Reflections on Walking

It was something Zoe said about reverting to child's perception of time, coupled with a conversation I had yesterday with the very kind massage therapist, gave rise to this blog post. I went to see the massage therapist at work, as recommended by my dishy osteopath. He has crunched my bones into submission, now it's time to tackle the knots between my shoulder blades. Apparently, normal people do not feel like they are carrying around a bag of new potatoes in between their shoulders. Who'd have thought eh?

The first thing I really learnt about children with Boy, is contrary to belief, they do not have a short attention span. Oh no. Small children can watch the same dvd to the point where you scream at the Postman Pat soundtrack.

That was just an aside to the point I am eventually getting to.

The massage therapist, asked me if I go on walks.

Oh yeah, she's not a massage therapist in the sense that she plays plinky plink music and has hot towels and a selection of nice smelling oils. She's a massage therapist that wants you to only uncover the bits that hurt, massages all the achy bits firmly until they give in and piss off and you spend your time moving from your back, to side, to other side, to front, so she can best get to the achy bits. Forty-five minutes with her is not a relaxing experience, but my goodness she's really good. I was sent away with orders to drink a litre of water (what nothing in the water?) and to go have a gentle swim today.

Walking, yes, I'm coming to that. Can't you follow this train of thought? Can't keep up? Yes, anyway, she asked me if I go for walks.

Actually, I don't. Certainly not the way she meant.

Walking with a small child broke me of that habit. Small children are fascinated by the world around them. If you let them walk at their own pace, it'll take you an hour to go a hundred yards. They want to check out every crack; after all, it might have something hiding in it. An ant is a busy being to sit back on your haunches to watch. Chewing gum makes such an odd pattern in the pavement. And if you eventually get to the park (well done) there's flowers, weeds and maybe even a sandpit to check out. My job as a parent, was to find things for my Boy to enjoy. I walked with my head down, looking for ladybirds, grasshoppers, mushrooms, curly braken.

And then I did my BA in Creative Writing. Part of my degree involved conceptual art. Conceputal art is not 'pretty' and tends not to involve the natural world for its inspiration. However, it taught me to look around my environment with child-like eyes. It was easy to fall back into the role of mummy, to look for things which are interesting, the metaphors, the juxtapositions, the beauty in the every-day.

The last walk I went on, was with Dave. He had his camera, I wasn't feeling very robust at the time and we ambled. He got some cracking shots of dragonflies.

I'm not able to walk at a healthy, heart-raising pace. Head in the air, ignoring my world and the other people there. When I was little and went to spend time with my Gran, in the late afternoons, after we had tea, I'd have been bathed and changed into something pretty. We would go out for a walk. It was a stroll, a promenade if you will. Her friends would usually be sat on their porch, having their 'sundowner'. We would pause and I was to stand quietly, speak when spoken to, and not to sigh at all costs. I was brought up to say 'good morning, good afternoon, good evening' to the people we passed, even if we only knew them by sight. People we were unsure of, we smiled politely to.

After my divorce and the post-divorce relationship, I met a man. He was the kind of man my mother would have rather I married in the first place: well brought up, good family, potential for making lots of cash. He and his family went for walks in the fresh air because it was good for one. One walked at a brisk pace over fields, paths and pavement, dressed in green wellies, and Barbour jackets. Frankly, they were so mean-spirited, outside was warmer than the house in winter. I'm sure this was their only way of warming up. I distinctly remember him bitching at me, Boy all of 4 years old, was holding him back on these walks. He needed to keep up, walk faster. This is one of the memories that makes me cringe, this is one of the things I wish I could do over.

So no, I don't do walking for health. Yes, I would rather spend 30/40 minutes sweating with Davina McCall for my exercise. But writing this blog post has given rise to something else. A creative project if you will. Hmmm....

Mango, Mango, Mango, Mango, Mangooooo

Yesterday, my brother and SIL took us all to the Mango Festival hosted by the University of the West Indies Agriculture Field Office. I didn't have any expectations one way or another, so I was happy with the experience.

My niece was fighting off a cold and could hardly speak, so after we parked up I offered her a piggy-back. At 5, she's a heavy little thing and it's hot. But it meant she wasn't getting pushed past, or walk.

There were stalls promoting mango products: cosmetics, foods, preserves & chutneys and stationery. There wasn't very much to see in all honesty. There was also a stall promoting the benefits of wheatgrass which I avoided like an STD. As I've got older, my disbelief in 'wonder' ingredients and alternative treatments like wheatgrass, coconut oil, green tea has fallen disproportionately. Anything that promotes 'natural' products gets more than a sceptical look.

Natural is not better than man-made people. It's not automatically more healthy. Honestly, it isn't. Consider products with 'natural herbs' for instance. They particularly annoy me. Belladonna and foxglove are very natural and are very, very dangerous. Should your organic back be getting up at this point. I'm not of a mind to get into a massive debate about the massive issue. All I'm saying is that in all cases Buyer Beware. I do believe we should be using cleaning products that do the job and are gentle on mother Earth. I do believe we should scrub vegetables and fruit before consuming. Responsible consumerism should be practised at all times and a label stating 'natural' should be carefully examined and the efficacy of the product should be scrutinised.

I digress.

Mangos are my favouritest fruit ever. Especially, when my brother has picked it off his tree in the backyard. I love that if you have a bowl of mangos in the kitchen, the smell permeates. Buying mangos in the UK has ultimately been an expensive and depressing experience. In the main they just don't smell and taste as fantastic as the homegrown.

My brother's garden is beautiful and edible. He has mango trees, lime trees, a kumquat, five-fingers (which I detest), avocado trees, passion fruit vines; there are a variety of herbs, ginger lillies and chilli peppers, as well as vines for leafy salads. Tasty and beautiful. In The Bush, he also grows aubergines, several varieties of bananas, mangos, oranges, lemons, grapefruits...the list goes on. He used to grow watermelons, but that apparently, was a bit of a disaster.

As for the local cuisine. I am working hard not to return to the UK in September with an arse the size of Brazil, but they are not making it easy for me. My brother's MIL is in charge of cooking and I have yet to try something she prepared and for me to go 'bleugh'. That woman can cook!

Om nom nom.

Sparkly Things

My mother loved jewelry. Proper jewellery. With large rocks. She could go through her jewellery box and each piece would have a story: given to her by her parents, her boyfriends, her husbands (she was married twice, to Father #1 and then to Pops). Buying her own jewellery would have been an insult to her feminine allure.

I also love sparkly things, but she and I differ quite radically.

Silver is my precious metal of choice. I am actually quite fussy about what I wear. I only wear one ring on what is technically my 'status' ring finger. It's a small silver band of leaves. I got it after a particularly messy relationship. It signifies my on-going commitment to my self-improvement, so I don't ever have to re-live that awful experience. It's my commitment to my well-being and to fulfilling relationships. By and large, I continue to live up to that. The decisions I make are generally informed and when things go south, I have only myself to blame.

Apart from that ring, I don't wear any others. My hands are quite small, which makes finding rings I like, difficult. I don't like wearing rings with stones as they tend to catch on things. I also don't wear bracelets or watches. I don't like the feeling of my wrists being enclosed. Long ago I decided that there are enough clocks and watches around me, if I ever need to find out the time: I can look at my mobile, ask or look at the clock in my car or pc.

I often tell people all my piercings are visible, especially when they spot the nose stud. I have dealt with the occasional lecherous enquiries as to navel and 'personal' piercings. Quite frankly, unless I develop a six-pack stomach, a belly ring will never be an option and as for the other...forget it. My nose stud is small, flat, round and made of surgical steel. It doesn't come out. It can, but it doesn't. When I worked in the department store and then for the cosmetics company, I lived in fear that I would be forced to remove it under their uniform codes. Thankfully, I never had a direct order to deal with, when memos went around, I just nodded and ignored. That the management felt that challenging me would open a diversity can of worms, was not my problem.

I like dangly ear-rings. But not too heavy. I don't like the stretched lobe-look. Most of my ear-rings are inexpensive, could be described as 'costume' at best, tacky at worst. I actually quite like a lot of the stuff from M&S. They do good sets.

I always have my silver new moon pendant on my chain. It is a symbol of my faith. I have had people consider me a Muslim because of it, but no, that's not my path. I do wear other necklaces with it. I quite like bold pendants and delicate pieces. It really depends on what I'm wearing at the time.

Today, I was naughty. I bought myself a cute charm anklet, it has little bells on it. Wearing it makes me feel like a dancer, with slim, pretty ankles to show off. You will note I said, it's the way it makes me feel. My mother would have been appalled. She would not be impressed. In Germany, only whores wore anklets. She told me so when I said I wanted one, just like my brother's girl friend (who she heavily disapproved of, rightly so as it turns out).

Unlike my mother, I have bought all of my jewellery (well, apart from what I inherited from her) and I quite like it that way. Having a piece which was given to me by a departed lover, would make wearing it, a painful reminder. Also, I am difficult to buy for. I like semi-precious stones, but don't tolerate diamond-esque stones. If it's not the real thing, cubic zircona just doesn't cut it. I like modern, arty pieces or flamboyant. It really depends.

You won't be surprised that I have a pair of pewter coffee bean ear-rings and they are my favourites.