The hole truth

 

My name is Kym Hamer, I am 46 years old and I have just had my first filling.

Yes it’s true. I have just returned from the dentist numb-cheeked after said filling (plus a fluoride treatment on two other culprits) and am under strict instructions not to eat or drink for the next two hours.

So I thought I’d fill the time by telling you all about it. Hooray I hear you say…not. Nevertheless here goes…

I’d never been to Smile Cliniq until a couple of weeks ago…and it had been two years since my last checkup elsewhere so you can probably appreciate there was quite a bit of scraping and polishing to do. And then there was the unwelcome news of a cavity in my lower right molar and early signs of decay in two other teeth so my lapse is likely to be the cause of today’s drill ‘n’ fill session.

But Chet (the dentist) was great, explaining everything clearly beforehand and checking in throughout that I was okay. He warned of ‘a little scratch’ before the injection which I did not feel and aside from my inability to rinse without dribbling at the end (making me giggle…which made things worse), I emerged relatively unscathed in under 30 minutes.

Chet’s really passionate about his profession and we got chatting today about a seven year study carried out in Sydney to prove the benefits of adding fluoride to the water system. The lack of dental fillings at my age has often been referred to as a result of being part of the fluoride generation and Chet mentioned today that in Birmingham, early tests around adding fluoride to the water have yielded further evidence of its benefits, particularly in preventing tooth decay in children.

Even better in my book is the application of fluoride treatments on signs of early decay which may actually mean a future devoid of fillings. Imagine that in only a generation or two from now, the concept of have a filling may be as alien as walking on the Moon was to us a century ago.

In any case, my drill ‘n’ fill was nowhere near as traumatic as I had envisaged but I am in no hurry to have another. So I will continue my twice-daily brush, floss and (mouth)wash and be more vigilant in heading back for some professional attention every 6 months. Being a week into February, it’s a little late for a New Year resolution but given the literal hole I made for myself by waiting so long, I’m off to add a checkup reminder in my calendar for August. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this reminder from English poet Pam Ayres as to the moral of my story:

Look after your teeth peeps!

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Oh I wish I’d looked after me teeth

Oh, I wish I’d looked after me teeth,

And spotted the dangers beneath

All the toffees I chewed,

And the sweet sticky food.

Oh, I wish I’d looked after me teeth.

I wish I’d been that much more willin’

When I had more tooth there than fillin’

To give up gobstoppers,

From respect to me choppers,

And to buy something else with me shillin’.

When I think of the lollies I licked

And the liquorice allsorts I picked,

Sherbet dabs, big and little,

All that hard peanut brittle,

My conscience gets horribly pricked.

My mother, she told me no end,

‘If you got a tooth, you got a friend.’

I was young then, and careless,

My toothbrush was hairless,

I never had much time to spend.

Oh I showed them the toothpaste all right,

I flashed it about late at night,

But up-and-down brushin’

And pokin’ and fussin’

Didn’t seem worth the time – I could bite!

If I’d known I was paving the way

To cavities, caps and decay,

The murder of fillin’s,

Injections and drillin’s,

I’d have thrown all me sherbet away.

So I lie in the old dentist’s chair,

And I gaze up his nose in despair,

And his drill it do whine

In these molars of mine.

‘Two amalgam,’ he’ll say, ‘for in there.’

How I laughed at my mother’s false teeth,

As they foamed in the waters beneath.

But now comes the reckonin’

It’s methey are beckonin’

Oh, I wish I’d looked after me teeth.

Source: www.pamayres.com

January’s bucket list

I’m not one for New Year’s resolutions. My resolve tends to scatter across the year and is generally underpinned by my penchant for exploration and variety. However I do love moments, snatches of time when I am completely caught up – and sometimes out – by intense feeling, largely a mixture of delight, wonder, melancholy, outrage and curiosity. I carry this image of a bucket in my mind and I often imagine putting a particular moment into it. Somehow they all combine into a life that inspires me.

I was checking something in my calendar earlier and it occurred to me that while I share about particular experiences, I don’t often reflect on all of the things I’ve done. Fellow blogger, author and longtime Gidday follower Jack Scott commented recently “you do get about” so I thought that it would be interesting – for me anyway – to end each month this year by checking out what’s ended up ‘in the bucket’.

So here goes.

This month it all started with a new chapter in an old story and I absolutely loved Star Wars: The Force Awakens. I then moved into a Kenneth Brannagh double bill: All On Her Own, a maudlin 25 minute 3-stars-from-me soliloquy, and the hilarious 4-stars-from-me farce, Harlequinade.

A trip back in time with the Museum of London and a tour of an old Roman fort inspired my historic sensibilities so much that the Museum became a new Friend. Five days later I joined hundreds of women at the Central Methodist Hall in Westminster to listen to the Women’s Equality Party and left non-plussed and suprisingly uninspired: lots of valid and important messages but the whole thing was a bit ‘rah rah’ for me.

A decidedly French tone emerged in the second half of the month with the NY MET’s performance of Bizet’s opera The Pearl Fishers and the National Theatre’s production of Les Liaisons Dangereuses (Dangerous Liaisons) being live streamed at the Phoenix Cinema just a ten minute bus ride away. When I was raving about the latter in the office the next day, I was informed by a young French colleague that the book continues to be part of the literature curriculum in French schools and is considered “a classic”. By the way, both productions were ‘magnifique’.

I’ve also read six books this month and rated three of them a mighty 5-stars, an excellent 50% hit rate. March Violets by Philip Kerr and A Town Like Alice by Nevil Shute were my first dip into these respective writers and my return to Stephen King (and introduction to his criminal mastermind Mr Mercedes) was the recommendation of another Gidday follower, author Charlie Wade. (Thanks Charlie!)

In between all of this I embarked on some new cooking adventures with a foray into pastry (albeit frozen) as well as ‘cooking with beetroot’ and I managed catch up dinners with three different friends, one long overdue.

I also inadvertently fell across London’s Lumiere Festival on the face of the Abbey…

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…and delighted in the lighter mornings on my walk to work.

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Speaking of commuting, this gem really lifted my tube ride home one night.

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It also snowed…

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…and I celebrated twelve years in London.

So Jack was right and January was full to the brim with moments that were both planned and completely surprising. (And that’s doesn’t include what happens in my job.)

In any case, I’ve quite enjoyed this retrospective approach to bucket list-ing and am curious to see what reflecting on February might bring.

What would a look back at your January moments yield?

Let’s make it a good one

Here we are at New Year’s Eve again. The year’s gone by so quickly and it doesn’t seem that long ago that I was trying to stay cool last New Year’s Eve Down Under. Time flies doesn’t it? And speaking of fun, I’ve managed quite a bit of it over the last 12 months.

After returning from my bi-annual pilgrimage to Melbourne (and a fab top-up visit from Lil Chicky) in January, travelling-for-work was much less frequent this year but I managed to find some cash and conquer some new frontiers. Ten days in Seattle with Seattle-A heralded my first trip to Canada, I spent four fabulous days in Stockholm at the start of August and then jetted off for a week of sun, sand and a whole swag of reading in Mauritius in November.

Speaking of reading, I smashed my book-a-week target by 25% (I read 65) and 8 of them got a Gidday 5-star rating (that’s 12.5%). I discovered Henning Mankell recently and will be reading more of his Kurt Wallander series next year. And while it doesn’t count in 2015’s quota, I am in the middle of my first Philip Kerr – March Violets with protagonist PI Bernard Gunther – and if things continue as they are, the new year looks set to start with another big fat 5 star rating. Awesome.

There have been many theatre outings over the year, Death of a Salesman being one that I studied at high school yet hadn’t seen and the most recent being Hangmen which featured a cracking ‘noir’ plot and really great characterisation. I’ve also been back to Sadlers Wells to be swept away by the Rambert Dance Company and transported to Spain at the opening of the London Flamenco Festival.

I’ve upped my Live Screening ante enjoying some new (well new to me) Shakespeare – Love’s Labors Lost, Othello and The Winters Tale – and several operas including my first Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, The Mikado. Live Screening also delivered a theatre highlight – Man and Superman – and a new crush, Ralph Fiennes. When seeing his face alight with joy in taking the final bows, well I may have had a little weak-at-the-knees moment…okay maybe not so little.

I’m finishing the year with a two week staycation. Christmas was spent with friends in SE London and aside from an outing to Borough Market and Southwark Cathedral with another friend yesterday, I have just enjoyed being at home. I’ve still got five days off before I go back to work so plenty of time of time to complete my Christmas jigsaw puzzle, finish March Violets and catch up with friends for a little Star Wars, drinks and dinner.

It’s almost midnight here, Bryan Adams is rockin’ it out on the telly and before long, the crackle of fireworks will be heard overhead as those locally organised start the new year with a bang. All that remains is for me to wish you the very best for 2016…

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Let’s make it a good one.

Twinkle twinkle

It’s the first weekend in December and here at Gidday HQ, that means that it’s time to get festive and put up the Christmas tree.

I love doing this, especially as I only do this every second year when my Christmas is a London-based one. It reminds me of living at home in my late teens/early 20’s when, for a few short years, Lil Chicky and I would set aside an afternoon to decorate the Christmas tree at Mum’s together. The tree itself usually needed some MacGyver-like ingenuity to ensure it stood tall and straight for the festive period and bore up under the weight of copious amounts of tinsel and general Christmas bling.

So today I pulled the boxes down from the high cupboards. I tested all the lights and untangled the string of gold beads that I drape in lieu of tinsel. And I laid out all of the ornaments I have collected over the years – from my travels, gifts from friends and family and nods to my Dutch and Australian heritage – and with the jingling bells of Christmas movies on TV in the background, Gidday HQ  got  a dose of Christmas spirit. Here are just a few of my favourite festive things…

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My wreath has had an Aussie update this year

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I bought this fantastic festive tea-light holder in Dusseldorf in 1999

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The tree gets quite full so in recent years I’ve taken to displaying some ornaments separately – the gold and red baubles are personalised ones from Mum and the one in the middle is a nod to sisterhood from Lil Chicky

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Here’s a bauble from a work trip to the Big Apple in 2005  (it had to be done)…

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…and this hand-painted glass bell was purchased in Rynek Glowny (the main square) in Krakow in 2012

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For years my tree has featured this hand-made (not by me!) angel – this year she’s sitting on an apple to keep her upright.

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I love this fabulous shoe, unearthed from a Christmas stocking during one of my bi-annual pilgrimages Down Under (my mother knows me well).

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Lil Chicky snuck this back from our Amsterdam trip in 2013 and hid it in my flat for me to find…

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…and she gave me this one courtesy of her trip to Japan in 2014.

I have A LOT of Dutch ornaments. I just can’t help bringing a little piece of my ancestry back from every visit I make.  You see, there’s a fabulous Christmas shop down by the Singel flower market in Amsterdam – I’m sure I’ve kept them in business – where I spend my last day on each visit working out how to get these fragile purchases a) into my already full luggage and b) back home in one piece.

I’ve managed to restrain myself – here are just two of them…

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Anyway, the deed is done. The tree is up, the lights are twinkling and Alfie Bear has donned his Christmas hat, ready to join in the festive fun. And there are already a few presents under the tree with this year’s Christmas bonanza from Mum arriving a couple of weeks ago.

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Alfie Bear is a fixture at Gidday HQ, having come into my life as part of a redundancy gift in 2008 – he loves Christmas as much as I do.

So if I go missing in action at all, you’ll probably find me sitting on the comfy couch at Gidday HQ  admiring the view…

There are 19 sleeps to go until the big day peeps – are you feeling festive yet?

A productive day

I was woken by a veritable cacophony of birdsong.

I rolled over, still dim with sleep, the fissure of light along the curtain hem announcing that a new day had dawned. I squinted at the dial of my watch. 6.30am. I pulled the covers back up over my shoulders against the chill of the room, the air conditioner humming smugly in the background.

Fifty minutes later, I opened the curtains…

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…to greet my first full day in Mauritius.

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After some travel disruption and a later than expected arrival on Sunday, I had just enough time for a gentle stroll along the beach and a cheeky cocktail at the beach bar before my first Mauritian sunset – watched with the sand between my toes of course. What a sunset it was…

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An early night (there was a very real danger of yours truly falling asleep in her dinner) meant that despite the early hour, on Monday I was up and ready for a productive day.

I met the holiday rep, agreed my pickup time for the return journey to the airport and got some tips on how to get the best value from my all inclusive package.

I booked dinners in three of the resort‘s five restaurants. Last night it was a 5 course traditional Mauritian meal with 8 other hotel guests and I have dinner at the beach restaurant on Wednesday and then the Asian fusion restaurant on Friday to go. The substantial buffet will just have to do on the other nights. *Sigh*

I also booked myself a visit to the hotel spa for a little pre-dinner pampering tonight.

And I lay by the pool and read a book. Yes, a whole book. Bliss.

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Then it was time to start the cycle again with cocktail number two.

Now I call that a productive day and with a few notable exceptions – it will be the beach today instead of the pool – this is how it will be for seven whole days.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have another book to choose…

The window

Let me start this by saying I had an awesome Saturday last weekend. It was filled with some of the things I love best – literature, history, discovery and most of all, London.

I had spent a fascinating hour at the old Roman House and Bath on Lower Thames Street right opposite the Billingsgate Fish Market. The City of London is an area I’ve explored over the last few years through walking tours (In Shardlake’s Shoes) but it’s not on my way to any frequent haunt so adventures tend to be a result of turning left instead of right, peering around unbidden corners and just venturing into open doors.

With some time to kill before heading to the Kings Place Festival, rather than head directly back to Monument Station, I let myself meander aimlessly along cobbled lanes admiring the architectural mix of old next to new.

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I had ambled up St-Mary-At-Hill toward Eastcheap when I saw this off to my right.

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Intrigued, I headed towards it, the street silent and shaded against the warm afternoon sun. As I drew closer, I looked up and spied a steeple chalked against the blue of the sky.

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The sunlit window beckoned and as the cobbles turned left into Idol Lane, it became part of something much bigger. The tower in front of me rising up to unite the disparate parts of steeple and window into one glorious whole.

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St-Dunstan-in-the-East – all sweeping curves and delicate green. A little piece of history tucked just a few steps back from the dust and traffic on Lower Thames Street. I smiled and I could feel the warm anticipation of discovery growing inside me. The black iron gate was open so I edged through, curious and quiet, as though not to disturb the peace of the garden.

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I wandered along the leafy paths drinking in the beauty of this patch of nature and history entwined. Each turn revealed a stunning view, each door a different aspect to behold.

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The delicate shapes of the old walls reached up amidst the modern cut of the City, softening its edges and somehow showcasing the modern skyline. There’s a mix of old and new that I love about London – the way that each seems to compliment, even enhance, the other. I don’t think anywhere does it better.

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My breath caught over and over again as I gazed around me. I was moved, wanting to absorb each moment and imprint it into my mind. At the same time, I wanted to share the fullness of it. I found myself retracing steps, phone in hand hoping somehow to capture a fragment of what I was feeling in order to pass it on.

I typed my first draft of this post an hour later, sitting on the floor of Kings Place waiting for the event I’ve booked in for to start. It was a download I couldn’t stem, a rambling deluge of words and feelings for such a short space of time that had become so large and urgent in my memory.

Now I reshape it, ordering it, adding the photos which speak to my heart the most. There’s joy in revisiting the photos I took. They return me to places I stood – the central garden where the wiry black boughs framed by gothic arches were misted with emerald leaves, the far reaches of the path where I could see the red piped curves reaching from the bricked corner of the building next door – and the things that I felt – the warm sun on my face, the cool sweat on my back that made my t-shirt cling to the place that my backpack had been.

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And I smile again. It feels like the same smile as when I first set eyes on that black iron gate. And I feel grateful – for the moment, for the discovery and for the opportunity to live in this magnificent city I am lucky to call home.

To my mind, that’s not bad for a Saturday.

Not bad at all.

Under foot

The Museum of London is my favourite museum. When I first arrived in London, I spent a too-short couple of hours sheltering there from the January cold before a meeting-over-a-drink on London Wall and over the years I have visited several times, not just for new events but also to revisit the permanent exhibition. It’s the patchwork of all of London’s faces through history that I find so endlessly fascinating.

Anyway, the Museum is trialling a series of Archaeology Archive events over the next few months, opening up sites for the public to visit and to learn more about what went on here well before we were a twinkle in anybody’s eye. So at 2.45 yesterday afternoon, I entered the nondescript door at 101 Lower Thames Street and followed our Museum of London guides, Joe and Nicola, down the short flight of stairs to the Roman House and Bath.

The house and bath is thought to be from the period leading up to 400AD – the story of the site came to life under Nicola’s passionate telling: the building and its abandonment – probably around the late 4th/early 5th century when Rome withdrew its support from Londinium – the unusual layout of the bath house and why it might have been built that way, and how archaeological evidence – or absence thereof – plays its part in refining the story. There still remains some debate as to whether this was a mansio – a ‘stopping point’ – or a family home but that in no way diminished the impact of what we saw.

The tour began with a look at the east wing, what was thought to be the furnace room and the remains of the hypercaust heating system beneath the floor.

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The east wing – you can see hypercaust tiles to the right. The furnace room is on the other side of the walkway and links through a series of channels under the floor to circulate warm air throughout.

We then spent some time looking at the bath. Comprised of a frigidarium cum change room in the centre, the tepidarium (warm room), caldarium (hot room) and plunge pool, Nicola’s narration took us back over 1600 years, introducing us to the family who may have lived here.

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You can see the layout of the bath here. The frigidarium was the flat area in front, to the right you can see the site of the caldarium (hot room) with its hypercaust tiles and the furnace that you can see just on the outside of the wall). The family would have walked through a small connecting room to the tepidarium (warm room) on the other side (left side of picture).

They may have trodden the tessellated floor of the frigidarium to change, walked through to the tepidarium to acclimatise to the heat, then visited the caldarium  for a short time before returning to the tepidarium to relax, chat and receive the cleansing ministrations of various experts (scraping the skin with a strigel was a common method of removing the dust and grime of London).

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Remains of the tessellated floor of the frigidarium

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The tepidarium – you can see the remaining floor level tiles sitting above the the hypercaust pillars

And let’s not forget an invigorating dip into the plunge pool before leaving the bath.

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The plunge pool was located at our backs as we looked over the frigidarium. It’s not huge – just enough for a dip in and out.

Just under an hour later, our small group headed back up the stairs and, after signing the visitors book, emerged onto the sunlit street. I still find it quite hard to believe that all of that fabulous history lies beneath an unassuming office block opposite the imposing Billingsgate Fish Market on a roadwork-strewn City street.

The Roman House and Bath is a Scheduled Monument which means that it is registered as one of Historic England’s 5627 important archaeological sites. It also means that it is a legal requirement of the owners/occupiers of the property to protect the site. The Museum of London plays a big part in this with teams of historians, archaeologists and conservators overseeing preservation efforts.

This trial – the opening of their Archaeological Archives – is an effort to raise public consciousness about London’s history and encourage visitation albeit, with a small fee, in the hope that there will be support and funding for a permanent programme.

If you are fascinated by history and/or London and have an hour one weekend to visit the Roman House and Bath – or any of the other openings in this year’s trial – please do it. Being able to stand beneath the street, to see this and listen to the expertise and passion of people like Nicola and Joe from the Museum of London is an absolute privilege.

It would be a shame if the doors were closed again and the conservators were left to appreciate London’s past alone.

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For more information about this special programme, visit; http://www.museumoflondon.org.uk/london-wall/whats-on/adult-events/archaeology-events/

The hole in the ground

‘Refuse collection day’ in my borough falls on a Friday and lately, as I have begun my daily commute with its regular 10 minute walk to the station, I’ve noticed that the local recycling trucks have had a bit of a spruce up.

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You might think that this is a weird thing to notice but recycling is something that’s close to my heart and it’s come a long way since my arrival in London more than eleven years ago. Back then, I was shocked by the absence of the kerb-side collection infrastructure I had been used to in Melbourne, where I happily separated my rubbish into separate bins and blithely ‘left it out the front’ for weekly collection.

When I arrived in New Cross in 2004, there was no kerb-side recycling in place and for the year I lived in Brentford, I spent much of the time cleaning up the ‘burst’ rubbish bags from the pavement right outside our front door (the efforts of either foxes or patrons of the pub down the road). My six and a half years in Kingston-Upon-Thames saw the arrival of a ‘recycling bank’ at the local Sainsbury’s supermarket (which would have been bit of a nuisance without a car) followed by the gradual introduction of a kerb-side service, the footpaths on ‘rubbish day’ becoming cluttered with all manner of bins and bags (with about five different containers supplied to separate all of the different materials in). 

In England we recycled, reused or composted just 43.5% of our waste in the year up to November 2014, a measly 0.3 percentage point increase over the prior year. That means that more than half of what we throw away ends up in a big hole in the ground (aka landfill) and if the new truck livery is to be believed, Barnet (my local area) has been behind the pack at 40%.

So it was a heartening sign for me to see the commitment to a significant 25% improvement from the Borough. But it’s not just the council who has to stack and separate the myriad of recyclables from week to week but all of us who live in the community. And that’s why I am loving the smart simplicity of their message.

I saw the ‘50% by 2016’ on a street poster by the tube station entrance earlier this year and then snapped the trucks – out and about on local streets week after week – about 7 weeks ago. And then this week, walking home from the tube, I saw this on the main road…

Barnet recycling street poster July 2015

Granted, this only addresses the rubbish at home and I am struggling to remember where I’ve seen any bins for separating rubbish ‘types’ while out and about but to my mind, a concerted effort in any area can only contribute towards lessening that big hole in the ground.

In checking out the current statistics Down Under, I noticed that Australia’s recycling rate of 64.2%, one of the highest recycling rates in the world (in Europe, Austria leads with 63%) has plateaued over the last couple of years so even our best is still leaving more than a third of the waste we generate for the planet to ‘deal with’.

There’s quite a lot of noise around Zero Waste (to landfill) initiatives in the business world and given the stats I’ve looked at as background to this post, I’m not sure how on earth we’d ever be able to extend that philosophy out into the general community. But this truck that trundles down my street each week has reminded me that every little bit makes a difference and I have resolved to renew my efforts in not just recycling what I use, but also to look at using ‘less’ in the first place.

Smartie

This morning on the way to work, I opened an email from Mum containing some sad news – that Smartie (the cat) had died.

Smartie and sister Kit Kat arrived at Mum’s beachside pad about 12 years ago and quickly made themselves part of the family. While the hormonal effects of having them spayed led to their affectionate dubbing as Fatty and Scatty by Lil Chicky, there was no doubt of their permanent place in all of our hearts, especially Mum’s.

I’ve been living overseas for 11 of those 12 years and Kit Kat and Smartie have been every bit a part of my familial pilgrimages Down Under, whether curling themselves through my legs as I come through the door, mewling plaintively as I sit in ‘their spot’ on the couch or purring quietly next to me in Mum’s tiny courtyard garden, me draping one hand over the side of the chair to stroke an upturned chin or bowed head while I read.

Even so, I was surprised by how upset I felt by the news.

I walked along Victoria Embankment to the office today, through Whitehall Gardens with the Thames on my left, the morning sun glistening gently off the water. And it was the perfect place to give in to my tears. I cried for the cat for whom endless patting would never be enough. The cat who climbed into the bathroom sink each morning to watch Mum put her makeup on. The cat who sat out in the rain yesterday and then hid herself away to die.

I cried for Kit Kat, wondering where her sister and playmate has gone.

And I cried for Mum, for whom this is so sad a loss. Her email brought her worry, her search for Smartie and her sad discovery all the way across the world to the banks of the Thames and it pierced my heart to read her words and reflect on Smartie’s affectionate – albeit insistent – charm and the Smartie-shaped gap left by her passing.

As I dried my tears. I kept thinking to myself it’s not Mum, it’s not Lil Chicky or anyone else in my family. It’s not like the family pets we lost as I grew up, the ones I shared a house with and shouted at in frustration to ‘get off my beanbag’ or ‘leave the sausages alone’. But there it was anyhow – a heaviness in my heart and warm tears in my eyes.

Smartie now lies peacefully in the bower in Mum’s tiny courtyard garden.  The very place she’d come to find me, meowing insistently until my hand fell from the arm of the chair to rub my fingertips between her ears.

May she rest in the place I always found peace.

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Laps(e)

Last August I started swimming again. Not the splashing about or floating around in the resort pool kind but the concerted continuous heart-rate-raising sort.

It has been six years since the last watery bout, the reason for the hiatus largely a combination of busy-ness, injury and just plain laziness. But interestingly, what drove me back was not physical but mental. I was looking for peace.

This might sound strange and you may expect that physical well-ness might be a greater driving force – after all swimming is credited with toning muscles, increasing both heart rate and flexibility and improving breathing all with less stress on the body than many other forms of exercise (quite important when you’re both injured and unfit). But having been promoted into a new job at the end of 2013 with all that taking ‘ a step up’ entails (stretch number 1), some pretty unrelenting spates of overseas travel (stretch number 2) and a general lack of good quality, restful sleep (stretch number 3), my mind was stretched to breaking point and I needed to ‘make it stop’.

So at the end of August, into the pool I went –  a 16m rectangular water bath in the basement of the building at work – and except for my 3 weeks away over Christmas, I have ploughed up and down for 40 minutes, lap after lap after lap, at least once a week.

Every week I climb down the ladder, the water temperature slightly cool against the warmth of my skin. I push off from the end, head down, feet kicking and arms reaching forward rhythmically, hands slightly cupped to gather and pull then reach forward again. My hair slicks back and my body feels buoyant and sleek – like an arrow moving purposefully along the surface of the water – as I knock off the first fast, heart-rate-raising laps.

Then the pulse shifts and there’s a different effort required, one that draws from somewhere deeper in order to calibrate the energy of breathing and body. The constant flow of arms and legs becomes meditative as the techniques learned in the early mornings and swim meets of childhood kick in. My mind wanders then returns to the water then wanders away again. Thoughts tumble around in between limbs and muscles and breath – sometimes from the day, sometimes from longer ago and I let them all trundle about at will with the rhythmic reach-and-pull, reach-and-pull, reach-and-pull in the background.

There’s something about letting thoughts roam without driving for some sort of order or resolution that settles them somehow.

Then my arms tire, my body rolls with fatigue and I focus again on the water. Technique moves to the forefront as I check that my arms stretch forward, that my core draws in to hold my position and that my kick doesn’t slacken its pace. My head swings to the right with every stroke, methodical in its pursuit of air. I count the laps down in my head, the promise of the end driving me on until I touch for the final time. I rip off my goggles and exhale gratefully. One hundred laps – done.

It started slowly – 50 laps with a rest after every ten – and as the muscle memory and fitness has returned I’ve been able to increase the laps I churn out each time. Every swim has a different cadence: sometimes it’s harder to get started, some days there’s a definite dip in the middle (pardon the pun) and sometimes those last laps drag remorselessly. And the day I’ve had seems to have no bearing – I’ve gotten enthusiastically in the water on some days to be met with a feeling of ‘swimming through treacle’ while on others, the water feels like silk and lethargy seems to float away with every stroke.

But more importantly, for 40 minutes each week I stop referee-ing all of the little voices and let my head just sort itself out.  And in all of the reach-and-pull, reach-and-pull, reach-and-pull, I find my very own piece of tranquility.

underwater 1