misschelseabun

[misschelseabun]

Bluffing it: a day in the life of a disorganised parent

When you become a parent, naturally you look to others for guidance on how to raise your tiny person. For me, this has meant following an extraordinary amount of mummy (and daddy) ‘influencers’ on social media – some of which have proven more helpful than others.

There is one particular blogger whose content I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with; mainly because I’m jealous that she gets to make a living posing in front of brightly coloured walls, and can afford to eat avocado on toast six times a week. But as our babies were born one day apart, I do keep an eye on her account to see if there are any parenting hacks I am missing.

This blogger recently uploaded a post about her baby’s routine, and it’s safe to say that a child’s temperament is not driven by their zodiac sign. Matilda might be one day older than her son but they couldn’t be further apart in their behaviour! To the point where I found myself laughing out loud at the difference. 

So in the interest of parenting diversity, here is my take on a typical day. Although in the world of Matilda Groome, there’s no such thing...  

Sometime between 3am and 5am – Matilda randomly cries out. We make a sharp intake of breath and grab the video monitor, by which time she’s already gone back to sleep. I remain wide awake for at least another half an hour.

7am-8am – Matilda stirs. Sometimes she’ll be bright and breezy at 7, other times she just can’t be arsed with the day and wants to lie in until 7:45ish*. We have to leave the house at 7:40 on Tuesdays and Fridays for nursery, which means she pretty much always chooses to sleep longer on those days. As a result, we end up throwing a bottle of milk down her and pulling her clothes on as we run out of the door.

*Except for solo parenting days. Jim and I take turns to chill at the weekends; on his days she’ll laze in her cot until 8:30, but on my mornings she’ll be yelling by 6:20. Obviously.

8am – breakfast! The only meal of the day she’ll consistently eat, probably because daddy feeds it to her. We’re currently rotating between porridge, Weetabix, cornflakes and – new addition for this week – rice krispies. Sometimes with half a banana or a satsuma for good measure. We’re still doing a post-breakfast bottle but it’s very hit and miss as to whether she drinks it.

8:30-11:30am – on days when Matilda’s not at nursery or with her grandparents, I attempt to find a stream of activities that will wear her out and stop her destroying the house. Soft play and swimming are our usual saviours, and sticking Peter Rabbit on CBeebies buys me 10 minutes’ peace to drink a cup of coffee (Peppa and I are on a break at the moment). At some point in this window I will attempt to give Matilda a healthy snack, which she will grind into the carpet before demolishing half a box of breadsticks instead.

11:30ish – Matilda and I start playing the ‘sleep or lunch?’ game. She’s in a weird transition phase where she doesn’t need two naps but needs more than one, so by this point she’s either lying flat on her face on the floor with her thumb in her mouth, or she’s gone into stroppy bitey mode. Either way I usually delay lunch and stick her in her cot with the hope she’ll sleep blissfully for a couple of hours. I usually get 45 minutes.

12:30 – lunch! I lay out a nutritious home cooked meal on Matilda’s plate, which she throws on the floor piece by piece. Any attempts to spoon feed her are refused, and she no longer likes the foods that she wolfed down happily a couple of days ago. Eventually I give up and hand her a sandwich, or some more breadsticks. She attempts to stand up in the high chair several times until I offer her some pudding, which she happily eats off the spoon. I lift her down and get the brush to sweep up the debris. Matilda starts eating the original lunch off the floor.

1:00-4:00 – more play time, which usually consists of me building wooden block towers, reading Where’s Spot? 764 times, or letting her eat my car keys. If it all gets a bit too much we go for a coffee (mummy’s treat) and a couple of milky bar buttons (Matilda’s treat).

4:00 – Matilda shows all the signs of being worn out, so I put her back in her cot. She stands at the bars and shouts to herself for fifteen minutes until I go and collect her.

4:30-5:45 – the square nanny looks after Matilda (Peppa and I reconcile at this point) while I rack my brain for ways to entertain ourselves until daddy gets home from work. I feel guilty about Peppa doing all the legwork so we turn the TV off, sing some songs, read Where’s Spot? again and play with the plastic farm.

5:50 – tea! I contemplate throwing another nutritious home cooked meal on the floor myself to save time but then pass it to Matilda, who does the honours for me. After consuming approximately half a babybel, four sweetcorn kernels and ANOTHER breadstick, the pudding/floor food routine from lunch repeats

6:15 – daddy gets home from work and takes over parenting duties while I hide in the kitchen eating peanut butter with a spoon. They watch In the Night Garden together while she chatters to him, clearly sharing how long and boring her day with mummy has been.

6:50 – daddy does bath time, which actually takes place in a plastic box in our shower as we don’t have a bath. I put the tea on, wander next door and get caught up in last night’s episode of Ghost Whisperer until I smell burning. 

7:10 – daddy puts Matilda in her pyjamas and calls me up to say goodnight. He gives her 7oz of cows’ milk (which she sometimes drinks, sometimes doesn’t) while I empty the bath and put the towels away.

7:20 – Matilda goes down to sleep. I go downstairs, mentally compile a list of all the things I said I’d do this evening, then sack them off to finish watching Ghost Whisperer with a massive plate of dinner. All while ignoring the trail of toys strewn across the living room floor, hoping that the tidy-up fairy will come and sort them out. She is yet to pay us a visit.

[misschelseabun]

The Body Coach 90 Day SSS plan: pressing pause

The Body Coach and I are not currently on speaking terms. In fact, my cycle one print out has just gone into the bin!

C1 Week 3 started out well: I went to the gym two days in a row, managed to eat on-plan despite a busy schedule, but on Wednesday things went awry.

Warning here: I’m about to give excuses. I know these are such and that there are people who are 3 times busier than me that manage to make the plan work, but all I can do is give an honest account of how I feel.

Life is pretty hectic for me at the moment. I have a full time job plus I do a few bits and pieces in my own time, I’m in the final stages of a very stressful house move, and I feel under quite a lot of pressure most of the time.

Adding the need to get up at 6am to exercise 5 days a week, to spend hours at a time in the kitchen prepping food, just became too much. I was getting increasingly sick of having my entire week mapped out in a huge list of responsibilities.

Plus, I was becoming resentful of not being able to make any of my own food choices - relying instead on this small roster of meals, measured to the gram. It got to the point where the thought of eating made me feel sick, and something inside me snapped.

On wednesday evening I got home from work late, having barely seen my boyfriend in days. I looked at him and thought: you know what? I just want to go out for dinner with you. To have a burger and a glass of wine and make conversation, not talk about the mountain of painstakingly weighed out veg we’ve been forcing ourselves to choke down for weeks. 

So we did go out for a burger. And it was glorious.

Unfortunately this triggered something inside me and I’ve spent to past few days eating mostly junk food. Chocolate, biscuits, you name it - everything I’ve not been allowed to touch so far this year.

And herein lies the problem: if you’ve going to be incredibly restrictive and prescriptive about what you can eat, chances are if you fail a little, you’ll end up failing a lot.

So for the next couple of weeks, I’m going to give myself a break. Try to eat healthier than I have these past few days, but choose what I want rather than being told what I can have.

Then, when we’re moved and settled, I want to get back on the clean eating routine, but this time I’m going to do it my way. Eat what I choose and what my body tells me is right (especially when it comes to feeling full). And allow for a little treat here and there, because that’s what prevents gorging.

Sorry Joe Wicks, I’ve thrown a lot of money at your scheme, but for the moment I want to try being my own body coach.

[misschelseabun]

The Body Coach 90 Day SSS: Cycle 1, Day 14 (take two)

That’s more like it! Well…sort of anyway. This week hasn’t been perfect but I have stuck to the plan 100% on 5 out of 7 days, which is a vast improvement on last week’s write-off!

It’s been another week of highs and lows, including a crash and burn on Thursday evening. In an effort to shake things up I tried some new recipes this week, one of which was the beef stir-fry. I’ve actually not struggled too much with portion sizes so far on the plan, but this one defeated me on Wednesday night. I had another portion for lunch on Thursday, but remembering how full I felt the previous night made me feel so sick that I could barely eat half.

That nausea continued all afternoon, to the point where I had to pull over the car to retch on my way home from work. The thought of eating another body coach meal for dinner made me feel so horrendous that something snapped in my brain, and I ended up having 5 slices of peanut butter on toast and a bottle of wine for my dinner. Not great.

My patience with seeing results was also tested this week, when I went shopping for some new jeans. I tend to shop online these days, because I find looking at my body close-up in the changing room mirror very demoralising. Having popped into town to run a few errands, I found myself feeling that familiar awkwardness in the New Look changing rooms.

Having dabbled with Weight Watchers in the past and at one point been a huge advocate of Slimming World (it helped me to lose 4 stone a few years ago, but I’ve put 3 of them back on since), I’m used to charting my progress every week, so it was somewhat disheartening to find myself trying to squeeze my belly into a pair of size 16 jeans, not knowing if I’ve lost any inches yet and, frankly, feeling just as fat as the day I started.

But then I had a mini lightbulb moment (I think followers of the Facebook group call them NSVs – non scale victories). I might hate the way I look right now, but that morning I’d got up and done a HIIT session. And that evening I was forgoing a pizza meal out to stay in and eat an on-plan tuna salad.

So while I’ve still got a mountain to climb, at least I can say I’m doing something about it.

The highs:

Notching the treadmill up to 11.7 for my HIIT interval on Friday (my starting top speed 3 weeks ago was 11.0)

Managing to do two rounds of jump squats, two rounds of mountain climbers and a round of burpees during Saturday’s HIIT session

Getting into a routine with exercising: treadmill Monday and Tuesday morning, bodyweight HIIT Wednesday morning, rest day Thursday, treadmill Friday (choose between morning or evening depending on schedule/if I can be bothered to get out of bed), bodyweight HIIT Saturday morning and rest Sunday

Having tuna for the first time in three weeks and discovering that the accompanying dressing is delicious!

Deconstructing some of my non-refuel meals to make new dishes (such as yoghurt with berries and cashews, and a tuna, spring onion and cherry tomato egg bake)

The lows

I had a glass of wine on Wednesday when I really didn’t need to and didn’t feel any gratification from it. At least when I fell off the wagon big style on Thursday it hit the spot, albeit temporarily

Feeling sick for most of Thursday. Also I’m trying to have omelettes for breakfast when I’m not doing a HIIT, and eating that much egg first thing is also making me feel rather ick

Although I managed a few burpees and mountain climbers, doing a home HIIT workout with bodyweight exercised makes me realise how unfit I am, and it can be quite frustrating/disheartening at times. 

What I’ve learned from C1 week two (take two):

The more days you do on plan, the better you feel about yourself

You can have an alcohol free weekend and still enjoy yourself (although it was a staying in weekend!)

No matter how many times you fall off, keep getting back on the horse

[misschelseabun]

The Body Coach 90 Day SSS: Cycle 1, Day 14

Forgive me leanies, for I have sinned. I have sinned big style. In fact, this week has been so brilliant that I’ve emailed my coach, asking if I can write it off and begin week two again!

For the past five days, it’s felt like small failures have mounted up, climaxing with a catastrophic fall off the wagon. On Monday my calves hurt too much to do a HIIT workout; on Tuesday I tripped up the office stairs, throwing my plate of Asian salmon and greens up the wall; on Wednesday I had a stressful day and drank a glass of wine; on Thursday I had a stressful day and drank a bottle of wine; and from Friday onwards…. well, let’s just say that croissants, chocolate, crisps, chips and a plentiful supply of alcohol fuelled my weekend diet.

I don’t quite know how to feel about my spectacular fall from grace. On the one hand, it was pure pleasure tasting all the foods I’ve not been allowed to eat in the past two weeks. I’m starting to find Joe’s meals a little uninspiring – particularly as I work out in the morning, so I’m having to choose from the reduced carb recipes for both lunch and dinner.

On the other, I don’t even feel like I’ve seen any results from C1 yet, so I can hardly throw in the towel before I’ve begun; especially as I’ve already paid for the plan! 

It’s really hard staying motivated when you haven’t got a weekly weigh-in to keep you on track, but everyone on the Facebook group that has finished the 90 days says you need to stick with it in order to see results, and I’d be really disappointed with myself if I didn’t at least try see things through.

So, I’m going to pretend last week never happened, and commence with week two, take two, this week. We’re due to move house in a couple of weeks, so I know that my plan will become temporarily de-railed then. Wouldn’t it be great if I could get 10 solid days in before then, sticking to the plan 100%? It’s worth a go.

The highs (not many this week!):

- Doing 3 HIIT sessions – it’s not the minimum requirement for the plan, but it’s more exercise than I would’ve done in a week before I started the plan

- My broken toenail still hasn’t fallen off

- I’m still in love with satay chicken, despite eating it 4 times in the last 8 days

The lows (of which there have been many):

- Muscle mince – mainly because the Waldens BBQ sauce is DISGUSTING! You know that episode of Friends where Rachel makes a trifle with beef in it? Well I think I know what that would’ve tasted like!

- The restrictiveness. I’m already getting bored of being confined to selected recipes, which are pretty repetitive in themselves (feta and spinach omelette and scrambled eggs with feta and spinach are hardly two separate recipes!), However, I think there’s more free choice in C2, if I need an incentive to power through the rest of C1.

- The cost of the weekly shop. I spent more than £80 yesterday (and I shopped at Aldi) and I know I’m going to need to do a top up shop during the week.

What I’ve learned from week two (take one):

You need to stick to the plan!!!!

[misschelseabun]

The Body Coach 90 Day SSS: Cycle 1, Day 7

So, I’ve not blogged in a very long time, but as I’m embarking on a HUGE challenge for the new year, I thought this was an ideal platform to document my journey and - hopefully - help myself realise how far I’ve come a few weeks down the line.

After gawping at the hall of fame pics on Joe Wicks’ Facebook page, in December I finally decided to take the plunge and register for his 90 Day SSS - Shape, Shift Sustain - programme. A 3-month diet and exercise programme designed to melt fat, build muscle, and re-educate me about fuelling my body.

To be blunt, I needed to take drastic action. I’ve struggled with my weight for my entire life; I’m the exact opposite of those girls who can eat what they like and it doesn’t make a difference. At my adult thinnest I’ve weighed 12 stone, at my heaviest 15 stone, and unfortunately I’m closer to the heavier than the lighter these days.

A few years ago, I lost more than 3 stone on Slimming World, and felt amazing about myself. But slowly, over time, my weight crept back up, and each time I went back to group I cut more corners or saw slower success, and gave up after a few weeks.

I was attracted to Joe’s plan for three reasons. Firstly, it doesn’t promote being thinner, it promotes being healthier. I’m not sporty in the slightest, but I would really like to increase my fitness levels. Secondly, it gives you a structured meal plan for the first 30 days. There’s so many diet tips and advice out there that are overwhelming at best, contradictory at worst. I just want to be told what to eat for a little while. And thirdly, I liked the idea that I could still eat foods I love, like feta, avocado, macadamia nuts and peanut butter, which tend to be ruled out on low fat diet plans.

Anyway, to the first 7 days. I’m not going to lie, it’s not been easy. Getting up at 6am four days of the week for HIIT cardio sessions is not my idea of fun. I was going to knock out my five HIITs during the working week, but I hurt so much by Thursday (even though I was only doing treadmill sprints) that I needed a rest day. The food prep has also taken some getting used to - even though I’ve always been a believer in scratch cooking. All that weighing is rather time consuming!

I could go on forever, and I’ll probably explore the ins and outs of the plan as the weeks go on, but here are my initial observations from week 1:

The highs:

- Being able to eat full portion sizes. Unlike many people, I haven’t struggled to finish the meals (I’ve got a big appetite anyway, plus as I have a history of low fat diets, my coach has put my quantities 20% below what he’d have liked) but I’ve felt full and satisfied.

- The smugness you can feel when you sit down at your desk at 9am, knowing you’ve done a HIIT workout. Oh, and the build up bagel you get to eat afterwards. Delicious! I’ve had five this week and I’m still not bored of them.

- SATAY CHICKEN!!!! This was so scrumptious that not only did my boyfriend lose his marbles over it, he said he’d willingly serve it if we had friends round for dinner!

- The Facebook group. Lots of support when you need it most (although this can be a double edged sword. More on that later)

- Energy levels. Maybe because it’s the first week of clean eating I’ve had since Christmas, and that I’ve been making a conscious effort to look after myself in other ways e.g. getting plenty of sleep, but I feel quite energised and motivated generally.

The lows:

- Attempting to do Joe’s home HIIT workout on YouTube. After just 3 30-second intervals, I collapsed in a heap crying, because it was too hard. This sent me into a frantic panic that I’d not been working hard enough in my treadmill HIITs. Luckily the Facebook group reassured me that everyone struggles with this workout, and I got back up and completed a workout doing just star jumps and high knees, so I could still have my build-up bagel.

- Food faff/waste. Having to weight everything out to the gram is a huge pain in the arse. Also I absolutely abhor food waste: I will not throw things in the bin when there are people out there living on the poverty line. As a result, I’ve had the odd ‘few grams extra’ here or ‘slightly under the measurement’ there to use things up. I know I’ll get lambasted for this but food waste is something I won’t compromise on

- It appears that the treadmill sprints this week have almost broken one of my big toenails in half, so I’m frantically sticking it together with plasters for fear that it dropping off will make my toe too painful to run

- The Facebook group. The support is great, but hearing how other people do things can make you self doubt. For example, hearing someone collapsed to the floor in exhaustion at the end of a HIIT workout, or sweated more than you. 

- Cheating. I have to confess, last night I went out with friends and had a few glasses of wine and a piece of toast when I got home. I’m not proud of it, but it happened, and I’m back on the plan today.

What I’ve learned from week one:

- Even if you’re going to cook everything fresh each night, weighing portions out at the start of the week will make mid-week dinners a whole lot easier

- The salmon fishcakes are grim, but might be more palatable with tuna

- Use the Facebook group for positive motivation, but tread your own path. Your journey will be unique, so there’s nothing to be gained from comparing yourself to others

- It will get tough at times. Just try your best and make sure you’re pushing yourself a bit harder every times

- Cheating isn’t great, but it’s not the end. Don’t use it as an excuse to give up - make it a reason to fight back. Success and failure is more about how you get back on the wagon then whether you fell off it in the first place. After all, these principles need to fit around the rest of your life.

[misschelseabun]

[misschelseabun]

Silly and stupid

It’s been a long time since I’ve put finger to keyboard on this blog, which is mainly because I’ve been lacking something to say. The book has ground to an inexplicable halt, the world is turning in the same rate and direction as the last time I let rip, and I’m generally a happy bunny with everything and every one.

I am, however, about to embark on (literally) the most adventurous thing I’ve ever done. In a week’s time, myself and my good friend Helen will be boarding a plane to Asia for a fortnight discovering India and Sri Lanka.

The hardened travellers reading this may roll their eyebrows when I divulge that we’ll be taking part in organised tours – hotels and backpacks rather than rucksacks and hostels – but, for the two of us, this is a huge step into the unknown.

When we first made the booking I was incredibly excited, but as the date has drawn nearer, I’ve found myself fretting and even dreading our ‘holiday of a lifetime’. Instead of marvelling at the impending wonders of the Taj Mahal, I’m scouring forums for information on stomach upsets, attacks on women, even the chances of a snake slithering up the bathroom plughole. You name it, I’ve worried about it.

Of course, many of these silly niggles are connected to fear of the unknown, but these concerns are wrapped up in a bigger bow: my current home life. For the first time in a really, really long time, my life is on an upward curve. Much of this is to do with the loving relationship that I’m lucky to be a part of, and I’m so looking forward to the future we’re building together that I can’t help but torture myself with the potential traumas – however remote – that could sabotage that from 4,000 miles away.

It got to the point yesterday when I sat down on my bed and thought about how unorganised I am, how out of my depth I feel and how many terrible permutations there are and I could’ve cried. And then I thought of one thing…

…how this adventure came about in the first place.

The money I am using to pay for this trip came from my Granddad, bequeathed to me in his will when he passed away from lung cancer last December.

Like your atypical northern family, I come from a close knit band of reprobates and I had an incredible amount of love and affection for Granddad Harry. Although I contained most of it, I was grief stricken when he died and somewhat overwhelmed when I was included in his will.

When I found out about his gift, more than anything I wanted to do something with it would have a lasting impact on my life; something that would leave me with memories I could treasure well into the old age he was fortunate enough to experience. Fast forward to a prosecco-fuelled evening with Helen a few months later and we were scouring the internet for a vacation fit for this purpose.

Thinking about Granddad Harry and his generosity made me realise just how stupid I was behaving. I’m a lucky, lucky person to have had such a formidable character in my life for 28 years, and even more fortunate that his final gift is allowing me an opportunity that most people will never get to experience. Approaching this holiday with anything other than excitement and humility is just plain selfish and spoilt.

Of course it’s human nature to feel fear, but I have a saying: if something is scary then it generally means it’s worth doing. And if my moment of hysteria this week is any indicator, I’m about to experience something utterly worthwhile.

[misschelseabun]

Beneath you're beautiful

For the first time in a while, I read an article today that set the cerebral cogs in motion and lit the touchpaper of another Chelsea Reay rant-based blog post.

It won’t come as any surprise to you that said piece was on the Daily Mail website, however this time it wasn’t a deliberately provocative whine by Liz Jones, Jan Moir or Samantha Brick; it was a gently persuasive commentary by Laurie Graham that made my head bob and heart sigh in equal measure.

Ms. Graham’s monologue was on the subject of children and beauty – more specifically that we shouldn’t be telling our kids they’re gorgeous for fear of creating mini monsters. Looking beyond the salacious headlines devised by a sub-editor who has probably, at best, skim read the piece, the bottom line of the article is valid: today’s children are more obsessed with appearances than ever before, and inadvertently parents may be reinforcing this.

There’s no shying away from the fact that every parent believes their child to be far more beautiful than any other creature in their class, brownie pack or judo club, but what Laurie Graham advocates is holding back on voicing those thoughts in favour of praising their intelligence, kindness or other positive personality traits.

Although I agree with her to an extent – despite her proclamation that she never told her daughters they looked beautiful, even when dolled up for university balls and such like, which seems a bit harsh in my eyes – I can’t help thinking that she is flying a lone flag in the face of an endemic societal problem.

You see, the western world values two things above all else: looks and money. Lambast me all you like for saying this, but it’s second nature to most of us to make snap judgements about people based on their appearance and/or profession (from which we can infer their earning potential). I’m not trying to say we’re all two dimensional, vacuous vessels idolising materialism above all else, but in this day and age it seems to take you twice as long to get anywhere in life by being the nice and/or clever guy.

Intelligence in particular seems to be the evil twin to the Holy Grail that is skin-deep beauty. Those of you who know me are well aware that the sadly lacking value of intelligence in our current climate is something that I am very passionate about. I'll freely admit that my stance stems from my own personal experiences growing up. What I lack in quintessential good looks I make up for in grey matter. However, rather than guaranteeing flowers on Valentine’s Day and a queue of boys waiting to dance with you at the school disco, being a clever kid meant being eternally singled out by teachers for my academic performances, which generally resulted in the other kids shouting ‘boffin’ at me in the corridor on the way to the next lesson. This, of course, was all playing out whilst the pretty girl who sat two rows behind me was being passed a note from the best looking guy in the class, asking whether she’d like to meet him under the oak tree for a lunch time date.

Please don't think this blog post is a way of rubbing TCP into the emotional wounds of my upbringing; I'm incredibly proud to be an intelligent woman and I'm very comfortable in my grown up skin. However, I can never quite escape that nagging feeling that was instilled within me by my classmates that being beautiful somehow counts for something. On some level it explains my sporadic diet attempts or the fact I won't leave the house without any makeup on.

It's these residual habits, though, that fan the flames of the next generation. Whether you were the pretty girl who learned that looks can get you somewhere when used wisely, or the buck-toothed braniac who stared at her longingly, the heavy emphasis that appearances played during your childhood years will inevitably impact on your adult opinions. Add to this a growing media pressure – offline, online and social – which touts the lure of a new magic weight loss method every day or draws an international red ring around Kim Kardashian’s pregnancy cankles and it’s not hard to see why today's youth are growing up in a world that is more aesthetically obsessed than ever before.

Sadly, even if a handful of people take heed of Laurie Graham’s advice and celebrate the inner beauty of our children, it’s never going to be enough to upturn the unstoppable onslaught of popular opinion that looks are pretty much everything.

At the end of the day, kids are always going to want to be pretty and skinny like Rihanna or another popstar du jour. Telling them they're beautiful could possibly lead to brattismas Ms Graham warns, or it could in fact bolster their self assurance in a world full of impossibly perfect imagery.

In my opinion, the best thing we can do is blend the outside with the inside and impart to these impressionable minds that we are not simply brains or beauty: we are the sum of our parts. If we can make them feel gorgeous in an individual way, bringing together their physical appearance and innate qualities, then hopefully they will feel stronger and confident enough to tackle the obstacles of growing up in the 21st century head-on

[misschelseabun]

The bad and the bad

So, I haven’t blogged for a little while now on any topic and it’s been a LONG time since I talked about the whole book/writing thing. I’ve started several posts but found myself deleting them after a few sentences, which is something I’m pretty much desperate to do right now because the words just aren’t coming out right, yet I know for the sake of momentum I have to power through.

The problem is this: my creative brain feels like cotton wool. It has done for months. In fact, it’s so bad right now that I can’t even find the ability to cobble together a simple blog post - I’m already angry at this clumsy, wandering effort. And if I can’t write a few paragraphs about my life, how the hell am I supposed to craft fiction that people actually want to read and publish?

Originally I was planning to segue into a piece about the things that are good and bad in my world at the moment and how they’re affecting my writing. However, I can tell that it’s just going to end up with me screaming at the computer screen and deleting everything in a fit of rage about my current lack of talent, so maybe it’s best that I have a quick textual vent and then retreat downstairs to make myself a cup of tea.

At the moment, this is roughly how the land lies: I’m up to nine literary agent rejections, I’ve not worked on my fiction novel this year and even the non-fiction side project I was briefly excited about has stalled. I feel about a million miles away from being a published writer and right now I don’t think I have the talent or the aptitude to edge any closer to that dream. In fact, I keep thinking that I might be better off giving up and going back to five day working weeks in a career where I might actually achieve something, rather than twatting around at home with my laptop and my stupid delusions of creative grandeur.

As you may have guessed, now’s probably not a good time to ask me how the book is going when we cross paths. I may end up biting your head off or breaking down in self-piteous tears, neither of which is becoming of me and will be rather embarrassing for the both of us. However, I’ll strike you a deal – if you keep schtum about all things writing related, I promise not to blog again until I have something positive to say.

[misschelseabun]

Reasons to be grateful

I was deeply saddened to learn this week that a former work colleague of mine, Fran Marvell, passed away at just 33 years old after suffering from cancer.

Although I’d not spoken to her face to face in years, I followed her exploits through Facebook, Twitter and her brilliant blog, http://tiltingheads.wordpress.com. The gusto with which she attacked life and the barefaced honesty with which she faced death were, quite frankly, something else and I encourage you all to read it for yourself at some point.

It would be undignified of me to wax lyrical on the subjects of loss and grief at a time like this when her family and close friends, some of whom I worked with, are suffering unimaginable pain. I’ve said the words I want to say to them privately, but I did want to put a few thoughts on my public platform.  

When something truly awful happens to someone you know it’s like an electric shock pulsating through your heart, jolting you into a realisation about who and what is important in life. As a twenty-something with a whole lot of figuring out still to do, sometimes I fall victim to fear of ‘the bigger picture’ – why do I not have a book deal yet? Why aren’t I earning more money? Why am I still single? – and I forget to appreciate the patchwork quilt of people and moments that make my life fundamentally pretty bloody marvellous.

So to everyone I know who bothers to read my blog, and even to those who don’t, I just wanted to say this: thank you for being part of my life. You guys are my sunshine, my happiness, my heart and soul and the world wouldn’t be the same without you. Whatever you’re up to today, however you’re feeling, I’m thinking about each and everyone of you, cherishing how special and unique you are and thanking the universe that your path collided with mine at some point along our respective journeys.

And to Fran, I want to say this: we weren’t particularly close but there’s one incident that sticks in my mind. A few months ago I posted something on Twitter about the frustrating process of trying to write a book and the worry that I’ll never become a published author. It was one of those days where my pipe dream seemed further away than Pluto and I was genuinely thinking of throwing in the towel. You replied with a simple tweet:

At least you had the balls to do it.How many others can say that?

That was the kick up the arse I needed to remind myself that no matter how tough turning dreams into reality can be, nothing is going to be harder than the step I’ve already taken – admitting to myself that this is what I want to do and changing my life to try and make it happen.

So thank you, Fran. You probably never realised how that small gesture touched my life, and I’m sure there are many, many people out there who knew you or followed your blog that would say much the same. But when a woman who had possibly the biggest cojones of anyone I’ve ever encountered tells you that you’ve got balls, it really means something.

Rest in peace xx

[misschelseabun]

The Bucket List

A couple of weeks ago, for no reason other than the fact I have an overactive imagination, I started putting together a bucket list of things I’d like to do before I die, and it got me thinking about ambitions and achievements.

Although I’d probably class myself as one of life’s go getters, I’m not in an incredible hurry to see and do everything that’s possible in life like some others – if you’re a member of an internet dating site like I am, you’ll be well aware of those people who spout off wanky phrases about making every second in life count. I’m really sorry but, as much as I love adventures and new experiences, there are some days when I just want to stay in bed with a vat of tea and watch series one of Hebburn in its entirety on DVD without feeling guilty (yep, that was yesterday in Chelsea’s world).

Sometimes I think we’re so desperate to show other people what a wonderful and crazy life we’re living that we get too caught up in a sensory overload. Life isn’t a sprint; it’s a marathon, and it’s OK to stop along the way and catch your breath. If we didn’t have bad times, sad times, boring times or lazy times, I don’t think those moments of pure joy and adrenaline would have as much brilliance. That being said, a life without passion, where you have no impulse for accomplishment or desire for new experiences, must be a very sad life indeed.

For me, a bucket list isn’t a to-do list, it’s a not yet done list. The difference is subtle – I’m not looking to tick everything off within a year with military efficiency, I’m simply saying to myself ‘hey life, I’m hoping to spend another 50 years in your company and it’d be quite nice if I could find my way to some of these odds and sods along the way’. I’m also steering clear of generic statements. Yes, we all want to see the world, we all want to earn money, have a family, blah-de-blah-de-blah, but a bucket list isn’t about what we all want: it’s about what I want. Some of the things on my list are profound, some are materialistic and some are downright stupid, but they’re all personal. I set the terms of my own life and I’m bloody well going to do my best to incorporate things that matter to or bring pleasure to me in the process.

So, in no particular order, here is the start of my list. I may add to it as time goes on, I may take some things away as I change them (or cross them off). If any of you like the sound of any of these, feel free to join me on the adventure. I’m currently working on number 18 and have reached the point when I can do ten lengths with a sizeable pause after each one… now all I need to do is string them together…

Chelsea’s bucket list

Finish the final draft of my novel

Drink a mojito in Havana

Visit a disused underground station

Experience 24 hour daylight

Own a pair of designer high heels

Get married

Eat a steak in Buenos Aires

Write a screenplay

See Jackson Pollock’s Number 1, 1950 (Lavender Mist) up close

Fit into a pair of size 12 trousers

Explore Hollywood

Read at least 50 of the BBC’s top 100 books

Do something completely altruistic

Learn the dance routine to Pray by Take That

Write a children’s book

Go to a music festival

Have a traditional meal in Mexico City

Swim ten consecutive lengths front crawl without drowning

Learn how to play Rachmaninov’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor on the piano

Visit the Motown Museum in Detroit

Become a qualified nail technician

Take the MENSA entrance test

Own a piece of Tiffany jewellery

Stand in Red Square, Moscow

[misschelseabun]

Oprah versus the muffin top

This week, Oprah Winfrey was ‘papped’ waving her arms in objection as a well-meaning waiter attempted to pour sauce onto her meal at a function. The trivial gesture, captured on celluloid, was picked up by the Daily Mail and beamed into homes as an article on how the renowned television personality is cutting the calories in a bid to trim down.

Being an avid follower of pointless celebrity gossip – mainly as a procrastination tool – I clicked onto this feature, only to be left with a sour taste in my mouth. No, it wasn’t the content or tone of the piece (yes, I know, it’s the Daily Mail); it was the comments that followed it. Here’s a little taster of some of the feedback left from Joe Public…

“She is very much overweight. Has no willpower. She is seen by millions and really doesn't care about her weight as otherwise she would get healthy.” Martine, London

“Astronauts could watch her waist line.... She's fooling no one.. Fridge pickers wear biger knickers....” Garreth, Dublin

“Yeah.. the old trick //in public behave// then behind closed doors binge your brains out.. Too bad she's not restraining her intake when she's off camera...... she'd be healthy body weight....” Jinka, Detroit

Three words sprang to mind after I’d finished reading these vitriols: What. The. Hell.

Taking away the fact that many people regard the Daily Mail as spurious journalism at it’s finest, or that most people are either ignorant or stupid yet believe the world could benefit from their opinions, I couldn’t help feeling how savagely judgemental we can be. This is Oprah Winfrey: a media juggernaut and multi-millionaire businesswoman described by CNN as ‘arguably the world’s most powerful woman’.  The event she was attending at the time of being captured on camera was the Essence Black Women in Hollywood Awards. Yet we feel the main issue surrounding her public appearance is the size of her thighs.

I’m not going to go into the responsibilities of being a role model if you have a job in the public eye, or the fact you can’t trust 99.99% of the comments made on newspaper articles – we’ve all heard of trolls – but I do want to make a point about our response to people’s appearances. What does Oprah Winfrey’s dress size matter to anyone other than Oprah?

Yes, she has spoken publicly about her weight battles, but as a means of helping the women watching her shows to realise that she has the same body image struggles as them. And when, just like us, her shape fluctuates a little from time to time, what’s she supposed to do? Hide in her house until the inches have been dieted and sweated away? God forbid she might go out in public with a little muffin top or cellulite about her person…

If Oprah had been launching a diet book or endorsing a healthy eating product when she was photographed then I’d understand why (a) a newspaper felt the need to run a story and (b) people felt entitled to make negative comments. However, she was making an appearance at an event celebrating black females in the entertainment industry, something she has been trailblazing for decades.

I, like Oprah, have struggled with my weight for my entire adult life and I’m currently in the process of trying to shift those pounds that seem to creep on every time I take my eye off the ball. Like her, I follow a diet plan that leads me to often order a la carte – swapping chips for salad or creamy sauces for vinaigrettes. Those dining with me don’t point and stare, they congratulate me on my commitment to losing weight, and I would certainly hope they don’t secretly think ‘it’s going to take more than grilling your chicken to help you lose that weight, love’ while I’m tucking in.

OK, it’s just a few calories, but those little savings today will add up if you continue to make healthy choices the next day and the day after that, and so on and so forth. In 2009 I lost the best part of four stone – and two dress sizes – making those small sacrifices day after day for nine months, and when I stepped out in a size 14 skirt I felt incredible.

Also like Oprah, keeping that weight off has proven an eternal challenge. As soon as I let those bad habits creep in my weight began to slide up the scale again. When I had to return to my size 16 jeans I began to feel embarrassed about my figure, especially when I bumped into somebody I’d not seen since being my skinniest. In fact, I was almost apologetic for letting them down and going back to being a ‘fatty’ again, even though they didn’t say a word about my weight.

The stupid thing is that when I bought a pair of size 16 trousers after wearing 18s for two years, I’d been delighted to cult such a svelte figure. Yet now I’d had a taste of what society deemed desirable I was ashamed to fall foul of the impossibly skinny images that are pelted at us daily by the media. And that feeling of failure – of being answerable to others because of how much I weigh -  is far worse than whatever the scales might say.

People are always going to judge, there’s no doubt about that, but it riles me when average Joes and Josephines anonymously attack successful people because they’re carrying a little lard. Mine and Oprah’s weight battles are personal, and the only people we truly have to satisfy are ourselves.

[misschelseabun]

Everything will be all right in the end. If it's not all right, it is not yet the end.

[misschelseabun]

I’ve been up I’ve been down I’ve always got my head in the clouds Hoping that I could find One of them that’s silver-lined I don’t care It can rain All it wants on my parade Because when Life gives me Lemons I make lemonade

- When Life Gives Me Lemons I Make Lemonade, The Boy Least Likely To

[misschelseabun]

The perfect hand

In the midst of shoveling snow from my driveway on Monday morning, I realised it was the 21st of January. This might not be a significant date to most of you - unless it was your birthday, in which case I wish you many happy returns - but in Chelsea Reay's world it marked a small milestone: exactly one year since I moved back to the parental homestead to embark on a half baked dream of becoming a professional writer.

At the time, when I pulled up the drive, car stuffed to the hilt with the remnants of my short residency in Milton Keynes, it felt like the beginning of something momentous. Everything started slotting into place - I landed myself the ideal part-time job after a couple of weeks of blissful unemployment, I began to tackle my writing demons and crank those creative brain cells back into working order, I caught up with friends who'd practically forgotten my name and I lost a few pounds. And then...

Well, then not a lot really. I'm not saying 2012 wasn't incredibly fun: I went to the Olympics, holidayed in Milan, Le Mans, Tenerife, Ibiza and Reykjavik, freelanced for a fantastic motorsport team, saw Eddie Izzard, Coldplay and Bloc Party live, met Rufus Wainwright, pretended I was a second generation mod at a Paul Weller gig, went to a few race tracks to catch up with old faces, finally bid farewell to the Golf in favour of a shiny black Polo, had a sleepover at my old flat in between tenants, got a story published on a greeting card and, in amongst all that, somehow found time to finish the first draft of my book.

I didn't, however, end the year as a skinny, rich young creative with a stunning boyfriend and the ink drying on a lucrative author contract. In short, it wasn't one of those 'momentous' years that will go down as either life changing or particularly life affirming.

Thinking back to that day in 2012, though, when I opened the front door in a knackered but relieved state, desperate for tomorrow to be the first day of the rest of my life (well, that and a large G&T), the one big shift has been in my attitude towards the future.

Ever since I was a small child I've tried to run before I could walk. I've been a high achiever, a striver, someone who ruthlessly reflects on their own achievements and developments. And I don't mind admitting that taking me out of the corporate environment and reducing myself to someone who's a part time marketing assistant that spends the vast majority of their Thursdays and Fridays watching box sets whilst contemplating penning a couple of paragraphs threw up all kinds of inner doubt and torment that I could not have predicted.

However, fast forward to 21st January 2013 and the ensuing week, and there's been a subtle progression. Not a lot has actually happened in the past three days: I've fallen in love with the dulcet tones of Tom Odell and discovered after 10 years of abstinence that I seem to have outgrown my red wine allergy. Oh and my sister is out for dinner tonight, which means I get to cook my favourite spicy Singapore noodles that are a bit too hot for her. But you know what? That's enough to make it a good week in my eyes.

You see, 2013-spec Chelsea just gets up and gets on with things, taking enjoyment in the tiny little victories that give you a reason to smile on that particular day. I'm not saying there aren't moments when I spiral into a panic about the fact I'm a 28 years old singleton living with my parents, back at the weight I was when I moved home, earning a pittance and watching a pile of rejections from literary agents grow in front of me. But on the whole, life isn't all that bad.

I guess the thing I've realised is this: you can't really change the cards you've been dealt, even if you shuffled the pack yourself. You can, however, choose to sort those cards into some sort of order and grin at the Jack in your hand, even if it wasn't quite the ace you were aiming for.

Besides - if you hold out for the flop, the turn and the river, you might be able to make something decent with it.

[misschelseabun]

A taste of rejection

Well, it was always going to happen at some point. I wasn’t sure when, how or in what wording but, sure enough, those few expected words crash landed into my email inbox this morning:

Thank you for letting us consider this but I'm afraid that we are going to pass. We wish you all the best of luck in finding representation elsewhere.

  Yes, ladies and gentleman, I have received my first literary agency rejection.

Having started my first few tentative sample chapter submissions last week, I’ve been expecting the first trickle of ‘thanks but no thanks’ responses in a half excited, half nervous manner. After all, getting a rejection note means I’m a real writer, doesn’t it?! At the very least it gives me the ‘struggle’ fodder when I’m a successful writer promoting  my fifth best-seller and an attentive journalist quizzes me on life before my big break.

Although I was well prepared mentally for the inevitable rejection that comes with trying to find an agent – and ultimately a publisher – I was slightly surprised at how disappointed I felt when the first actual refusal materialised in my Hotmail account. Naturally, it cued a good couple of hours’ self piteous wallowing, doubt spiralling and throwing my toys out of the metaphorical pram until I pulled myself together enough to eat a bowl of soup, catch up on Monday’s episode of Lewis and set off for the garage to get the family Landcruiser’s suspension fixed.

If you’re anything like me, driving is a good thinking time, and I found my mind wandering over the rejection letter. As my thoughts panned out, for some reason I began to think about my Granddad. Those of you who are close to me know that my Grandad Harry died of cancer just before Christmas and I had the incredible honour of writing his eulogy for the funeral service.

When it came to piecing together his early life, luckily I had written a biography on him for a Year 7 English project and Mum disappeared into the loft at Grandma’s house to retrieve it. While she was up there she came across a file containing all the articles I wrote as a columnist for the university newspaper during my final year at Warwick, which Grandad had labelled and saved. I vaguely remember Mum mentioning that she used to send copies to him and Grandma but I had absolutely no ideas that, eight years later, he still held onto them.

I don’t mind admitting that I found this discovery emotional and inspirational in equal measure. I’m not going to drift into some pretentious ‘my Grandad had faith in me and it’s given me the courage to believe in my talent’ spiel – my Grandparents also have portraits of stick men I drew aged six; that doesn’t mean my destiny is to become a proclaimed artist – but it did remind me of how I became a columnist in the first place.

Flicking through the first weekly edition of the Warwick Boar at the start of my final year, I spotted an advert appealing for new blood. Living in a house of girls who were all sworn Sex and the City fanatics, the idea of being the West Midlands’ answer to Carrie Bradshaw excited me greatly. Prancing around my bedroom in a pair of gold heels and walking socks (I was trying to break in some new shoes for my 21st birthday party) I came up with an idea for a self deprecating monologue on why I will never be elegant, and why it’s OK to be just a little bit frayed around the edges.

The glee in my heart when I received a message congratulating me on becoming one of the chosen quartet was immense, but it was far surpassed when I was copied in on the announcement to those who hadn’t been successful. Whichever member of the editorial team that sent it out had CCd rather than BCCd its recipients, so I couldn’t resist counting up the email addresses to see what sort of competition I had faced. When my finger came to rest on the final applicant and I had counted more than 80 addresses in total, my jaw practically rested on the floor. There was a 20/1 chance of being selected, and I had defied the odds to been chosen.

Although good school grades told me I was talented in the study of English, that email was the first moment in my life when I realised that I had a gift for writing, and it stirred a dream within me that has never gone away; a dream that seems to grow stronger and stronger each day, even if the reality of it can sometimes seem very far away. Stumbling across this memory made me pause for thought: if my peers at the Warwick Boar could spot some literary talent in 20-year-old me, there’s no reason why a literary agent and publisher won’t do the same.

OK, I’ve not hit the jackpot straight out of the box like all those years ago, but rarely do the stars align so neatly for any of us. How often have you been for a job interview, left the room feeling like you nailed the questions and then been politely informed that they’ve offered the position to another candidate? After a stiff drink and a little woe indulgence, you punt your CV off to some other firms and invariably end up with something far better suited to your personality and skills. Getting a book deal is no different to that, so a little bump in the road is no reason to give up if you truly believe you’ve got something to bring to the literary party, so to speak.

[misschelseabun]

Words

“You’re good with words.”

If I had a pound for every time someone told me that, well, Christmas would be on a much bigger budget this year.

There are certain things people tell you that come as a surprise. Other times, they’re just vocalising something that you know already. We know whether we’re fat or skinny, whether we’re tall or short, whether we’re smart or whether we’re kind. At the risk of sounding big headed – which, let’s face it, isn’t a particularly British trait – I know that I can string the 26 letters of the alphabet together with more dexterity than most people.

I’m more passionate about words than anything else. I love the sound of them on your tongue; the melody created by a perfect sentence. To me, hearing a great poem is like taking a bath in chocolate. When you take the plunge to make your passion your livelihood, however, it can make you lose sight of the things you know. Over the past few months, brief flashes of inspiration have been surrounded by periods of frustration, perspiration and self-doubt. Even when I finished the first draft of my novel, I still didn’t feel like I could do it - that I wasn’t capable of being a fully-fledged professional writer.

This morning I watched an episode of an old BBC drama called Cutting It. I loved it the first time round when I was a teenager and, despite the quality of film and the characters’ fashion looking rather dated ten years on, the content of the dialogue still holds up beautifully.

Ironically, the episode ended where my novel starts: at a funeral. After hearing the eulogies written by Debbie Horsfield (incidentally my favourite screenwriter and the wordsmith I most aspire to emulate), it reminded me of a passage at the end of my book. I won’t spoil it in case I one day become published and you decide to read it, but basically the protagonist ends up giving a eulogy of sorts 12 months after making a reading at the funeral. Inspired, I grabbed my laptop, scrolled down through 308 pages of good, bad and plain disastrous writing and located the scenario in question.

I often read my work out loud – it gives you a much greater chance to consider each word than skimming it on a screen – and so I settled down on the bed with a cup of tea in my hand and began to recite my main character’s final speech. And I’m slightly embarrassed to admit that, halfway through, I found a lump in my throat. This was partly because I believed what she said, but partly because I wouldn’t change a word of what I encountered. I’ve only read this particular passage twice before – once when I was writing it and once when I read the first draft from cover to cover. Normally when I revisit a chapter I find myself reaching for a red pen to change things. This time, though, in my eyes, there wasn’t a single week adjective or superfluous comma. It captured the moment perfectly, brought the characters to life, finished the arc of the story and stayed true to the initial idea that I’ve spent three years trying to develop on paper. The final sentence is actually subtly fairly clever.

When the speech came to an end, it was like a lightbulb had been switched on in my head and illuminated the bigger picture. I don’t know whether the book is strong enough to be picked up by a publisher, it certainly isn’t at the moment, or whether I’ll ever be able to make a living from my love of the English language. I mean, I’m already tearing apart this blog post; I can’t seem to get the paragraph breaks right.

But whatever happens, there’s one thing that nobody will ever be able to take away from me:

I’m bloody good with words.