I’ve been swept off my feet. Have to confess it wasn’t entirely unpleasant at the time, but neither was it the fairy tale ending you get in the films. I had the handsome stranger, the deserted beach and the beautiful sunset – but all I have now is a sore bottom that is just about bearable when I’m upright - but sitting? Not even an option. It’s a real pain in the a*** (oh I’m sorry, but it was just too glaringly obvious to pass up).
Until kite surfing took over our waves, there was a sport that quite often took over our sands – the buggying version. In a nutshell, this involved half-sitting, half-lying on a go-kart while the wind dragged you along the beach. At least that’s what it looked like to me. I’m sure people are rolling their eyes in horror at my description but you get the picture.
You don’t see so many buggies along our little stretch of coast these days, but I’ve just discovered the hard way that they haven’t vanished completely.
It was during my evening stroll along the shore, sands deserted, beach my own. The tide was so far out you could hardly see the water and the day’s torrential rain had cleared the sky for an awe-inspiring sunset, long orange fingers stretching across the sky in every shade you can possibly imagine.
I spotted the lone buggy some way off and watched idly as its occupant struggled to keep going in the direction he chose rather than the one dictated by the wind (still not sure how they do that).
These buggies are capable of serious speed, but as this one was going against the wind it was actually moving far slower than me.
I strolled past and, once the buggy was behind me, I forgot it. I was lost in thought, gazing at the sunset, dreaming of summer and how romantic it would be to be paddling hand-in-hand when - wham - I was flat on my back, gagging for breath like a codfish.
For a minute I could see nothing and then, as the stars cleared, a face came into focus a few inches above mine. Not a bad looking face at that. Sent, maybe, to make my sunset fantasy a reality?
‘God, I’m really sorry,’ said the face. He did sound extremely sorry. ‘I don’t know how I did that. The damn thing just picked up speed suddenly and I lost it. Are you all right?’
I wasn’t, as it turned out. Only when my dog, belatedly remembering who feeds him, plodded back to find out what was holding me up and slobbered all over my face, did I discover I couldn’t move.
‘Let me help you,’ said the Face. Given that it was a very nice face and it was attached to a very nice body, I let its strong, brown arms help me.
Upright again, I wiggled various body parts without too much pain and decided the most damage had been done in the dignity area. Reluctantly I said I didn’t need him to take me to hospital. I also turned down his offer to teach me to kite buggy. He laughed, slightly hysterically, when I suggested he learn how to do it himself first.
I limped slowly home, nursing my bruised pride and wet pants. In Hollywood when this happens the heroine never has to limp home alone with wet pants.
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Friday, 26 February 2010
Insomnia in winter
It’s four thirty in the morning and on BBC1 an old woman is celebrating making £241 at a car boot sale to put towards a two week Kenyan safari. (That won’t get you a one night safari at Longleat, my love). ITV, in a desperate competitive bid for my viewing, is offering me eight chances to win thousands of pounds if I can think of a word to follow ‘half’. Wit?
Who calls a TV quiz at 4.30am? Maybe the phones are ringing off the hook with nurses returning from the night shift not quite tired enough to go to bed yet. Or taxi drivers needing to wind down from the excitement of drunken clubbers and airport runs. And, I suppose, insomniacs like me who, fed up with tossing and turning are giving up on sleep and resorting to flicking through channels of rubbish you wouldn’t watch during the day, let alone in the middle of the night.
It’s starting to get to me now. I’m relatively new to insomnia and waking at 4.30 wasn’t so bad when it was light and the longest, hottest summer in 30 years. As long as you know it’s coming, you go to bed straight after the kids and there’s something quite magical about sitting outside with a cup of tea, wearing next to nothing and watching the sun come up. For a few blissful, silent moments I was the only person in the world. Some mornings, I’d wander around the field in my PJs, mug in hand, followed by the dog, the cat and a couple of brave chickens – even the deer didn’t bother to run away from us. Other days I’d run down to the beach, enjoying the feeling that, for once, there was no rush; I’d get back, shower and then sit in the garden with my breakfast while behind me the house slept on.
But being an insomniac in winter isn’t nearly as much fun. Now 4.30am is black and most definitely night time. There is nothing I want to do but sleep. I’ve always been one of those people who falls asleep the minute their head hits the pillow, but we’ve been burgled and since then my brain struggles to shut down. I’m a light sleeper, woken by a leaf falling two miles away, so I was deeply shocked to discover that people could wander around my house in the middle of the night and not wake me up.
I’d also thought having a big scary dog would help. But it turns out that my loyal hound and best friend will bark ferociously at hedgehogs, plastic bags and passing Jack Russells, but if strangers let themselves in in the middle of the night and help themselves to my best stuff – not to mention my mobile phone charger for which they had to physically reach over his bed – he won’t even get up. So the only solution is not to go to sleep at all in case the vermin return.
When I was travelling we used to sleep in all sorts of dodgy places – pavements, beaches, rooftops, station platforms – and we'd stuff everything that mattered half way down the sleeping bag and lie on it so no-one could nick it. Not comfy but relatively safe. Never thought I’d still be doing it, years later, under the Hungarian goose down, inside my own home.
But now I think I’ve cracked it. I’ve come up with a better solution than staying awake 24 hours a day. I've put traps around the house to trip up the burglars, a neat little trick I learned from my mother who used to do it to catch us coming home after curfew. This way, just in case I drop off briefly, the thieves will fall over folded garden chairs as they enter, sending them crashing to the quarry tiles (the chairs, not the burglars. Though actually that would work too). If that doesn’t scare them off, they will have to negotiate their way around a trail of marbles, various toy farm buildings and Barbie’s camper van (oh yes, even Barbie and Ken camp in our family). At which point they will discover that the interior door is locked and bolted from the far side and the only other entry is blocked by the dog’s bed. I'm working on the theory they won't know he's a big pansy. Who needs an alarm?
Talking of alarms, I’ve just noticed it’s about an hour until I have to get the girls up for school. So, now of course, I will fall into the deepest possible sleep known to mankind just in time for the alarm to go off………
Who calls a TV quiz at 4.30am? Maybe the phones are ringing off the hook with nurses returning from the night shift not quite tired enough to go to bed yet. Or taxi drivers needing to wind down from the excitement of drunken clubbers and airport runs. And, I suppose, insomniacs like me who, fed up with tossing and turning are giving up on sleep and resorting to flicking through channels of rubbish you wouldn’t watch during the day, let alone in the middle of the night.
It’s starting to get to me now. I’m relatively new to insomnia and waking at 4.30 wasn’t so bad when it was light and the longest, hottest summer in 30 years. As long as you know it’s coming, you go to bed straight after the kids and there’s something quite magical about sitting outside with a cup of tea, wearing next to nothing and watching the sun come up. For a few blissful, silent moments I was the only person in the world. Some mornings, I’d wander around the field in my PJs, mug in hand, followed by the dog, the cat and a couple of brave chickens – even the deer didn’t bother to run away from us. Other days I’d run down to the beach, enjoying the feeling that, for once, there was no rush; I’d get back, shower and then sit in the garden with my breakfast while behind me the house slept on.
But being an insomniac in winter isn’t nearly as much fun. Now 4.30am is black and most definitely night time. There is nothing I want to do but sleep. I’ve always been one of those people who falls asleep the minute their head hits the pillow, but we’ve been burgled and since then my brain struggles to shut down. I’m a light sleeper, woken by a leaf falling two miles away, so I was deeply shocked to discover that people could wander around my house in the middle of the night and not wake me up.
I’d also thought having a big scary dog would help. But it turns out that my loyal hound and best friend will bark ferociously at hedgehogs, plastic bags and passing Jack Russells, but if strangers let themselves in in the middle of the night and help themselves to my best stuff – not to mention my mobile phone charger for which they had to physically reach over his bed – he won’t even get up. So the only solution is not to go to sleep at all in case the vermin return.
When I was travelling we used to sleep in all sorts of dodgy places – pavements, beaches, rooftops, station platforms – and we'd stuff everything that mattered half way down the sleeping bag and lie on it so no-one could nick it. Not comfy but relatively safe. Never thought I’d still be doing it, years later, under the Hungarian goose down, inside my own home.
But now I think I’ve cracked it. I’ve come up with a better solution than staying awake 24 hours a day. I've put traps around the house to trip up the burglars, a neat little trick I learned from my mother who used to do it to catch us coming home after curfew. This way, just in case I drop off briefly, the thieves will fall over folded garden chairs as they enter, sending them crashing to the quarry tiles (the chairs, not the burglars. Though actually that would work too). If that doesn’t scare them off, they will have to negotiate their way around a trail of marbles, various toy farm buildings and Barbie’s camper van (oh yes, even Barbie and Ken camp in our family). At which point they will discover that the interior door is locked and bolted from the far side and the only other entry is blocked by the dog’s bed. I'm working on the theory they won't know he's a big pansy. Who needs an alarm?
Talking of alarms, I’ve just noticed it’s about an hour until I have to get the girls up for school. So, now of course, I will fall into the deepest possible sleep known to mankind just in time for the alarm to go off………
Thursday, 25 February 2010
I wonder about so much crap......
The two women coming towards me this morning were kitted out like an ad for Barbour. Full-length waxy mac, matching hat and shiny green wellies. I wonder if they actually scrub their boots - or just lob them in the bin and get new ones when they get a bit mucky. Like Elvis replacing his car when the ashtray was full.
They were almost surreal these women, looked very wrong here in the windswept dunes with their tidy hair and lipstick. They were totally oblivious to the wild beauty of their surroundings, showed no awareness of the sea or the fragility of the land which arouses such passion in me. They were talking about Rosemary and something she had done that simply wasn’t done.
I nodded and smiled as I passed, leaving my dog, Jack, to do his submissive thing with their Alpha males. He has a little ritual; on first spotting a superior dog-being, he lies down patiently and waits. As Superior Dog draws level he lolls over stupidly and puts his head on his front paws, bottom stuck up in the air. There are two ways this ends: either the dogs tear around like headless chickens, best friends for three minutes, or Jack rolls over and sticks his legs in the air and gets sniffed.
This morning he rolled over and I walked on. I’d gone maybe twenty yards further along the boardwalk, built to protect my beloved dunes, when I stopped dead. There in front of me, right bang smack in the middle of the path was a huge pile of still-steaming dog poo.
This really gets my blood boiling. Not many things rattle me, but when I’m famous and a Sunday magazine asks about my favourite restaurants, beauty tips and pet hates, dog poo is going to be right up there at the top of my rant list.
I stuck a bright smile on my face and turned to the immaculate women. One of them was on the phone. The other was shrieking (at a pitch only dogs could hear) to get her dog – Sebastian – to lay off licking Jack’s nether regions.
‘Excuse me,’ I called sweetly. ‘Would you like to borrow a poo bag? I’ve plenty and there’s a bin just up ahead of you.’ The Shrieking Lady stopped in mid squeal and froze. Her friend muttered something into the mobile without taking her eyes off me, hung up and very slowly slid it back into her pocket. I thought they were going to put their hands up. I glanced down to check that I was, in fact, waving a small plastic bag at them and hadn’t accidentally pulled a Colt 45 from my anorak and headed bravely towards them. To their credit they didn’t actually run away although their top halves very definitely leaned backwards.
One of them held out a beautifully – fortunately – gloved hand and took the bag from me. I smiled encouragingly as she stooped to pick up the poo and then watched as she walked the fifty yards to the poo bin. ‘There,’ I wanted to say, ‘was that so hard?’ but I made do with ‘It’s so terribly pretty around here, don’t you think?’ and walked on, shaking slightly and wondering why I felt the need to toff up my vocab.
I wonder all sorts on these morning walks. It’s a great way to start the day. I wonder how the hell to help my littlest learn her tables, what I would do if I were Cheryl Cole, whether I could be a foster mum and how Little Miss High and Mighty down the road will react when she finds out that Brad is leaving Angelina for me.
I wonder whether Elvis really did that thing with the ash trays, whether I can run 10k to help fight cancer, and if I should get bleachy highlights or stick with mousey.
It’s my precious time, in a place that means a lot to me (I wonder if I should scatter my ashes here?) so it rankles when people stride through it, barely notice it and leave mounds of crap behind them.
I’d barely gone another twenty yards when there in front of me was another seriously big pile. Same sort, if you know what I mean. Same diet, same time frame, same kind of dog.
I turned to where the women were still standing, still watching me as though I was some kind of weirdo. My silly grin reappeared and out came another poo bag but I just didn’t have the balls to go through the whole process again.
‘Not to worry,’ I called in the same silly, plummy voice, waving my little bag. ‘I’ll get this one’.
And off I tootled, in the opposite direction to them, away from the poo bin, stuck with carrying the bag of smelly crap all the way around the point and back.
I wonder if I’ll ever learn to keep my big mouth shut.
They were almost surreal these women, looked very wrong here in the windswept dunes with their tidy hair and lipstick. They were totally oblivious to the wild beauty of their surroundings, showed no awareness of the sea or the fragility of the land which arouses such passion in me. They were talking about Rosemary and something she had done that simply wasn’t done.
I nodded and smiled as I passed, leaving my dog, Jack, to do his submissive thing with their Alpha males. He has a little ritual; on first spotting a superior dog-being, he lies down patiently and waits. As Superior Dog draws level he lolls over stupidly and puts his head on his front paws, bottom stuck up in the air. There are two ways this ends: either the dogs tear around like headless chickens, best friends for three minutes, or Jack rolls over and sticks his legs in the air and gets sniffed.
This morning he rolled over and I walked on. I’d gone maybe twenty yards further along the boardwalk, built to protect my beloved dunes, when I stopped dead. There in front of me, right bang smack in the middle of the path was a huge pile of still-steaming dog poo.
This really gets my blood boiling. Not many things rattle me, but when I’m famous and a Sunday magazine asks about my favourite restaurants, beauty tips and pet hates, dog poo is going to be right up there at the top of my rant list.
I stuck a bright smile on my face and turned to the immaculate women. One of them was on the phone. The other was shrieking (at a pitch only dogs could hear) to get her dog – Sebastian – to lay off licking Jack’s nether regions.
‘Excuse me,’ I called sweetly. ‘Would you like to borrow a poo bag? I’ve plenty and there’s a bin just up ahead of you.’ The Shrieking Lady stopped in mid squeal and froze. Her friend muttered something into the mobile without taking her eyes off me, hung up and very slowly slid it back into her pocket. I thought they were going to put their hands up. I glanced down to check that I was, in fact, waving a small plastic bag at them and hadn’t accidentally pulled a Colt 45 from my anorak and headed bravely towards them. To their credit they didn’t actually run away although their top halves very definitely leaned backwards.
One of them held out a beautifully – fortunately – gloved hand and took the bag from me. I smiled encouragingly as she stooped to pick up the poo and then watched as she walked the fifty yards to the poo bin. ‘There,’ I wanted to say, ‘was that so hard?’ but I made do with ‘It’s so terribly pretty around here, don’t you think?’ and walked on, shaking slightly and wondering why I felt the need to toff up my vocab.
I wonder all sorts on these morning walks. It’s a great way to start the day. I wonder how the hell to help my littlest learn her tables, what I would do if I were Cheryl Cole, whether I could be a foster mum and how Little Miss High and Mighty down the road will react when she finds out that Brad is leaving Angelina for me.
I wonder whether Elvis really did that thing with the ash trays, whether I can run 10k to help fight cancer, and if I should get bleachy highlights or stick with mousey.
It’s my precious time, in a place that means a lot to me (I wonder if I should scatter my ashes here?) so it rankles when people stride through it, barely notice it and leave mounds of crap behind them.
I’d barely gone another twenty yards when there in front of me was another seriously big pile. Same sort, if you know what I mean. Same diet, same time frame, same kind of dog.
I turned to where the women were still standing, still watching me as though I was some kind of weirdo. My silly grin reappeared and out came another poo bag but I just didn’t have the balls to go through the whole process again.
‘Not to worry,’ I called in the same silly, plummy voice, waving my little bag. ‘I’ll get this one’.
And off I tootled, in the opposite direction to them, away from the poo bin, stuck with carrying the bag of smelly crap all the way around the point and back.
I wonder if I’ll ever learn to keep my big mouth shut.
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