Month: May 2014

Spiderman on a porch roof. No reason.

Now I can’t say my life is stressful in the sense that I do not have to file reports, meet press deadlines, create spreadsheets for inexplicable data, worry whether HR are monitoring ‘all’ email attachments , or suffer the unbearable sweat inducing hunger that every British person must in preference to taking the last biscuit during a meeting. Even if it is only one of those shortcake ones with the dried currants in.

So yes, I am lucky in that sense, but instead my mind is generally preoccupied with a hundred and one other things, some useful, some not – but strangely I’m finding that the more I have to think about the happier a person I am. Curious in a sense, as previously when I found myself in conventional employment, the notion of relaxing and not having to think about anything was a distinct luxury. Now I find it is quite the opposite.

Along with the mental chaos that comes of making sure three people are alive, clothed and fed, I have found myself develop a yearning for learning about random things at the moment. In fact it’s become a serious addiction that requires feeding, a nourishment that I crave and never thought I would – a genuine need of ‘thought for food’.  This is why I think I have become so fixated with TED.com – I can get a fix of trivia in the time it takes to don a clean pair of socks and dab on a bit of mascara.

I think I rather wish I had become addicted to something useful like jogging or hot yoga or something. Then I could have a toned physique and buns of steel! Instead here I sit, cherry bakewell in hand, learning about how the human brain is wired to comprehend our own mortality. Now there’s a delicious irony for you.

There are however downsides in wanting to fill my brain with random curiosities, in that sometimes over capacity often leads to a distinct malfunction. And I do stupid things. Some recent embarrassments include:

1. Wearing my pyjama top to the supermarket, featuring an over-sized bunny;
2. Hunting for a cup of tea I made, only to find it in the toddler’s wardrobe;
3. Using deodorant to polish the bedroom furniture;
4. Leaving a voicemail for my builder explaining why I can’t make my dental appointment…

and most unfortunately…

5. Inviting a friend to meet me at a local National Trust property. She arrived at said property on time. I also arrived promptly and began looking for my friend at the ticket office (as agreed). It was after some moments of confusion when neither of us could find each other at the modestly sized ticket office, that I realised I had suggested a destination and meant another. My friend was in Basingstoke. I was 25 miles away in Henley-on-Thames. Yep.

So I need to come up with a way that I can maintain a working level of mental stimulation without also compromising friendships and causing myself public humiliation and eventually, dehydration.

But at least in the short term, my bedroom smells 24 hour fresh.

I am  really deeply tired.

That is not what this blog is about, rather than given this physical state  I allowed myself to sit down at nap time, guilt free, and indulge in a bit of Chelsea Flower Show magic. I love Chelsea, the show gardens particularly! I adore the immaculate lawns, the sharply clipped hedges, the beautiful ways in which water is used, the the flawless drifts of exuberant planting (and particularly how much ‘representation’ the BBC presenters seem to be able to read into a metre square of crazy paving). To me, it truly is magic!

But if you look a bit closer, you realise it is actually magic. In many cases there is no way many of the flowers would be in bloom simultaneously if they hadn’t been prepped for months beforehand in polytunnels. Many of the structures used also look amazing, but made of solid marble, are a bit beyond the budget of your average B&Q patron, whilst the sheer perfection of each garden I imagine is very difficult to maintain if it is also a working garden (i.e. at the mercy of people, children and animals).

Which got me thinking how I often chuckle at the ‘lifestyle magazines’ I also have a mild addiction to. Pretty much every issue is an ode to impractical perfection – country kitchens only available with artistically placed satsumas, a beautifully made up mother-of-four carrying home the week’s shopping in a wicker trug wearing a chintzy pinny, sprightly children running through fields in smocked white dresses (that are still white), and chickens sauntering about immaculate flower beds without the merest hint of eating/digging them up. Here are a few more examples of the beautiful yet improbable quickly plucked from my latest issue of Country Homes and Interiors…

Now, I jest, but this is the very principle applied fashion magazines but with a homemakers twist – a guide to domestic airbrushing if you will. Not that I mind this unapologetic display of make believe, indeed I still choose to subscribe to such publications, and readily lap them up each time they fall on my doormat.

But that is part of the problem. A large part of my personality (for good or bad) has given itself over to being a dreamer – I crave unobtainable perfection. Yes I know in reality, living with a DIY enthusiast and toddler, my worktop is more likely to boast a collection of drill bits interspersed with rusk than a rustic hand tied posy, but it is a little difficult to accept.

Social media also seems to be having an impact of similar proportions on my being. Occasionally I am forced to ply myself away from the likes of Instagram and Facebook which often make me feel I am rather falling behind on my cocktail consumption, or that my life is missing necessary *sparkle* given that my only celebrity siting of late was Alan Titschmarsh purchasing a strawberry cornetto, and in such hot weather, a request for a selfie seemed rather unreasonable.

Indeed I do need to remind myself that most of the lifestyle accolades portrayed are a matter of perception and interpretation – (an ad man’s currency).

Still, I have always been taught to follow my dreams, so I have ironed my pinny for my next outing to Londis, a bag of easy-peels adorn my counter top, and I have popped a hydrangea head that the cat decapitated on my whirlygig.

It’s work in progress. See social media for updates.