Closing Down...Honest!

The shop has been closing down for two years and three months.

To be fair, it’s only been ‘closing’ most of that time. Mum thought writing ‘down’ on the window was too negative.

Last month she finally wrote the whole thing.

There was little reaction from the public so she painted around the letters in pink to make it stand out.

No one believes us but this time we’re not bluffing.

In fact we weren’t bluffing before. It just takes a long time to clear a three storey building that has been gathering stock for over thirty five years.

We put a sign on the door: 8 weeks to go.

That provoked a bit of panic.

“I better hurry up,” a customer said and then disappeared, leaving us wondering if he was talking about buying a light or catching the bus.

Inside the shop we put up the customary signs ‘Everything Must Go!’

Then we worried that the hagglers would be ruthless so Mum wrote ‘Nearly’ in front of each one so they wouldn’t think we were desperate.

There are lots of bargains so if you want a chandelier now is the time. You have eight weeks, honest.

Someone else is moving in so we can’t change our minds.

I’m not sure we can imagine life without the shop.

What will we all do?

“It must be magical working in here,” a customer said last week, her eyes widening with each sparkle of crystal and I didn’t know what to say.

Obviously it’s not magical working in a shop just because it sells sparkly things but you don’t want to dampen the mood.

We’ve had fun times but it’s exciting to be going.

It’s like being a baby bird about to be pushed off a cliff. Isn’t that how they learn to fly?

Harsh but effective.

I think we’re all ready to swoop off.

So hurry, if you don’t want a chandelier but still fancy a reminder of our lovely shop, my book is only a click away: Shop Girl Diaries

On the Third Day... (of job hunting)

Day 3 and still no job.

What a disaster!

I was secretly hoping for a top editor to pop out of nowhere and say,

“Hey kid, I’ll show you the ropes but don’t expect a million dollars...”

I’d turn up in her chaotic office and she’d give me a brisk once over, her eyes narrowing behind her chunky designer glasses.

“For starters I want you to get me a tall, extra dry mocha with a coat of cinnamon and no cardboard handle.”

“Why no cardboard handle?”

“Goddammit, do you need a reason for everything?”

It would be tough but that first task of getting a coffee would lead to numerous published features, vital contacts, invaluable confidence, excellent computer skills and ultimately a best-selling novel.

I know, too many films and not enough degrees!

Meanwhile I’m finding it difficult to begin looking for a flat before I’ve got a job.

Perhaps my Fiancé won’t mind living with his in-laws for a few more wee... mont...years?

Alternatively he could leave me behind for a posh studio and we could text each other from time to time.

We could be like one of those modern couples who have their own separate apartments.

Except my apartment would actually be my childhood bedroom in my Mum’s.

Chin up!

Day four is approaching and there’s bound to be a reply from somewhere soon.

Though I’m slightly worried that if I check my mail one more time the glare of my computer may reverse my laser eye surgery.

I must simply remember that Rome was not built in a day.

Although technically, if the world was only built in 7, then Rome should’ve taken much less than a day.

Like half a quarter of a millisecond.

The time it takes to make a decision to stop procrastinating and do something about not having a job!

WANTED: 1 job, London

I’m back in London and I need a job.

My CV is awaiting a polish up.

Registering with a temping agency is the first thing to cross my mind, then teaching in an English Language School.

Everyone is talking about a crisis. Are there vacancies out there?

I got myself a Journalism Diploma last year.

The classes had a strong focus on the impossibility of breaking into the industry.

“But you have to try,” the tutor would add.

The effect of this message is, that despite all the studying and a cosy little distinction on my certificate, it doesn’t even occur to me to look for a job in the media.

That said, I’ll now spend a moment looking wistfully out of the window while I imagine this blog was a column in a newspaper.

How I’d love to be able to write for a living!

I’m disciplined, I’m determined, I love the satisfaction of meeting deadlines and I love tea.

In Bogota I was able to dedicate entire months to my novel.

It was the first time in my life I’d been able to do that.

Up until then I’d always written in moments snatched before and after work.

Being able to write every day actually made writing easier.

I started to get into the zone more quickly; my ideas developed and the novel began to take shape.

Now two weeks have passed without me looking at it and I already feel it drifting away.

I just need to find a new routine so I can keep at it.

I want to get something good enough to send off to an agent.

Of course meanwhile I need a paid job, a job which might teach me something and help me develop my skills.

This blog has brought me a lot of luck, a lot of support and a lot of advice... so if any of you readers know of any opportunities out there, or have any tips for me, I’d love to hear from you!

What a Sight!

Laser eye surgery... how do you imagine it?

I imagined a huge green laser beam ready to burn off my eyebrows if I moved a hair.

Not so.

It’s incredible.

Incredibly quick.

Five minutes an eye.

It’s not pleasant. There’s glaring lights, the sensation of a sticky plaster being pressed over your eye, the sound of an electric drill which turns out to be a gentle dryer.

Later you spend three hours with your eyelids taped closed and your eyes stinging.

But it’s still not as awful as that wax I once had in Peru.

Because of my surgery, I have been off the computer for a few days and I haven’t been able to share last week’s special event: Our official engagement party (Colombian style).

It was only fair to celebrate our commitment to each other in each country and include all our friends and family.

Our party began at 7.30am with the Fiancé and I sticking single flower stems into a sandpit in the drizzle.

We were in the finca, the house in the countryside belonging to my sister-in-law and her family, and it had never been so cloudy.

“Look, the sun,” my father-in-law said, pointing at a tiny spec of white amidst all the grey. “It will clear.”

As the rain increased and our dream of an outdoor celebration looked like it wasn’t to be, we began emptying the house and preparing to move all the tables indoors.

But a few hours later, while the guest started to arrive, the sun made a miraculous appearance.

The simple and beautiful ceremony was held outside as planned with a reading by the local priest and a blessing of our rings.

“I never thought I’d ever say ‘yes’ to a man before I’d met his mother,” I began my speech.

It meant a lot to me to be able to address all these people that had come to share our special day. Many of them I’d never met while others I’d still not got to know fully.

My sister-in-law made the occasion feel particularly complete.

She had researched different wedding traditions from all over the world.

I stepped on an egg, my fiancé on a glass, my father-in-law threw acorns over my head while my mother-in-law held up a green leaf to show her approval.

I can’t match the countries with the traditions now, except the Polish one, where we tasted bread (‘may you never go hungry’), salt (‘may you overcome all bitterness’) and wine (‘may you enjoy the sweetness in life’).

The local band, la papayera, burst into a chaotic melee of drums and trumpets as we finished off a rodizio (rotation) of succulent meat.

Then came the Mariachis to woo us in the night.

All our guests had come to enjoy themselves and there was no holding back as the music played.

I danced all night, exchanging my heels for flip flops and best of all, barefoot.

As it grew colder, the party moved inside beside a roaring fire.

The Fiancé and I were the last ones standing.

When I felt my eyes starting to close, he took my hand and we went outside.

Amidst the eucalyptus trees we sat and watched big, blurry stars.

It was a perfect day and a perfect way to bring to a close my time in Colombia.

I can’t thank my new family enough for taking me in with such an open heart.

The Little One

I’m convinced my newly acquired nephew is drinking Red Bull on the sly.
This wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t 4 years old.
In fact he’s 3 years and 10 months and he knows he’s not a baby anymore.
He hasn’t stopped for one minute since he arrived in Bogotá a week ago.
The sword fighting starts before we’ve even had breakfast.
Then comes the fall outs and reconciliations between Tiger and Mr Donkey, the plasticine creations including the fish with a tumour on his face, the hospital made of chunky lego, the piecing together of Sponge Bob, the re-piecing together of Sponge Bob and of course the acting out of scenes from superman, batman, spiderman, the fantastic four, transformers and the green lantern.
By 5pm I’m knackered and craving a soothing glass of wine, (by glass I mean bottle).
Meanwhile he’s just warming up.
After my first play day with my little nephew, a thought occurred to me.
What if baby animals were anything like humans ones?
Little calf: No Mummy, I don’t want to eat grass! I want chocolate!Baby Seal: Why do I have to go in the water? Baby bear hasn’t gone in!
Baby lion curls his lip after one bite of antelope: I don’t like it. I want zebra.
Mummy Lion: You asked for antelope. Eat it.
Baby Lion: No!
Mummy Lion: All superlions eat antelope, don’t you want to be a superlion?Baby Lion: No they don’t! They eat zebra!Yes I’ve resorted to talking animals. That’s what relentless playing does to you.
In short, baby humans are inconsistent.
One minute my nephew loves me, the next he is attacking me with a cardboard tube under the guise of Optimus Prime.
Admittedly I’m not much different.
When I’m tired and he’s being grumpy, I think having kids is an absurd idea.
Then there are those other moments.
When he’s giggling his socks off because I’m giving Tiger a silly voice,
When he’s sitting on the sofa explaining to me something very seriously and looking so little,
When he sneaks into my room and switches off the light, then runs off squealing with nervous anticipation of me chasing him to tickle his tummy...
Those moments give me an insight into something special, something you would fight every superhero in the world to protect.

Ode to Rome

Sorry I haven’t written for a while.

I’ve been grieving.

The pain began as soon as I left Rome.

What a beautiful city. What history. What fantastic men in fantastic suits driving down the cobble stoned streets on their Vespas.

We arrived at the five star Baglioni Hotel after a killer journey from Bogotá (all courtesy of Peroni).

Our double bed turned out to be a twin, the toilet was broken and there was no hot water.

This was great news since we were promptly upgraded to an executive suite.

Ah, what luxury. The kind that would make you feel slightly ill if you thought about it.

We had a private city tour with a very knowledgeable and good-humoured guide and had our own driver, Lorenzo, who drove us around the capital in a spotless silver Mercedes.

He collected us from the Olympic Stadium after we watched Lazio versus Bologna, and waited for us while we had lunch.

For a special evening, the concierge booked us into an exquisite restaurant with a view over the city.

Luckily my lady’s menu had no prices or I wouldn’t have been able to order a slice of bread.

It was our pre-honey moon and we clinked our glasses of prosecco and wished ourselves a happy marriage!

On day four, Peroni’s promise had been fulfilled and it was time to leave the hotel that had housed royalty and head to slightly more humble lodgings.

The porter took our luggage out to the entrance.

“Shall I call you a car, Sir?” he asked.

“Oh no, our friends are waiting for us down the road,” my Fiancé lied.

One feels compelled to keep up appearances in places like the Baglioni.

We couldn’t possibly admit that we were walking our bags by ourselves to a three star hotel.

Rome was heaven even without the fancy bottles of body lotion and chocolates on our pillows.

I fell in love with the ancient skyline and the wonderful hues of burnt umber, terracotta and olive green.

I’d never seen such elegant pine trees and I thought of my Mum, who in the past had used up whole films on snaps of trees rather than of us lot on holiday.

We walked until our legs ached and then walked some more.

I bought one half of Rome and admired the other.

A few more weeks and I’d have been posing as a silver-painted cowgirl with a money pot in front of me.

I may be gone now but my absence is temporary.

I threw a coin in the Fontana di Trevi which means my return is assured!

Yoga and Beer

I used to think Yoga was just a relaxed roll-about on the floor.

A bit like taking a nap on your special mat in nursery.

I wasn’t going to do it because it obviously didn’t involve any sweating.

Then my shoulders started to ache a lot and I worried I was getting arthritis.

“You should do yoga,” the masses advised me.

So I did and I was shocked to find it was the most physically challenging exercise I’d ever done in my life.

Every stretch made my body cry out ‘I’m not meant to be doing this!’

Despite the pain, I’ve taken it up here in Bogotá and I love it.

It’s a two hour session but the teacher always tries to waste a bit of time at the beginning explaining what yoga is.

I mean to arrive late to miss the talking but then I tell myself it’s good for me.

While I’m thinking I’ve heard it all before I’m probably missing something key.

I like the sound of the positions in Spanish, especially Guerrerro* 1 (*Warrior) and Guerrero 2.

With legs firmly on the ground, arms stretching out at each side, eyes focused ahead and Indian music playing in the background, there is a moment where I think I’m Arjuna (from the Mahabharata).

A whole enemy army awaits me but I am not afraid.

That’s what happens when you inhale and exhale deeply with every movement.

It goes to your head.

You just don't get such brilliant illusions on the treadmill.

The melodic music, which could be from Bollywood for all I know, gives the class a special feel.

It’s not the same when the teacher’s ipod selects some wishy-washy version of a film sound track.

That happened last week and I was distracted from my Guerrerro positions because I was trying to guess what film it was from.

The soppy English lyrics killed off any spiritual element there might've been.

I wanted to ask him if he’d please change it but being half British it really goes against my genes to make a fuss.

Luckily it swapped back to the Indian chant.

My favourite bit about my yoga class is at the end when the teacher comes over and rubs tiger balm over my nose.

It stings a bit but it smells delicious and I feel myself drifting to sleep.

Pity I can’t go next week.

But not too much of a pity because I’ll be in Rome!

The Fiancé won the trip in a Peroni raffle. I’ve never been to Italy before so I’m very excited.

Yoga and Beer.

Happiness is about finding that balance.

I’ll tell you how it goes.

Until then… Arrivederci!