A few things I learnt this week: how to drive (2 ways), cat trivia and chocolate disaster prevention.

How to drive 1) a tractor and 2) a golf ball  (sort of)...(on both counts)

• Having never driven anything bigger than my mum's Polo, this week saw me take on the challenge of driving a tractor. Being a particularly poor manoeuvrer and a bit of an Annie Hall-esque parker (you really can enjoy a pleasant stroll to the 'sidewalk' when I pull up to the curb) this was a bit of a daunting prospect. But it turns out it's really quite fun and the basics are just like driving a car. Steering wheel, brake, clutch, that 'look where you're going' thing and all that jazz.  I'd recommend having a go if you get the chance. Moving what feels like a hefty piece of machinery made this unpractical person feel vaguely capable (and also, I must add, terribly, terribly powerful, like a farming wizard) It wasn't too hard at all, or at least, driving around with loads of help in an empty field with no chance of hitting anything, EVER, wasn't too hard. So, as long as it's always like that then count me in for the next series of 'Strictly come Top Gear Tractor Wars.'

• It's a little far-fetched to say I actually learnt how to drive in golf this week, because I was so appalling, but I certainly went to a driving range and had a go. Now it is true that the ball did either stay exactly where it was because I kept missing it, or zoomed off at a sharp 90 degree angle which, believe it or not, was not some clever tactic, but rather my complete incompetence. However,with a few tips such as 'always keep your eye on the ball'- it's amazing how hard this seems- and 'keep your arm straight'(which arm? When? How??) hopefully some of this advice sunk in... subconsciously at least. Who knew there was so much to think about? Head, arms, knees, feet, toes, eyes,  (a children's song in the making!?) let alone the fairly essential ball and club themselves.I can certainly say I am not ready to be called 'Tiger' just yet. Maybe more of a house cat...

Which is a terribly tenuous link to the next thing I learnt this week....

Why cats knead (/'make biscuits')

• With the detective help of my lovely friend Emily, also curious about this common cat trait, we delved into the mine field of kneading. After a little investigation we discovered curiously that the colloquial term for kneading is 'making biscuits.' (Firstly, is it?!? I've never heard of that, but do let me know if you have. And secondly, what kind of biscuits?!)  We then moved on to the reason cats knead and found a very interesting answer. It is not in fact just because of their love of tasteful furnishings and good quality fabric (although I feel sure this must play a vital part in it), but because it is an instinctive trait from when they are kittens. They massage (i.e. knead) their mother during feeding to help her to produce milk more easily. You'd think they might have learnt by now that the particularly cosy cushion on the sofa doesn't actually produce anything but snuggly moments of joy, but I guess they don't mind that- the crazy kooks that they are.  Fascinating stuff anyway!!

And finally, in this week of Easter related goodness it seems only right that I learnt:

Where not to leave your Easter egg
  

•  The answer: in a sunny spot in your room, because this will happen:

A potentially artistic, but really quite scary, result.

I'm packing in packing

I am currently in the process of unpacking everything I packed only just a couple of days ago.

Packing and packing, and unpacking and unpacking, knowing that probably in the not too distant future I will have to pack and pack and unpack and unpack all over again. This is both a physical and mental torture, and I only really (although you'd never guess by looking at it) had one room's worth of stuff to pack. I dread to think what it must be like moving a whole house. The best way to summarise the last couple of days is this: I have never had so many unpleasant and annoyed exchanges with a group of coat hangers in my life.

I used to read a book when I was little called 'But No Elephants' in which, after various amusing episodes involving an old lady rejecting an elephant as a house guest, the elephant, to help her with her relocation situation, simply carries the lady's house to a lovely sunny new place on his back. None of this boxes/suitcase/ plastic bags.. oh the plastic bags... nonsense. Plus, there's a free elephant ride to boot. Where can one find a helpful service like this and, more seriously, what sort of planning permission would I need?

Anyway, aside from the agony of remembering where I've put everything and feeling horrified at the sheer amount of clothes I have (I say horrified- this is a ruse; in truth it's a joy to rediscover so many jumpers which I'll never wear but absolutely must hold on to), with all this packing comes a natural packing up of a way of life, of memories, of relationships formed, and it is this which is the real hard thing, even though it involves very few coat hangers.! I've left Cambridge, where I lived for the last 19 months, boxed it up and put it into the overflowing boot of a car. This is only the physical part of it of course, but it still felt poignant. Moving, as all of us I am sure know, can be very moving. And though I am really very happy to be moving, my memories cannot simply be packed away. They'll  resonate with so many experiences in a place I felt I actually did 'grow up', if that's possible; a beautiful, thought-filled city where I made some very lovely and close friends.

 All this dwelling doesn't speed up the unpacking process however, so I must get back to it. That is, if the cat, helpful as ever, will let me.



 

Shelf help for self help

I was very intrigued to hear the news about a new scheme asking GPs to prescribe self-helf books to patients suffering with depression,anxiety or relationship troubles. They will be recommended books to read from their local libraries (woop woop for the libraries by the way!) in a bid to encourage self-healing. Some examples are: How to Stop Worrying and The Feeling Good Handbook  as well as 'feel good' fictional works designed to cheer us all up- The Secret Garden and Goodnight Mister Tom were a couple, as well as, somewhat curiously 'To Kill a Mockingbird'...('cheering up' doesn't have to be overt I guess)

I am sure the non-fiction self-helf books contain a lot of very useful information and advice, and can suggest very useful and practical ways of coping. I really, really, really hope those recommended are nothing like the awful articles you get in womens' magazines telling you 'how to cope with this, that and the other' or '5 easy ways to CHANGE YOUR LIFE' which, firstly, erm, 'NO' and secondly, 'stop making me feel worse.' They present an ideal, goals and achievements that perhaps you do not want, or certainly cannot achieve, but now  you suddenly feel you should. Having so-called 'steps' (note: created by some magazine who has never met you and doesn't really care) only makes you more aware of how you have failed at achieving any of their suggestions.

What most interested me, however, was that the act of reading itself is suggested to be so beneficial, and I couldn't agree more. The very act of such concentration needed to read seems like an excellent way to avoid the distractions or worries you might be facing. Further still, I recently heard how a study had suggested reading classic novels, in particular, are especially helpful. The attention needed for reading a classic is often quite great, therefore only enhancing our ability to forget our daily troubles.

Another reason classic novels are so effective, I believe anyway, is because we can enjoy and become engrossed in the stories and characters, but without necessarily applying it directly to ourselves- as we do so obviously with self-helf books. Novels can be so much more subtly cathartic, winding their experiences, lessons or mistakes into our subconscience quite easily. We can empathise and engage with these characters' experiences, but not worry so much that it will happen to us. The alienness of the settings and often language to our present day and current situation mean distancing ourselves, gaining some perspective and rationality, is much more possible, and often the very best thing.

Having empathy with someone else can certainly put our own worries into perspective, When I read Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence, I found for the first time in my life, my own thoughts, anxieties and fears mapped out on the page before me. I couldn't believe it. That 'gosh- someone else has felt like this too' moment (you don't necessarily have to say 'gosh' by the way)  has never been stronger than through that book. Lawrence's ability to present that feeling so gently through beautiful language, a delicate choice of words and rhythm of sentences meant it sat much deeper within me than any magazine article ever could. I was effectively hyptonised. I was also both distracted by something else, yet entirely engulfed by it.


Perhaps this is hugely hypocritical. Here I am, offering advice up- the very thing I preach against. Feel free to ignore it completely. But my prescription for us all is this: Less reading about how to help ourselves and let DH Lawrence* do it for you.



*or more specifically, a writer YOU like

Nostalgia's patient

My name's Polly, and I am a sufferer of nostalgia.

There, I said it. I wonder, placed within a supportive, hand-holding sort of environment, how many of us would also confess to this. Most people, I would predict.

You may think 'sufferer- that's a litle bit strong isn't it?  Well, if we were to be all learned about it (which we are, momentarily, forgive me) nostalgia in fact comes comes from the greek words 'nostos' and 'algus,' meaning 'return' and 'suffering.' The very word itself, therefore, makes no pretence that feeling nostalgic is always an easy ride.

This, in many ways, might seem odd. When I  first think of nostalgia, I picture sepia-tainted images, knitted jumpers, smiles and cosy fires. Why this is, I'm not sure, as I don't remember my life ever being particularly sepia-coloured, or having much access to a log fire. (Knitted jumpers, however, tick!). I guess this is very much the 'concept' of nostalgia as our culture has moulded it.

A manufactured, consumer-focused nostalgia is currently everywhere.Our lives can be solely constructed of  retro, vintage, antique, second-hand, 'not-really-vintage-but-kinda-look-like-we-are' clothes and things, (oh the things), if we choose. We can spend our days baking, drinking tea and handmaking everything- lovely! And I genuinely mean that- these things are wonderful, and I can't help but think to myself  'gosh- everything was so much nicer and more wholesome in the past- I wish it were like that now.'

And then I realise, wait- you were not even alive during this era you feel so attached to. You are recreating days you have never lived and sentimentalising a time you don't, really, know much about. Nostalgia only focuses on the good times, forgetting to mention all the less lovely, or at least, non-uber cool, things that happened. That is exactly why, compared with the present, which funnily enough I know very well in all its ups and downs, seems so much better.

At the same time, we can all feel deeply nostalgic for times we actually have lived, days passed, emanating only with the happy memories we have carefully attached, and often modified, to them.We all, at some point,  pine for the past, people, situations, places and long to return to them. The future can bring hope, but also uncertainty and fear. The present is too fleeting to ever capture. And the past, though it may contain regret, well, the past is safe. It has gone, and we survived it. It is, therefore, ours to remember as we choose to.

I wonder, through cherishing something so unreliable- our memories- or indeed eras that we have never even lived through, are our perceptions of the present consequently worse. The present day is falling victim to a comparison with an unreality? Longing for something we can never have again only makes the present more painful surely.

Maybe that's a little morbid. Perhaps nostalgia is becoming so integrated to our present that is now part of it,  in fact.. Let's also not forget the simple enjoyment we gain recreating all things old-school.  As we 'play' at being something or somewhere else, we return  to childhood in a way...yet another form of this nostalgia lark.

I sometimes wonder how people will look back at our present in the future. Will they, too, doubt their own era and cherish our own which we currently seek to escape? What would they recreate though- our love of nostalgia?  It could be a new era in which nostalgia pines for nostalgia itself.



 

Can you hear me screen?

Scene 1:
 Man and woman walk in to a restaurant. Both seem to have made an effort, especially the woman whose hair is immaculately coiffed, nails finely polished and carved, earrings dangling playfully. Man and woman sit down on a table, candle placed between them,. (One of those candles in a wine bottle type things too- the best kind) The scene is set for a romantic evening of food, wine and interesting conversation.

Scene 2:  
After 30 seconds, man gets out his iphone and spends the entire evening staring at it, scrolling through who knows what, completely ignoring the woman and her nicely coiffed hair.

The end.

So, I'll admit, it won't be an Oscar winner (or nomination, sob); the script is a little thin currently, but this is a real-life epic, based on an episode inspired by a couple who sat at the next table along from me last night. I felt like suggesting to the waiter that the man should be served only virtual food through his iphone screen- he'd probably enjoy it more that way.His iphone screen was an unbeatable opponent to the lady opposite. Perhaps she wasn't what you might call a hoot, I don't know the gal, but nonetheless, please, Mr iphone, enjoy the moment, her presence, or at least the strangely faux spanish atmosphere La Tasca (scene of said incident) has to offer.

I am being too harsh on this poor fellow as I am well aware he is not alone. He is probably just another one of you or I. We are a world of screen enthusiasts, screen addicts, screen drones and sometimes, well it just makes me want to... screeeam. We might stare at beautiful countryside, only through another screen, our camera lens, and never have really seen anything. We sit on trains, surrounded by people we've never met and never will again, whizzing past scenery that'll never look quite the same again, and yet we stare at our screens. The days of awkwardly catching the eye of the person opposite us are rapidly fading folks, because, don't worry, we don't actually need to look at anyone anymore. It's ok, we have our soulless screens for company.

The word 'screen' of course means to protect, to shield.  And, when used in such excess, this indeed seems to be the role of our modern day screens. With protection naturally comes restriction, and we are increasingly losing our ability to just look, freely, at what is in front of us. To screen also means to filter, and I can't help but feel we are filtering out all those tiny details and experiences only the human eye and its awareness can detect, because that constant screeny glow is grabbing all the attention. 

This is a completely one-sided argument, I know, but I hope that's allowable. This isn't a well structured essay but a silly blogpost. I know screens have opened our eyes up to visions we never thought we could possibly see. We can experience two hours of incredible emotional and visual immersion through a film , and witness animals in the sub-sahara desert we'd never catch with our own eyes thanks to them. And I am grateful. I am.  But though screens have enabled us to look at things more than ever, I worry that if we let them dominate quite so much, we will eventually see far less.   

Eating the TV- don't try this at home.

It's that time of year when the letters n,i,g,e & l. take over our screens. I am referring, of course, to Nigella Lawson and Nigel Slater.  Both TV cooks, both with their shows oozing temptingly all over our screens. Both cosily entrapping us, Monday and Friday respectively, within a world of aspirational culinary delights, tasteful kilner jars and bursting larders ( or lar-di-da-ers, perhaps? Wait, I take that back. I am only mocking to mask my own deep, dark desire for something to fill that gaping larder-shaped hole in my life).


I say it's that time of year, when in fact such a period doesn't really exist. 'That time of year when cooking programmes are on is EVERY SINGLE DAY. Not that I am against this- I enjoy cookery programmes very much. I, in fact, pray that we will discover the middle name of  Heston 'Blumen'eck, not more liquid nitrogen'  to be secretly Nigellina one day, or for Rick Stein to become Rick SteinGL, just to get those 5 letters involved and complete our foody squadron.

The ever increasing number of cookery shows reveals that we are all lapping them up, drinking it all in, chewing over endless recipes involving goats cheese. We may scoff  (any more food puns, please write in) at much of it, but this is done lovingly in the main.  Most obviously I think about the contrived friend and family set ups we witness, coming around to enjoy this epic feast made in minutes - I look directly at you, Nigella. They're not your friends!  Nigel, forgive me. I applaud you and your meals seemingly for one with accompanying purring cat. The seductive house interiors, complete with mood lighting, which surely make it impossible to ever read the oven dial, too, astound me. We are even being shown how to shop now. I thought I knew how to do this, and reasonably effectively too- shopping trolley steering accidents aside- but apparently not. Countless scenes of local markets, linen shopping bags and cheery exchanges with shop keepers seem to be the only way to do it these days. Well I never.

I fear I lost my way a bit there, apologies. What I intended to say, however, was that despite all these qualms we may have with aspirational cookery shows, we are still rapaciously consuming them. And, in many ways, it is this which is the most intriguing thing. I deliberately use the word 'consuming' because surely the very essence of a programme about food, should be the food itself, and its consumption. Yet, this is the one thing we absolutely cannot do as viewers. There can be no tasting the food, not even a whiff of its homely smell. That is, unless Skyplus has some new snazzy feature I don't know about it.

It seems to be one enormous paradox. They are meant to fill our appetite, yet do the opposite. Only dangling our greatest desires before our very eyes, and on shiny white plates, too. What, then, are we wanting from these shows? And what, ultimately, are we taking from them?  It can't be that much to do with the food. Or at least, not at that very moment of viewing. Is it more about the visual? We can satisfy our pallets by staring at tasty goods, thinking about what someone else might eat. Are we learning to cook?  Some, perhaps, but I'm not sure that too many of us follow these recipes later. I, for one, have never found a lump of gorgonzola at the back of the fridge I might just 'want to use up.' I refuse to even look in that dark, alarmingly chilly, corner of the kitchen.

Is it about transferring our desires  and cravings on to an unreachable platform?* Are we simply seeking comfort and nourishment in times of crisis? Do we enjoy watching a lifestyle that is aspirational, but unlikely (and simultaneously relish mocking it too?). Perhaps all of these things. Perhaps none. Food for thought, anyway.

*Oh, I forgot to say that for at least half of the population, the chance to ogle Nigella probably plays a large part. *Important point.*

When Postman Pat gave me a shock (and got me thinking).

In a wrongly timed allusion to that famous Christmas poem , in my quiet house this morning it felt as if 'not a creature was stirring, not even mouse.' There I was, quite content, busy enjoying the peace of it all (/contemplating the all important cereal (special K!)/toast for breakfast debate) when I heard a CLUNK in the hallway. The delicate silence had been violated. Curious and, a little alarmed, I immediately ran (too obvious a lie- it's a Saturday, of course I crawled, after some reluctance, out of bed), peered down the stairs only to see what on earth was going on. This disruption, dear Reader, was in fact simply the post being delivered.

Golly Gosh! I am well aware that at this point you are thanking me profusely for entertaining you with such an engaging tale. Post-delivery anecdotes always get people going I know. ..(But genuinely, thank you for still reading...)

What I wanted to share, however, was what this delivery of post suddenly represented to me. There they sat, a couple of envelopes, and some of the usual gaudy take away leaflets, uninvited imposters in my home, invaders into a personal sanctuary.  Too extreme a description? (It's not the post's fault after all!) Yes, yes of course, I am being facetious, and let me now stress that I in fact love receiving post, especially when it is a letter or a card from lovely people.

However, this invasion made me think. These days, so much of our 'post' exists in a technological form, be it an email, a text, a tweet, an instant message etc. Post in all these various shapes drops in to our metaphorical post-filled hallways and 'invades' our lives almost constantly. Of course, we need to be accessible and to access each other easily, and the world's seemingly instant communications are really quite incredible. I don't know what I and we would do without it!

But there are moments, just moments, when part of me wants to run away from it all. Does anyone else feel like that? When on holiday I never want to check my emails, facebook, twitter, you name it, because that is my sanctuary. The postbox is, for a time, nailed shut.

 When it comes to phones, I have always had some 'issues'. I can't help feel (and am sure have shamefully been guilty, I know myself) that all too often we sometimes fail to appreciate the moment or the company we are in, because of the lurking presence of a phone. The chance that someone else might chip in with a text or that something more interesting might emerge on the screen, can pervade the atmosphere and, for me anyway, seem a little rude. Further still, with email accessible on smartphones and the like, when not at work people can still receive work related messages. This can be distracting and destructive to a weekend or holiday. I'm probably far too sensitive to it, and should simply make my peace with an inevitable trend that will only continue to grow, and that I am as much part of, as anyone, of course. But sometimes I think a little sensitivity to good, traditional manners might not be a bad thing. 

Communicating is wonderful, texts are just lovely, phone calls make my day and receiving a letter, well, anyone who ever sends me one receives a thousand bonus points right there. The 24/7 army post invasion however, is a worry.

Sorry Postman Pat- today you triggered a torrent of thoughts, and I just cannot switch them off.