Things you may not know about me....

Some bloggers I follow recently posted lists of ‘things we may not know about them’. Although completely unrelated to the usual theme of this blog, I enjoyed reading their confessions; and - because I know you all find me so interesting - I thought I’d share my own secrets. 


My childhood best friend (and neighbour) and I wrote a book while at primary schoolThe book was called Tania and we wrote alternating chapters. I was unhappy with the ending (she’d taken something out of a Mills and Boon novel which was a bit OTT to a pre-teen like myself) so – in a fit of temper – I ripped the entire thing up. Unbeknown to me my friend, Michelle, got it out of my bin and pasted the pages together (it wasn’t that long obviously), made a cover and presented it to me. Years later I gave it back to her as a gift. I would like to think she still has it. The book, incidentally, was a pre-teen romance type thing. Of course. Much of the novel was spent describing the clothes; and naturally Tania, the novel's namesake wore attractive pantsuits and muted makeup, whereas the school bi-atch (and Tania's rival-in love) wore lime green and purple and too much makeup (which back in the 70s was just not done in polite society)!


My childhood best friend (same one) and I used to stage showsIn our pre-teen years my bestie and I staged a couple of shows for our friends (one of which was captured for posterity on Super 8 film and features a number of us performing plays and dancing for a small audience of friends sitting on plastic chairs in my backyard). I recall another show staged (in our carport) for our mothers. I remember that the latter involved Abba songs as, back then, I had a particular penchant for Tropical Loveland. Although not a natural performer, as a youngster I used to climb onto a large barbeque structure we had in our backyard, using it as a stage. So much so that another neighbour presented me with an old silver non-functioning microphone he found at the local dump (in the days before toy microphones were readily available. Obviously.) By the way, it's important to understand at this point that: I cannot dance; and I cannot sing!


For such a heathen I had a relatively-religious upbringingYou wouldn’t know it now, but my brother and I both attended Sunday School as youngsters. I followed in my mother’s footsteps and even taught there briefly but really only recall getting the kindergarten kids to colour in pictures of Jesus, wise men, donkeys and the like. For his sins (Hee hee!) my brother was briefly an altar boy (and we have the pictures to prove it!). I now class myself as agnostic, but my brother probably would say he’s an atheist. My mother still attends church religiously. (Hee hee! God, I’m on a roll today!)


I loved (loved loved) Barbie dolls.I had a few other dolls (but really only remember one or two of them – including one whose auburn hair grew out of a hole on top of her head when you pushed a button - but was mad for my Barbie dolls. I inherited some from my aunt or someone, but scored them as presents on a regular basis.


My mother, who occasionally made my clothes back then, also made me a heap of clothes for the original dolls. As a result, my collection of Barbie dolls and their wardrobe was impressive!


Better still (given my love for all-things-television) I also had a Steve Austin (Six Million Dollar Man) doll – purchased as a surprise gift after becoming inconsolable when Jamie Sommers (the Bionic Woman) died in the TV show. Little did I know she came back to life (a couple of times) and later had her own TV show. I also later got a Jamie Sommers doll. I loved that you could roll up the skin on their arms or lift the flap in their legs to see their bionic bits. And... just as amazing (and in retrospect, tragic!) I also had a set of Charlie’s Angels dolls, including the three originals from the TV series, and Cheryl Ladd as Farrah Fawcett’s replacement.


I had a ‘thing’ for Rocky Balboa in my early – mid teensI know, I know, WTF was I thinking? I now agree, but at the time I LOVED Rocky. Not Sylvester Stallone of course, as I was possibly in denial that there WAS a Sylvester Stallone, who was significantly older than the teenaged me but by the time Rocky III came out I was besotted. My brother (who was much nicer to me way back then and who lived in a capital city with non-tragic radio stations) actually TAPED a radio ad for the movie when it came out. I listened to the 30 second ad so much at the time I still remember the lines!

Rocky to Adrian: “Nothing is real if you don't believe in who you are."


Mr T (Clubber Lang) to Rocky: "I’m gonna bust you up.”
Rocky to Clubber Lang: “Go for it.”

So there you have it - a few things that (unless you were there at the time) you didn't know about me. Obviously I haven't delved into any childhood traumas (other than the mistaken perception that the Bionic Woman died) or uncovered any deep dark secrets in my past... but I tried to think of tidbits that had previously remained hidden. The more embarrassing secrets (pissing on the stage during a dance performance when I was 5yrs old; or TV commercials I did in high school) will have to wait until another time!

Reflections

Ratings season must be over as I notice that a few new shows are hitting our screens here in Oz this week as the regulars end their seasons. I am hoping they hang around for a while as I am rather tired of becoming enamoured with shows and characters only to discover that the program was - in fact - axed before it even graced our screens or while it was still being promoted here as 'the next big thing'.


Most recently this has been the case with Outcasts, Detroit 1-8-7 and No Ordinary Family. I learned my lesson fairly recently as one of our digital channels commenced telecasting a show called October Road which I got kinda involved in... only to be left in limbo when the end of Season 1 cliffhanger became the last ever episode. Note to self: Google new shows to check for longevity before coming addicted.  Fortunately, in the case of October Road, there was (apparently) a wrap-up mini episode included on the DVD when released, which I didn't see, but was able to read about - so I did get my 'closure' after all.


Law & Order LA* has just premiered here (not so fussed, give me Law & Order SVU and Criminal Intent any day). And this week, Criminal Minds Suspect Behaviour* and Body of Proof start, with Suits due to hit our screens shortly (according to the relentless ads).


Although I'm looking forward to the treat that will be the v.gorgeous Gabriel Macht in Suits, it is Body of Proof that has my attention, not least because its star, Dana Delany, graces the cover of the local TV guide this week. But also, and more importantly, because I haven't seen any of her work for a while.


I must admit that I know she was in Desperate Housewives, but gave that show a wide berth after Season 1 as most of the female cast appeared to have had so much surgery they'd become plastic caricatures of themselves and - in my mind - beyond taking at all seriously.


So, this will essentially the first time I have seen Dana Delany in action since her China Beach days in the late 80s - early 90s. And... I LOVED that show. Love love loved it! In fact, if anyone ever asks about shows I don't have on DVD, but would love to own, China Beach and Thirtysomething would be the two I would choose. Both were shows that - from the moment they started - (for reasons unknown) gave me great comfort and contentment.


I'm not sure how realistic the show was when it came to the Vietnam War, though it was certainly more confronting and realistic that it's comedic Korean War medico predecessor, Mash; but either way, at the time it gave me some insight into a world to which I had not been privy. And, even better, it was fairly brutal in its honesty and gave us some excellent female characters, from the ambitious journalist, to the hardened hooker, to Delany's flawed but passionate Nurse Colleen McMurphy.


It didn't sugarcoat the lives of the American medical staff, or the cases they worked. And it didn't downplay the impact of what they saw each day had on their minds/emotions. I still remember being surprised that the characters basically all got pissed every night. And, of course, we see the impact of that in later episodes. It's all been said before, but I believe Delany was A-M-A-Z-I-N-G in the show. In fact the entire cast was great and the writers and directors gave us a believable and complex ensemble of characters.


I'd love to be able to watch the show nowadays, to see if it still pulled the same punches now I am older and more jaded. It felt authentic, so I suspect it wouldn't have dated too much. But I read somewhere that, the reason it isn't on DVD or available via cable etc is that the show used such great music from that era, that the rights to it all would be too expensive to buy. A bloody shame!


After my extensive research (Google yet again), Delany's now show Body of Proof, appears to have been picked up for a second season which bodes well and means I can watch it this week and allow myself to get a little attached.


* Both shows cancelled in the US in May 2011

Finding comfort

On Sunday I went to boot camp at the ungodly hour of 7am. WTF was I thinking? Yes, I know. However... the good thing about getting up early to exercise is that it's over and done with before most people are tentatively poking their big toe out from under the doona;  and one has the rest of the day to do important things. Like read the newspaper, have nanna naps and update their blogs. For example.


The thing I most like is that I still get to read the paper while eating breakfast and watching music videos on television, which is a throwback to my younger years - the music videos, not the paper! And last Sunday, it was even more exciting because the local Oz music video show, Video Hits, was hosting a 24 year retrospective. Sometimes the show comprises bands playing at local music festivals and I find that I don't recognise (or even like) any of the music. But Sunday, I got to relive the likes of Sonia Dada "You don't treat me no good no more" (one hit wonder anyone?), Oasis and Wet Wet Wet.


It was the latter that had me reminiscing last week, as the music video for their 1994 hit "Love Is All Around" features clips from Four Weddings and a Funeral, the movie that shot Hugh Grant to stardom. I'm embarrassed to confess to being a Wet Wet Wet fan back in the day and recall I had a bit of a thing for the lead singer - as a gal does when she's in her teens and twenties. But it was the movie that sparked some memories for me.


In early 1995 I went to work and live as a volunteer in Mozambique, in south eastern Africa. My time there was difficult for a myriad of reasons, not the least being that I was alone and half-way across the world. I made some great friends though and they helped me get through the 16-18 months I spent there. Once settled in I frivolously purchased a television video player combo which frankly that helped save my sanity because the nights were long and lonely (and there's only so much Castle lager one can consume!) and television-viewing options only included a very scary local station (which every couple of weeks played an English-speaking movie); an Angolan station; a Portuguese station featuring nonsensical game shows (I recall one where women had to lie under a sheet with their feet poking out and a man had to pick those of his wife/partner); a French channel; and CNN. But for about 20 cents I was able to rent pirated videos of dubious quality. It didn't matter. To me they were heaven.


While visiting South Africa however, I procured two videos and they became my coping mechanisms. Those two romantic comedies, Four Weddings and a Funeral and Sleepless in Seattle became my lifelines. I was like a child capable of watching Toy Story or Dora the Explorer again and again. And I did. Not quite weekly, but almost that regularly.... And from the moment I inserted the video, I felt comforted - wrapped up in a cocoon of familiarity and momentarily at peace. It got to the point that I knew the lines almost by heart, but it didn't matter. They filled me with contentment, but also with hope that I too one day would exist in a world of Hugh Grants or Tom Hanks'. One day a man would become as besotted with me as Hugh was with Andie; and fate would conspire to introduce me to my soul mate as was the case with Meg and Tom.


Over the intervening 15 or so years I have added to my collection of security blankets. The BBC's Pride and Prejudice held first place  for a while. I owned the video but bought the DVD as soon as it was out, because it allowed me to watch the dozen or so scenes I loved so much more efficiently. Then there was Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series which I discovered when again living overseas. I was a latecomer to Buffy so was able to buy and watch four seasons over a period of weeks. And over ensuing years I have pulled them out to watch my favourite episodes again and again.


More recently (and quite inexplicably) the movie The Jane Austen Bookclub has become a source of comfort. I haven't watched it for a while, but can. Again and again. I adore Maria Bello's Jocelyn and like to think of myself as being similar. Though significantly less good looking of course. And not as wealthy. Oh, and without the dogs. But other than that.... parallel lives!


And most recently there's North and South. If I'm completely honest it could be the presence of (the subject of my affection) Richard Armitage that makes it so rewatchable - akin to Colin Firth's Mr Darcy, but that aside I can contentedly watch it again and again. (But of course I won't admit that for fear of sounding pathetic!)


I don't quite know what it is about these films and television shows and the comfort they offer: the familiarity of the characters I've grown to love (or lust after); or the happy endings and sense of hope? I'm not really sure, but I know I'm now much less scathing of a toddler's ability to watch Finding Nemo hour after hour, day after day in a looping cycle.

Room

I was unwell a few weeks ago and had a couple of days away from work. Nothing major, but enough to make me not want to crawl out from under my pink flannelette sheets or – you know – wake up at all really.


On my first day at home, after sleeping for about 12 hours straight I tried to find things to do, which did not involve closing my eyes and snoring like an old man. I watched some shows I’d TiVoed, I wrote some posts for my other blog, I played on Facebook and Twitter, and finally I ran a hot bath and pulled out my library books.


I usually stick to authors I know and stalk the library shelves (or bookstores) awaiting the next new release, but in an act of desperation I’d borrowed an unknown.  I’d seen the book on the library shelves and the blurb on the dust jacket was tempting, although I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted for my mid week reading.


Nevertheless, desperate for reading fodder I picked it up and kept reading. And reading. And reading.


The plot of the novel itself is quite original, but it was the novel’s voice that drew me in. From the get-go.

Today I’m five. I was four last night going to sleep in Wardrobe, but when I wake up in Bed in the dark I’m changed to five, abracadabra. Before that I was three, then two, then one, then zero. “Was I minus numbers?”


“Hmm?” Ma does a big stretch.


“Up in Heaven. Was I minus one, minus two, minus three-?”


“Nah, the numbers didn’t start till you zoomed down.”


“Through Skylight. You were all sad till I happened in your tummy.”


“You said it.” Ma leans out of Bed to switch on Lamp and he makes everything light up whoosh.

Emma Donoghue’s Room introduces us to five year old Jack, and his mother who live in 'Room'. It becomes obvious pretty quickly that Jack and his mother are being held captive in Room and we learn that his mother was abducted as a 19 year old college student seven years before.


The eleven square foot Room is Jack’s world. He has a television set, but believes Ma who says none of what he sees on there is real. And he knows that God’s face, which shines through the skylight, is Outer Space. In his world there is no outside, only inside: Room.


Jack and Ma’s captor visits most nights, and Jack spends the night in Wardrobe until he’s left his mother’s bed.


It is only when the captor’s behavior becomes increasingly unpredictable that Ma decides that Jack should know the truth and she finally tells him of the world beyond their four walls. And they start to hatch a plan for their escape.


I don’t have children and it’s a long time since my niece was five years old, but it is Donoghue’s delivery of Jack’s thoughts and dialogue which makes this book so poignant and so entertaining. Delivering the narrative from a five-year old’s perspective lends an amazing level of innocence to this tale of discovery.


Ma has been Jack’s world for five years and he hers. He is whippet smart and with only the company of an adult, he is wise beyond his years... in things that matter.


Jack’s world is so real. Everything in Room, for Jack, has a gender and personality and is a living and breathing thing. Donoghue’s writing gives this a level of believability through the absence of verbs and her use of nouns as verbs.


I’m not alone in my love for Jack and Irish-born Donoghue’s writing, with the book shortlisted for the 2010 Man Booker Prize.


In fact, I enjoyed Room so much that it is the only book I can ever remember reading that I wanted read it again straight away. Even now I am pining for Jack’s turn of phrase.  And it’s stayed with me for days; weeks even. Just as all beautiful and thought-provoking voices should.

Giving thanks - without the turkey

My parents happened to be in town a fortnight ago and for the first time in 10 years their visit to the State's capital coincided with the annual thanksgiving service for organ donors. The event has been going for 20 years, and my parents usually attend a service in regional Queensland, travelling for over an hour each way to get there. A bit of a hassle for those who dislike travel, but they would never dream of not going.


I’ve mentioned before that my father was very fortunate to have received a heart transplant almost exactly 10 ½ years ago.  Physically, he’s relatively well for a 72 year old man, but as a result of (well… whatever) he has vascular dementia, which is fast becoming his biggest health issue and the most challenging for my mother (his carer).


Our whole family, but especially my parents are eternally grateful for the generosity of the stranger and his/her family which has allowed my father many many years he would not have otherwise have had.  Which is why, each year, they attend the thanksgiving service, coordinated by Donate Life, to recognise the selfless acts of organ and tissue donors and their families.


Because my parents were here in Brisbane my brother and I were able to attend the service at the University of Queensland with them. It was the first time I’d attended and I was (more than) confronted by the fact that I hadn’t ever been before. After all, I too benefited from the anonymous gift, by having my father in my life over 10 years longer (to date) than I would have otherwise.


Of course I should admit at this point that I basically cried through the entire thing. It was beautiful but it was sad. Very bloody sad.


While my brother was parking I accompanied my parents into the venue. We shared a lift with another couple (most likely in their 60s). Given the tenor of the occasion, we also shared circumspect but comforting smiles. Amazingly, despite a crowd of about 1000 I saw them twice inside. And by then they had donned their green ribbons.


Green ribbons were provided to donor families; maroon ribbons to organ recipients. On seeing their green ribbon I felt immense sadness. Perhaps it was a distant relative who had inadvertently given generously, but I could not help but think it was their child they had lost. I clung to some hope that they had other children elsewhere unable to attend, and that they hadn't lost their only child.


People packed into the huge hall. The stage was beautifully decorated with fairy lights, candles and roses. A choir sat to one the side. As I looked around the room I was overwhelmed with sadness. I watched two girls in their late teens come in alone wearing green ribbons and wondered who they were honouring. I saw people sitting alone, felt their grief and tried to imagine who they'd lost. I felt both gratitude and guilt to be with the recipient of a maroon ribbon, rather than a green one.


The event ran smoothly. I cried when a lone bag-piper played Amazing Grace and again when country singer Melinda Schneider sang Wish You Were Here and later What a Wonderful World, with the choir. I cried when 20^th anniversary footage was shown to Wendy Matthews’, The Day You Went Away; a song which has continued to play in my head ever since. Constantly and relentlessly.
The first speaker was a mother of a 5 year old girl who died tragically several years ago. Through her devastation she took solace in the fact that 5 people have been given a second chance as a result of her family’s heartbreak; one for each year of her precious daughter’s life.


There was a moving speech from a woman who was the recipient of a double lung transplant. She was hospitalised and had given up all hope when the lungs became available. Her impassioned plea for us to make the most of our lives and appreciate each breath we take was heart wrenching. And yet, she was one of the lucky ones.


My mother leaned over to me at one point and asked if I thought that the family of my father’s heart donor was there. We looked at each other. The enormity of that the question was too overwhelming to contemplate.

• Australia also has one of the lowest donation rates in the developed world. In 2010, the Australian population had 13.8 donors per million people


• 40% of Australians do not know the donation wishes of their loved ones


• Around 1700 people are on Australian organ transplant waiting lists at any one time


• On average, people on the transplant list must wait between 6 months and 4 years


• In 2010, 309 organ donors gave 931 Australians a new chance in life, the highest in any year in the past decade


• When my father received his donor heart in in December 2000, fewer than 200 heart transplants had taken place in Queensland


• Although I joke that I'd like to be cryogenically frozen, I've registered as an organ donor and my family (more than any other) knows what that could mean to others.

I’m extremely grateful that I got the opportunity to go to the thanksgiving service with my family. I like to think I’d go in future.


Before the service started the Emcee told us not to worry about our tears or try to stifle our sobs. “We are all in this together,” he said, “no one here will judge you.” As I shed endless tears, I could see shoulders shaking and people comforting one another. He was right. We were one large family sharing each other’s grief and gratitude.


As we were leaving I again saw the couple from the elevator. My red-rimmed eyes would have been obvious, along with my father’s maroon ribbon. We smiled understandingly at each other as we went our separate ways.

WWAMT: What would Aunty Myra think?

It’s an embarrassing thing to admit, but a few years ago I bought a t-shirt (online of course) that said ‘What would Buffy do?’  Don’t get me wrong; I am not embarrassed by my love of the TV series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  In fact, the show’s writing in the early years (in my impressionable mind) is only rivaled by my other faves: West Wing; Deadwood; and Big Bang Theory.  But with the benefit of hindsight, buying a black shirt with orange print dripping across it wasn’t one of my finest moments.  I mean, it’s not up there with ‘dressing like a Trekkie’ but almost as scary.

I’ve always assumed the "What would Buffy do?” quote came from one of the episodes and can almost imagine her Scooby gang colleagues, Willow and Xander wondering exactly that.  But my extensive research (Google again) reveals it to be the name of some spin-off book about the series.

A similar quote appears in The Jane Austen Book Club (What would Jane do?), so it possibly didn’t derive from Buffy and may have originated elsewhere.

My ignorance aside I find myself often struck by a variation on the quote: What would Aunty Myra think?  WWAMT? Meaningless to everyone but me, the words sometimes offer me the jolt I need.

I was stuck twice by these thoughts last weekend and both times it was in response to songs playing on the radio. The first song was Dirty Talk by Wynter Gordon.  I actually downloaded the song from iTunes a little while ago so listen to it regularly.  And although I mentally sing the lyrics on my commute each day, it wasn’t until I was sitting in my car at 6.20am on a Saturday morning that they hit home:

Blindfold, feather bed,

tickle me, slippery,

G spot,nasty pose,

in a video,

love machine, by myself,

climax,hot wax

S&M on the floor, I like it hardcore…

I might have forgotten my shock at the radio station’s choice of programming, until I was again in my car to travel to the grocery store and Kanye West’s Runaway came on:

Let’s have a toast for the douchebags

Let’s have a toast for the assholes

Let’s have a toast for the scumbags

Every one of them that I know

By then it was about 9am. On Saturday morning when parents are usually driving their 10 year old kids to cricket.  Or ballet or football or similar.

Now, I’m no ingénue: in fact I swear like a trooper and am pretty hard to shock.  But occasionally I am jolted to do a bit of a stocktake.  My barometer used to be my 14 year old niece and I would ask myself if what was before me was something that I would want her watching or listening to or reading. But more often than not now, my yardstick is my Aunty Myra.

She was actually my great Aunty Myra, and she died in 1991 aged 91 years old.  That means she was actually almost 70 years old when I was born.  My mother used to tell me that Aunty Myra and her husband were already retired when she met them.  They were always ‘old’ to her.  Which means they were always ‘ancient’ to me.

Aunty Myra was old school.  Not a fuddy duddy and not really prissy.  She grew up on a farm, so was hardly a pretentious girly girl.  But she was most certainly a different generation.  She was older than my grandparents and (unlike them) lived in my hometown.  As a result – I was subjected to (at least) weekly visits until I was old enough for my non-attendance excuses to sound even vaguely convincing.  Her children lived elsewhere and weren’t the most attentive of offspring, so my parents did everything for Myra and her husband. (I should mention that when I returned as a young adult, I willingly visited her in a nursing home before she died - so I'm not all bad - surely.)

I never saw Aunty Myra wear trousers as she considered them improper. She always wore unattractive nylon dresses with a petticoat or singlet and bra strap falling down her arm as her body shrunk before my eyes. She used to bake for my father and made him suet puddings, jam pastries and tripe. She hid money in handkerchiefs and biscuit tins. She liked bingo and used to buy a gold lotto ticket each week. I try to imagine her now, in a world where everything’s online and digital. I’m not sure how my parents will transition from a video recorder to a DVR, let alone someone a whole generation older!

So it is Aunty Myra I think of as I sit watching shows on television (like my faves, Deadwood, or Entourage etc) where the f-word and c-word are dropped liberally and indiscriminately. It is Aunty Myra I think of when I hear swear words thrown about on commercial radio stations; and Aunty Myra I think of when I see music videos with scantily clad gyrating women.

They don’t shock me, but they would sure as hell shock the bejesus out of my Aunty Myra. WWAMT? I wonder at these times.

I tend to assume that television and radio programmers make sensible choices about what they play and when. I’m sure that’s why we have rating classifications. Which is why I was surprised to see Weeds showing on Oz cable television at 3pm during a weekend some time ago, or the Robbie Williams' Come Undone music video showing the aftermath of a party and a woman on the bed with snakes screening as I'm eating my morning toast.

I’m all for free speech, not a big believer in censorship and don’t believe I’m judgmental, but it doesn’t stop me from sometimes wondering: What would Aunty Myra think?

Fizzy black goodness

Okay, can I just start by saying, "I WANT SOME BLOODY DIET COKE!"

OMFG. There I was smugly prancing about as if I could easily wean myself off the 1 - 1.5 litres of Vanilla Diet Coke that I have been consuming daily for a large number of years (before that Lemon Diet Coke and before that, just the basic Diet Coke), but I have come crashing down to earth.

Fortunately work is busy and I haven't had time to focus on the constant headache and sleepiness I am feeling without my usual injection of VDC (as its known amongst us addicts!). After giving up the fizzy black goodness on Sunday I posted my intention on Facebook and got a barrage of emails from old work colleagues in response, as my addiction to the stuff is famous. Or infamous.

It started a long time ago. While at University in the late 1980s my parents used to visit me in the residential halls, bringing a red cross parcel. There would be diet coke, chocolates and homemade biscuits. I recall at one stage, a medical student on my floor deciding that the fizzy black goodness was (in fact) evil and set about rationing my supplies. I think we didn't even last the day before I become obsessed with 'my next fix' and she handed over the carton of cans so I could refocus on my study rather than stalking about outside her dorm room.

I'm not sure that giving up VDC now, at a time when I am commencing (yet another) diet is the right move. But I figured that if I'm going to be cranky and feel deprived. I might as well feel really bloody cranky and really deprived.

I'm not saying I will give it up forever or that I won't drink other diet drinks. (Indeed, last night I savoured a diet lemon, lime and bitters while lolling in the bath reading a trashy magazine.) And I may (on occasions) partake in a diet coke or two, but I figured I might as well try to give my litre plus habit a day the big heave-ho.

The time seems right. I feel motivated. Which is strange. Better to rip that bandaid off quickly rather than edge it off slowly I guess. So, as day two (of a healthier me) progresses I can feel quite righteous because - not only did I go to pilates before work (for the first time in 2 months); and am sticking to my calorie allowance; but I am also kicking my unhealthy addiction to the scary preservatives and chemicals that taste so good in the form of a fizzy black drink.

Sorry, this post is completely irrelevant to this blog and actually comes from another that I write. It was posted on Tuesday and I am much-improved since then (as I did think I may well kill someone!). It's now day 5 and I am feeling much much better.  Quite virtuous for a start (no booze or diet coke will do that for you!) In fact, I feel quite human, almost.