selfish. I am going to be open and available to others. Don’t be too surprised, in fact, if you read about my canonisation sometime in the near future – or do you have to be dead for that?