BLOG 165: The importance of being liked

“I don't wish to be everything to everyone, but I do like to be something to someone.” Ali Mortimer Javan

I’ve had a week of being analysed. Now this for anyone born and bred in the British Isles is an uncomfortable experience. We Brits do not as a nation revel in digging too deeply into the psyche. We are most content at surface level. However it is what it is... my psyche has been probed, prodded and analysed and I now possess not one but two charts that tell me all about me.

Oh what a surprise (NOT)... it came up that I am a ‘highly external’ person who gets validation from outside myself. Errrrrmmm... could have saved hours of computer time by telling the machines that myself. Jax likes to be liked.

My greatest moments of uncertainty (which are swiftly and always followed by a period of catastrophic disaster) have always been when I have struck out against the popular tide and found myself free from any support. My finest moments have always followed the roar of applause and a certain amount of back patting – I thrive when the crowd like my act.

But I was surprised to discover that this tendency is in fact not the norm.

Apparently the vast majority of mankind bobble along with an inner voice that says ‘hey ACE idea me... lets go for it’. The vast majority of mankind are self applauding and have a full set of validation stamps that say ‘hey COOL...carry on’. Seems there are not many like me that hesitate and wait for someone else to say ‘Go on... you may proceed’. Highly external people need the approval of others on practically everything... and have been known to go to extraordinary lengths to get it.

It’s a dangerous trait to have. Unscrupulous people may see this as an easy thing to take advantage of... always subtlety suggesting that an highly external person could save the day if only they did something that a less plaudit driven person would figure out would be either illegal or immoral!

Of course I would love to say I am FAR too bright never to be taken advantage of in this way. However there are a couple of occassions where my need for it to be me saving the day has resulted in me taking a walk on the wrong side of the law...

Like the time when a handsome Australian’s visa was running out and I proposed he should just marry me to stay (yep I was nearly Mrs Kangaroo)... all for the sake of seeing the light of approval in someone else’s eyes. I can't tell you how delighted MY boyfriend at the time was with me proposing matromony to another fella. Luckily the visa issue took care of itself, (who knew Mr Kangaroo had an English Grannie in Whitby Bay!... he certainly didn’t). I’d love to say that visa motivated proposal was not something an intelligent person like me would have ever really seen through... not with all the deception and real risks to my personal liberty and crime free record. But if I’m honest when I look back to that time... yeah I would have gone through with it, risked annoying the UK border agency all for the sake of someone else saying I was lynchpin kind of useful! I’d love to say that with the benefit of the years I am so much more stable and secure and would NEVER consider doing such a stupid thing for a friend (even one that handsome) again... but I can’t.

I really don’t need a psychometric test to tell me if I’m asked to do something where the end result will be popularity of any description... it’s a shoe in that I’ll say yes.

I guess I’ve always been this way. I like to be liked.

I like people to think I’m (insert any positive adjective here). I don’t do conflict, I tend to just withdraw from someone if there is little hope of a positive outcome. I prefer people to nod, smile and use affirming language when they think of me... so guilty as charged of going the extra mile to make that happen. There was no need to offer to marry an overstaying Aussie, host a Diwali party (I’m not even remotely Hindu), or stay on the train 2 extra stops so I can walk a lost tourist to the door of the museum they can’t find, but these are the things I do and (marrying Antipodeans aside) are the kind of things I do with starting regularity. All for that warm glow you get when the cause of someone else being relieved of a burden... is you.

It’s a high risk strategy to conduct oneself in this manor. Obviously the jail time risk I previously referred to is a big one, but more routinely pleasing people, saving people, and waiting for people to throw bouquets (or rotten eggs) is no way to live. It would be far better to be one of those people who genuinely does not care about other people’s perception and validate their own ticket.

It seems strange to me that I’m not one of those people. After all I grew up with two parents who never for one minute made me feel anything other than loved and I am very self assured about love as a consequence. Being loved and giving love are emotional responses and my emotions (thanks to my parents) are healthy and respond appropriately and freely.I should be normal about the value of being liked given that background you'd think.

However to like is different... very different from love. To like someone is an intellectual process, where only factual information and actions generate response. It’s all about what have you DONE... and when it comes to doing, it may be possible (lol) that I go out of my way to do more that necessary.

So no... I was not surprised to find on the psyche tests, when it came to the subject of LIKE... I’m a mess.

Or maybe the tests were flawed?... ermmmm nah! Can’t get away with that one, these things have been around a while and seem to be pretty sound. Sigmund Freud’s Psychoanalysis techniques always takes one back to childhood... and not that I have ever read one word of his psycho-babble, but I suppose I should give his theory kudos as just about every one else does.

Anyone else out there a middle child? Apparently my desire to people please is all linked to that. Wonder if it’s the same for you?

Middle children are a constant frustration to the parenting process because of being too old for most things and too young for anything else. Because of this it is not unusual for a middle child to feel some what superfluous and constantly seek validation. A perfect nuclear family should consist of just two children, one older with the privileges of age and experience and one younger with the privileges of indulgence. A middle child is neither of these and seldom keeps a secure footing in either camp. I guess I was no different from this experience.

The end result is that middle children grow up with what the Yanks call ‘Imposter Syndrome’. Basically, this means that you learn to emulate the behaviour that will give you the most external pats on the head... one minute responsible and authoritative like the older child, the next cute and dependant like the younger. Of course as you are neither, you believe yourself to be an imposter about to be unmasked at any moment.

This makes for an adult who is convinced they are continually flying by the seat of their pants, not really worthy of their position. Middle children are the ones you find working extra hours in the office or not taking their full annual leave allowance. They are convinced that if they stay away from work, someone will realise they are not really needed at all. Middle children tend to be uber bubbly, uber crowd pleasing and uber confident. But it is all part of the act. There is no confidence behind the noise... it is a smoke screen. A truly confident person will go in to bat to protect their status. However a middle child will accept defeat quietly... they were expecting it from day one.... after all they were waiting for the imposter to be unmasked all along.

The funny thing is that it takes a lot of cerebral activity to be able to pull off Imposter Syndrome with any degree of success. As a consequence middle children are usually way above average intelligence. How this pans out however (unlike their older and younger siblings) is entirely down to how this intelligence is nurtured. Seeing that the only motivation for mimicking sibling behaviour is to gain validation – the middle child will develop their academic achievements only if high praise is received. If this child is praised wholeheartedly whether she gets an A or an E...she will find and E as equally acceptable as an A and return E grades every time! If you wish a middle child to succeed slam them for anything below an A-.... or set yourself up for a school career of mediocre performances. But as most parents lavish praise on top grades this side effect is a rare one.

Most middle children, myself included, do very well at school and tend to go on to score some impressive workplace victories. However, no matter how much external proof of her abilities – academic qualifications, job promotions, even salary hikes - you will find a middle child will (long after leaving the parental home) put down success to luck, or timing, or contacts or anything other than her own abilities and perseverance. Middle children believe themselves to be imposters of genuinely successful people and live in fear of being discovered, so they always go the extra mile to be thought of fondly.

Errrrmmmm... okay Sigmund I suppose you have a point. Anyone else find that scarily accurate?

It is rather un British to go probing about into understanding our actions. It seemed so much easier back in the days when we were allowed to wander about repressed as you like, chatting to each other about the weather.

It seems those days are gone.

Psychometrics are with us for good now, every organisation from the girl guides to government are probing about analysing what it is that makes us do what we do.
Turns out I do what I do, not for power or love or a bucket full of coins... but to make people think fondly of me.

It was illuminating to see a computer spit out sheets of paper telling me what I knew already – I like to be liked, I court being liked, and compared to most people...I go out of my way to not make demands.

Of course the general wisdom is that furnished with this information I should maybe tweak my personality. But I won’t... I may have a warped grasp of the value of being liked, but I have a clear understanding of Love... and I love being me...so I'll just have to try not to be a visa bride but carry on as I always have! If courting being liked is my quirk... then it’s no bad thing in my view... after all far better to be remembered fondly than not. I like being liked.

Besides....I do recall a tale of someone who tried to change from caring about being liked... with dire consequences!

This guy always went the extra mile to make his wife think fondly of him. One night he met up with a friend who said to him that he really needed to change and become more assertive with his wife. This friend thought that courting your own wife’s good opinion was silly “Hell you married her, she knows you love her and she loves you why do you need to be liked by her?” he said. “You need to be more assertive”.

To help he gave him a self help book. “I used to be like you then this book saved my life, stopped me caring about what other people thought of me. Read it. Do what it says. And I swear you will see a big change in your relationship with your wife”. So he gave the guy the book, which he read on the way home. He had finished the book by the time he reached his house.

Inspired he stormed into the house and squared up to his wife. Pointing a finger in her face, he said, "From now on, I want you to know that I am the man of this house, and my word is law! I want you to prepare me a gourmet meal tonight, and when I'm finished eating my meal, I expect a sumptuous dessert afterward. Then, after dinner, you're going to draw me my bath so I can relax. And when I'm finished with my bath, guess who's going to dress me and comb my hair?"


"The funeral director?" asked his wife.












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BLOG 164: If I've told you ONCE....

“If someone tells me they give 110%, my response is always, "Why not 195%? Why are you holding back?" Brett Hayes


I have always been automatically suspicious of people who say that they are giving more than 100% to any project. It has become fashionable lately to declare that one is capable of giving 110% effort. And you know what... when ever I hear that said... I totally dismiss the sayer as either a fantasist or an idiot. My reasoning on this point has always been clear: It is impossible to trust someone who claims they will give 110% to something....especially since that is mathematically impossible.

Even though it has been pointed out to me that maybe people who say it mean that usually they give more than they thought was possible to give, I have always found the whole concept of giving more than the whole to anything founded on a shaky grasp on reality... after all if you commit 100%...what more is there?

I have always thought people who say that they will give 110% are just exaggerating in order to sound impressive. Given the mathematical inexactatude of this popular colloquialism, I have always taken it to signify the end of the discussion point. It’s up there in my book with that other corker, “If I've told you once, I've told you a million times". Another total mathematical improbability as they may have told you once, but it's incredibly unlikely they've told you a million times [Don't wish to get all geeky about the maths BUT if each time you told someone something it took say, 5 seconds, it would take nearly 87 days of 16 non-stop hours each to tell somebody anything a million times.]

Anyhoo...I’ve always believed no one - no matter what the motivation - can give more than 100% ...surely! 100% is the whole of anything - it is absolutely all that anyone could possibly be able to give.

But then something happened that made me rethink this.

I had to complete a survey in which I stated the top three things I excel at and work out how much percentage time over a month I gave to them.

And you know what ... it didn’t add up.

No matter how many times I ran the figures... I excel in those three area by spending more than 100% of the available time doing them. It was a total mathematical impossibility. I just couldn't figure it out.

And that is when it dawned on me.

Life doesn’t add up. Life isn’t about perfect maths. The percentages fluctuate as you focus on different parts as you attempt to strike a balance.... and when you add it all up... if you really are doing it all to the best of your ability... it will never add up to 100%.

Because if you ARE doing it right and if you ARE giving every thing the attention it deserves... then you will always have gone into reserve.

And that is how you really can give 110%.

So... now I’ve told you once.... PLEASE... don’t make me tell you a million times!












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BLOG 163: SOMEWHERE NICE

“Chicken is cheap but can change identity: add tomatoes and oregano and it’s Italian; add wine and tarragon it’s French; add sour cream it’s Russian. Add soy sauce and it’s Chinese; but add a huge restaurant bill and it’s posh” Jacqueline Tee



It is the curse of the aspirational classes to wish (and pay) for “eating out...somewhere nice."

“Somewhere nice” is by definition NICE. You’ll arrive and be blown away by the opulent decor. The high vaulted ceilings give a feeling of elegance and space. The crystal chandeliers sparkle and are reflected in the 25 ft high mirrors tactically placed between each of the tall French windows which are draped in delicate folds of silk and the white linen dressed tables are comfortably set apart, upon which cut crystal twinkle invitingly. A violin or harp plays softly in the corner while waiters dance between tables with cloches on silver trays held high above their shoulders.

Or at least that is the fantasy. The reality usually means somewhere where you don’t fit in, somewhere where you feel overwhelmed with grandeur, somewhere where the waiting staff treat you with derision and somewhere where 2 courses (yes, “Somewhere nice” is an experience where few of us seldom make it to dessert and coffee, such is the desire to escape “Somewhere nice”) – where was I ? ...oh yes...where 2 courses for 2 people will come in at £150+. And why do we continue to put ourselves through this?.... because we don’t have high vaulted ceilings at home.

You see, “Somewhere nice” is a trial from start to finish.

Once it is agreed that “Somewhere nice” is the destination... finding the appropriate outfit usually results (should the people in question be a couple drawn from one each of the available genders) with them leaving the house like 2 halves of 2 different couples.

Dressing for “Somewhere nice” is no longer the challenge it was for the female of the species. Thank Coco Chanel for the LBD. Thanks to the foresight of this iconic designer, every woman owns a simple, elegant black dress that can be dressed up or down depending on the occasion. Driven by the conviction that each of us will in our LBD look like Holly Golightly, we channel Audrey Hepburn and only really deal with the fleeting concerns of accessories.

Dressing for “Somewhere nice” for men however is a minefield of fashion faux-paux... namely: Casual shirt... to tuck in or not to tuck in?, What is a sports jacket anyway? Is it a tie or not a tie,? and Is a polo shirt formal enough for somewhere nice? If you give most men a formal function he knows exactly what to do, he has a variety of suits from black tie penguin jobs to well tailored numbers. And if you give a man a casual occasion he knows how to rock a pair of worn jeans and a well cared for tee. But tell a man you are going “Somewhere nice” and he wanders clueless and exposed into the no mans land of chinos, Ben Sherman shirts and curious looking beige shoes.

You can always spot a couple heading to “Somewhere Nice” – she looks like Audrey Hepburn’s stand in for Breakfast at Tiffanies and he looks like he is on his way to the golf club.

On arrival at “Somewhere nice”, the first thing you must do is order drinks to help you settle at your table. Now this is not something you are unable to do... you KNOW how to do this... given the red chequered table cloth of your local bistro, you have no problem ordering a bottle of house shiraz from Raimundo on a Friday night, but this isn’t Raimundo’s Bistro... this is “Somewhere nice”.

Disorientated and slightly over awed by your surroundings you cannot find the wine list and you know that saying house red will result in the disapproval of the waiter who you are aware asked you for your drink order some moments ago. You try hard to recall the name of any wine you may have liked in the past but can only summon supermarket brand names such as Jacobs Creek to mind. You know you could ask your waiter for advice in this area but you suspect (rightly) that this will result in him calling for the sommelier (a glorified waiter who knows ALL about wine who lives only to belittle anyone who orders chardonnay). Your heart is pumping, beads of sweat begin to form on your brow then suddenly you recall posh people drink G+T (Oh thank heaven you sky plused Poirot)... and find yourself ordering two gin and tonics. As the waiter says “Very Good” and glides away, you surreptitiously glance at your watch and realise you have been “Somewhere nice” for approximately 3 minutes and have just survived what felt like a major heart attack and you haven’t even seen the bill yet!

What’s worse is you know that it will not be the last time during the evening that you will feel forced into making a hurried decision to impress the waiting staff . Because you know this is all par to the course of eating out “Somewhere Nice”.

If you are “Somewhere nice” it may well catch your attention that really there are no waiters. Waiters are now Front of House Attendants. I’m sorry... WHAT!!!... exactly when did restaurants become theatres??. However it is what is. Front of House Attendants take on the ambience of the venue and we buy into this. There is a part of our logical brain that informs us that Front of House Attendants are in fact employed to take our order and walk it to the kitchen then take our food and walk it to our table... BUT. But because “Somewhere nice” is nicer than your own home, the dining room is more elegant, the ceilings are high, vaulted and no doubt laced with gold leaf... we are out of our comfort zone and start to confuse the waiters for being our genial hosts. Which they are not. They work there. For money. Which comes from the extortionate amount we are about to pay for the food. But when we are “Somewhere nice” we just can’t remember that at all, and feel intimated by a snooty waiter standing by your table poised with a pen and exuding the stench of impatience.

Well, you have your Gin and Tonic (which you sip gingerly as you really don’t like it) and pick up the weighty menu and open it to see what will tantalise your taste buds. But you discover...for several pages at least... that you cannot find a single morsel of food described.

And WHY would that be? Should not a menu be a presentation of food and beverage offerings?

Well maybe if you were dining on the red chequered tablecloths of Raimundo’s Bistro but you aren’t... this is “Somewhere nice”.

And at “Somewhere nice” it is ALL about the chef.

Open the menu and it’s like reading the chefs CV:

“ Chef Pierre has held a Michelin Star for many years, so you can imagine that the food here at Restuarnte Somewherenice is some of the best food to be found in the region. Chef Pierre’s gastronomy has been awarded the blah blah blah award. Chef Pierre also received a gold medal award for excellence at the blah blah yawn awards, other awards include....”

And so it goes on and on and on and on... stopping short only of informing you of the chefs conception and how he won his 25yds swimming badge at kindergarten.

The menu will assure you that Chef Pierre is a member of Eurotoques, you will be constantly assured that you are sitting in a gourmets paradise, fuelled by an abundance of superb locally sourced ingredients. You will certainly be reminded that Chef Pierre creates a cuisine of international fame, meeting and exceeding the exacting gastronomic requirements of the big man who is made of white tyres.... but the one thing you cannot see for several pages.... IS THE FOOD!!

While your Front of House Attendant once more prompts you to make at least two courses of choices, you furiously flick through and come to the what you can only assume are the starters.

I say assume, because although you are very much still located in the country where your house is... you seem to have slipped abroad. Why do I say this? It’s because when dining at “Somewhere nice” you must have passed a GCSE in at least one other European Language. Yep... what would be instantly recognisable in the local tongue as starters appears on the “Somewhere nice” menu as Démarreurs or some such nonsense. The descriptions of each offering is again in a foreign language so you pick blind, hoping that poison means fish and not actually poison! You work your way through to what you hope would be the first course and using the same logic wildly choose something where a few of the words sound like they may have the same meaning in English. You smile weakly at your Front of House Attendant who raises an eyebrow at your choices and mutters “As you wish” and glides away. From a 'very good' down to an 'as you wish' in a few moments. You feel you have let yourself down... but mostly you feel you have let your waiter down. You realise that after all you do not belong “Somewhere nice” at all.

I once tackled a waiter who down graded me to an 'As you Wish' with that raised eyebrow thing. He told me it was because I did not “Mangez mal” or it may have been because I do, either way I had no idea so I asked him to explain. He said his eyebrow raised because I ordered a fish starter and a fish main course. He said “Mangez mal” refered to the fact I made an incoherent order that demonstrated that I had no understanding of the fine art of blending tastes, how they should be connected, savoured and that I clearly was robbing myself of the true joy of the palate. HELLS BELLS... he got all of that into 2 French words! Maybe THAT is why they chose to print the menu in French... to save space on lengthy English descriptions!

But it is no laughing matter...waiters in "Somewhere nice" establishments sniff at our poor culinary choices but hells bells... I’d like them to try to order cohesively from a menu when the first 3 pages are waffle (IN ENGLISH) about the person who cooks it and the next 7 are lists of culinary treats written in a language that is not the mother tongue of the locals!!! All that with some inverted snob standing there waiting to be impressed! How about cutting the 3 page chef waffle... hello you are preaching to the choir there, save that crap for your adverts to lure people in and get it off my menu! How about writing a description that will help diners get the maximum from eating out “Somewhere nice”.

Any hoo... Your starter arrives... you have no idea what it is, but it is a little bit of something on a big white plate. You eat it. Your main course arrives, you are none the clearer as to what that is either(you note it is also a little bit of something but on an even bigger white plate... and this time with a garnish). You look at each other over the table and will the other to say that they really are quite full and don’t fancy desert and wouldn’t a coffee at home be lovely.

Your front of house attendant comes and asks you if there would be anything else and you both go into a ludicrous pantomime about how full you both are, and inform your front of house attendant that he must pass both your heart felt compliments to the chef.

You get the bill. You had 2 plates that were decorated with ornaments of food origin and inkeeping with being "Somewhere nice" they are charging you a king’s ransom for them. You pay, and to show there are no hard feelings you give your front of house attendant a healthy 10% on top.

You step out into the cool night’s air and inhale what to any scientist on earth is a mixture of nitrogen, oxygen, argon, carbon dioxide, water vapour and other trace gases... but to you is the bone fide scientific formula for FREEDOM! Because you are finally free of “Somewhere nice”... you are back in the world where you know what is what, where your opinion counts, where everything is not set up to make you feel small, and stupid... and bloody HUNGRY!!!

It is a lovely feeling when you have escaped from “Somewhere nice”.

But after a few moments you look at each other and you smile, then look back at the twinkling lights of “Somewhere nice”, then one of you say

“That was nice”.

And the other of you say

"Why yes wasn't it - so nice to go "Somewhere nice" for a change..."

Then you both go wistful and talk all the way home about how beautiful was the high vaulted ceiling.










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BLOG 162: Country-Cred

“Well, I just said that Jesus and I were both Jewish and that neither of us ever had a job, we never had a home, we never married and we travelled around the countryside irritating people.” Kinky Friedman

I thought I have country-cred.

I do have creditials! I used to live in the West Country for a while. True... I lived in the city of Plymouth for the bulk of that time, (with a brief spell in town in the South Hams) , but it remains my claim to country living. I did what millions of Londoners NEVER do...I left London. For years. And I survived. Okay it was hardly The Life of Grizzly Adams (I think all the streets were actually paved) but I managed to survive without the world’s most amazing city and got to know about what life is like when you don’t share it with another 10 million souls. Okay it didn’t last! Now I live on the very edges of London. But something must have rubbed of as my postal address isn’t even London – it’s Kent. And the view from my bedroom window is almost pastoral as I can see a sheep farm.

It was upon such trivia that I stuck a common cord with the Creative Director I mentioned a couple of blogs ago... the improbably named Che. You may recall he hails from Wiltshire, a county characterised by its high downland and wide valleys. He's very proud of his rural roots and why not, Wiltshire is a lovely county. It’s very pretty and has a lot of things of note – but one of those things wouldn’t be people. Wiltshire doesn’t have a lot of people... there are 7 million more people living in London than in the whole county of Wiltshire. It is PROPER rural. Not a tag that sits accurately on me. I think I may oversold it when I said “OH... I used to live in the West Country! But now I live in Kent”.

I’m a big city girl, who moved to a small city, then a large town, then back to edge of the city where she started off. Kent may well be my postal address but geographically I'm in Greater London - I still have 10 million neighbours!

I think I may have oversold it with that innocent 14 word sentence. I think I created an image more suited to a milk maid from a Julien Dupre painting. An image that was quickly corrected on a drive out to the Vale of Pewsey. This was clearly the time to waive my credentials for country cred by mentioning the town I lived in during my West Country days. I thought that living in a town unconnected to a major city was a big deal (“20 miles of fields either side!” I chirped thinking I was scoring rural points). But instead of being impressed, proper rural Che was very surprised I had never lived in a village. Turned out he hails from a village with a population of less than 700 people. [I am SURE we fitted more people in a phone box during a college dare ...but I digress.] But it turns out that 20 miles of fields either side does not count as rural living.

In the Vale of Pewsey, street lights, paved roads and the distant roar of a major road are not the norm. And so my country-cred points disappeared as quickly as the Salisbury Plains at dusk.

It now appears that Che thinks I am Urbane. He uses the word to mock me, like being urbane is a bad thing!. It is not. (At least to me). I only wish I was urbane – but despite being born in Westminster and once living in Chelsea - I strongly suspect that I can only lay claim to being suburban. However if the man from Wiltshire thinks I am a city dweller at heart then so be it. I see nothing wrong with a deep held passion for sodium lights, asphalt and background noise.

I find it comforting that my street are swept at night by crews of men in whirling machines and that my meat comes pre-cut, shrink wrapped and in a polysomething tray. I love that wildlife cozies up with us people... I gaze with wonder at the squirrels and foxes who tightrope walk on my walls. I love the fact that traffic is calmed by lights and humps and roundabouts, and that there are signs every few hundred yards that tell you where you are or how far you are from somewhere else. I like that I can walk to a train station that connects onwards to the whole country and beyond (I live in Kent... we’re only 22 miles from France at our most extended point). I am born and bred in the regions of tarmac and paving stones and I will not apologise for it.

However I like the English Countryside well enough... I sing ‘This green and pleasant land’ as loudly as anyone else at the rugby.

Che still thinks I am Urbane. All this because I complained about churned mud on country lanes (which had clearly been dragged there by a tractor...no night clean up crews in the countryside... these clods are left to harden and make for an comfortable drive). This utterance of mine was enough to convince him that I share the point of view of those who have little experience of country life but feel obliged to comment freely upon it.

In my defence, my derriere is sufficiently padded for most scenarios... but being repeated bounced and bumped over hardened tractor mud had caused it some notable discomfort. I felt justified in mentioning that I objected to the mud left in country lanes by tractors. It was a complaint that took 30 seconds of to formulate in my head and be spoken. It will probably take a life-time to be forgiven for saying it.

Apparently - in Wiltshire – there has been an invasion of ‘Urbanites’ and they seem to be very vocal in telling the locals what they think of country ways. And according to Che they have no idea what they are talking about. (Really?... 17 jolts to my backside and I thought I was pretty clear in my [all be it truncated ] thought process) However he is convinced the Urbane view should be constricted to the towns.

Apparently Urbanites think the countryside is an unspoiled environment and have no idea how that green and pleasant land came about and just get in the way. Apparently the English countryside is the most intensively farmed landscape on earth and that patchwork quilt of green and yellow that rolls over hill and dale has been fashioned not by nature, but the hard labour of rural men.

I pointed out that the hard labour of rural men seemed greatly assisted by the hard labour of men working in the city based CLAAS tractor factory. (You don’t need my petrol-head knowledge to deduce that the clods of mud on the lane seemed more likely to come from an Axion 800 than a pair of mud soaked farm labourer’s boots.) Not possibly my wisest move as I got the lecture about the ignorance of urban dwellers about the reality of rural living!

Urbanites are afraid of almost every type of livestock but are sentimental about vermin such as rabbits, foxes and squirrels. They are shocked by the sight of animal carcasses and are always asking the village butcher for vegetarian options (but drive for miles out to a supermarket to buy the same meats but shrink wrapped). Urbanites have pushed up the prices of country barns, apparently they watch BBC programmes like ‘Escape to the Country’ and blow their ill-gotten bankers bonuses on turning them into country homes that they don't even live in. They insist on preserving wild flowers and will not understand anything wild should be contained as without ceaseless vigilance the green and pleasant land would return to a wasteland of bindweed, nettle and bramble.

Ah.

I would love to say that I proved him wrong on all these points.

But as I ran away from a cow (it had a murderous look in its eye), got all political in the pub when the local hunt came in (they allow dogs to tear apart a cute red fox), nearly fainted when I saw half a butchered goat hanging in a shop window, totally loved a barn conversion just off the Alton Priors turn off, and thought Dropwort were pretty daisies.... It became clear that I was not the country girl I may have inadvertently advertised myself as.

However, I am pleased to say that I did manage to redeem myself during my brief trip to the wild side. I was called a complete treasure by a farmer in the pub!

Turns out that the farmer had tractor problems. He’d replaced the spindle and brake arm, also the cable that engages the deck. He found that the mower would start when he depressed the brake/clutch pedal, but when he took his foot off the pedal it killed the engine. I have no specific experience of the farmers problem, but I had heard and remembered some advice being positively received during my brief spell as a Townie in the South Hams... this was my moment to shine. So I interrupted and offered 'my' advice that if the spindle turned and the blade when he fitted them then that part is ok but he should have a look at the brake and cable as when he engages the deck the break should release. Next thing I knew... Che was advised that he should hang onto that one as she was a Complete Country Treasure!

And so he should... if he likes a complete country fraud!

It's no coincidence that the only thing I knew anything about in the countryside was a tractor. Tractors are built in cities - then shipped out to the countryside. Bit like me! (Especially if you consider the one I spoke to the farmer about was suffering a countryside breakdown)

Thing is I am scared of livestock, I am sentimental about wildlife and wildflowers, I do prefer my meat in cellophane, and if I had the cash I would pay top dollar to convert a barn and only stay there on bank holiday weekends. I love paved streets, I adore bright lights and I need signs (even if it is just background noise) that there are other people on earth.

But I don’t think Che was fooled for a moment. He made excuses about a long drive back to ’The Smoke’ and bundled me out of the pub.

Later back in London, I had to ask if I had redeemed myself by helping the farmer.

I had to laugh at the reply:

“Face facts Jaxs, you were sweetening him up with all that petrol-head nonsense so that you could ask him if it would be too much trouble if he could sweep up the clods of earth that come off his tractor as they make the lanes uncomfortable for your arse!!.”

As us Urbanites would say.........Busted!

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BLOG 161: The Booty Call

“Don't worry about finding the right woman- concentrate on becoming the right man.” Rita Rudner

It’s early... the sun isn’t quite up yet, but I know my body... it is saving my hangover till this afternoon. It likes to tease me that way! So I thought I’d get this blog written ASAP before I have to submit to the evitable punishment of over indulging.

You see...yesterday the sun decided not to stop shining. This was particularly marvellous because I was having outdoor drinks with a group of people that have been on a project with me. They are a mixed bag, and you have to love em all... although I was looking forward to the drinks it was tinged with a bit of sadness as it was a farewell session. Nothing makes you drink more than a little tinge of maudlin. That said the sun would not stop shining ...and name me a city that is finer in the sunshine than London Town. We’d chosen a historic pub with its own coach yard and sat in the sunshine talking rubbish with wild abandon for 6 glorious hours.

As I said we indulged ourselves with 6 hours of swopping intimate tales in a 15th Century coaching house court yard. This was conducted while consuming the fermented products of the grape and hop (I’d also add apples to that as sunshine does call for cider). Of course, this meant we all parted on the best of terms (hugs, kisses and heart sworn promises to keep in touch)... then we all staggered back to our respective homes. I should imagine there will be some soreheads this morning followed by the usual post drink cringe fest of recalling the indiscretions that you’ve told people you hardly know.

You see, a few drinks in the conversation went to relationships... doesn’t it ALWAYS! But of course, intimate relationships are the stuff of high comedy, intense drama and great story telling. It’s the one thing we can ALL talk about, as we’ve all been there. I always look forward to the three drinks in conversation swerve, for it is at this point we learn more about our friends and associates than we ever would without the added benefit of the hop or the grape. Alcohol has a wonderful way of loosening the tongue. We’d been on the same project for three months; you’d think we’d all know everything there is to know about each other in that time. But no. It took alcohol to learn the stuff that turns people into friends... the stuff that we could sit in the sunshine and laugh about.

They learnt that my man selection process is so flawed that I clearly need counselling if my dates continue to be so freaky (see blog 22). We learnt Matthew will not be taking on his next project as a past indiscretion with the wife of a senior partner has come back to bite him twenty years later. We learnt Jackson annoyed his ex-girlfriend so severely that she spat at him through a letter box. We learnt Janelle keeps promising men she’ll go on holiday with them...but never goes. We learnt Laura is so pre-emptive about bad relationships she ends good ones. We learnt Paco was once married but then something strange happened with the smell of a chinook helicopter engine (you had to be there).

But the story that had most of us clinking glasses and toasting the teller... was Daniela’s story of why her one year relationship is NOT a relationship. Daniela like many of us hasn’t the time for a full blown romance. She’s not in the right place in her life for one right now, and she doesn’t want to lead anyone up the garden path. She’s a very honest person and it would totally go against her code to get involved with someone when she knows from the start it will not go anywhere. And yet one year on...she’s still in it. Happy, honest and having fun... but totally label free.

However alcohol is a curious thing. Daniela’s story had me wondering (as I watched my train glide into the station) if I chose not to call the train a train... would it stop being a train? This puzzle kept my inebriated brain ticking over till my stop... when I found it much more important to march with purpose to the doner kebab shop. From that point onwards my only thought was how NOT to spill salad on the pavement as I munched it on my final walk to my front door.

But the subject forcibly returned when after a couple of hours I received a text from Marlon whom I’ve had an on and off non-relationship with for almost a decade. For the last couple of years that non-relationship has been decidedly off, but recently he got back in touch suggesting we could just be friends and maybe meet up for a just friends drink... (a plan even my 1 year old cat could see through!). But as Marlon and I share a lot of mutual friends, I’ve left the whole thing on a back burner hoping any interest will fizzle out. Clearly it hadn’t done that yet as Marlon was in town and wondered if I wanted to join him. It was easy to get out off... after all I’d just got back to the suburbs following a marathon session in town, so it was easy for my decline to be accepted. (Once the doner kebab has been eaten... I’m going NOWHERE!!!)

But what got me was that I was more concerned about the practicalities than the morals. Marlon does not do emotional liaisons. He courts the company of female acquaintances whose long term relationships have ended. In particular he courts those who are not yet looking for a partner due to their complicated lives but who clearly have not retired their needs in the sexual arena. It was quite clear that what Marlon was calling for was what the Americans have so charmingly called a ‘booty call’. That is a sexual liaison without emotional baggage. And I was more concerned about the fact that I had consumed 6hrs worth of booze and an extra large charcoal grilled doner with added shish, chicken, kofte and salad... than I was concerned about the morality of Marlon’s call.

I wrote about Jane Austen’s books recently and pored scorn over the morality of that time. However, it dawned on me that I had spent a huge chunk of the day discussing relationships - and at no point did anyone extol the virtues of being in a committed relationship. The nearest to it was Daniela’s situation – but even she wouldn’t call that a relationship. It started me thinking about what constitutes a relationship and what doesn’t. Is it as Daniela believes simply a case of not subscribing to labels or is it something else?

Since the sexual revolution of the 1960’s, it has been okay for women to public admit they have ‘needs’ in this area. Traditionally these needs would be sated in a marriage or committed relationship, but lets face facts... people just aren’t mating for life anymore. There are an awful lot of people who just are not partnered up. Worse still there are an awful lot of people whose lives are just too complicated to easily install a replacement permanent fixture. There are children from previous relationships to consider (who do not deserve to grow up seeing a parade of faux uncles or aunts), there are employment issues to consider (divorced people tend to take on extra responsibilities at work in order to boost household income), there are many many issues like this that get in the way of simply moving on to the next partner. So what the hell happens to those ‘needs’?

Well, it’s a phone call received after the kids have gone to bed. It’s not an invite to a movie or dinner, not just coffee, not a casual or formal get-together, just a plain old-fashioned itch scratching which may be sexual or near-sexual. Of course, the phone call would not be received by a random person. Men like Marlon are on the periphery of every social circle. Once your relationship is in trouble... Marlon will be the friend you could talk to. And once your relationship is really over...Marlon will ensure stress relief is available with no strings attached. A friend with benefits. You need not worry about Marlon ever expecting more than being the pole the bear scratches his itch on... he won’t want to take your kids to the park and he understands that you have an 88 page report to do so you won’t be around for as long as it takes. But the way the whole thing works is that it is recurring – and yet without status. This is because emotional bonds are strengthened faster than they are weakened. In a normal relationship the recurring pattern of intimacy operates under the blanket title ‘Relationship’ to which the participants form a bond. To overcome this, the emotional bond stabiliser is the fact that this situation is NEVER like NEVER referred to as a relationship. EVER.

But please. Isn’t all this just a load of rubbish.

I go back to me on the station platform as merry as hell, wondering if I didn’t call the train a train would it be a helicopter?

Simple answer... no.

Call it what I may but it would still perform the functions of a train. It is what it is.

I get it that it can be fun and rewarding to take the emotional baggage out of relationships (though ONLY if both parties are clear that it's only about sex.)It’s really rare in those situations for mutual romantic feelings to develop. I do get it that an enduring and satisfying relationship is built on a strong foundation of deep friendship and multi dimensional understanding and these label free couplings are the furthest point from that. (Come on what enduring and satisfying relationship would survive being turned down for a doner kebab?) However... these things do endure and these things do satisfy and newsflash... these things ARE relationships!

They just aren’t the ones old Miss Austen and her bonnet wearing ladies aspired to (or had the opportunity to have!). These are a relationship type the late 20th century gifted us. No mess, no consequences from beginning to end. Of course if there is... then you weren’t even in the new fangled relationship in the first place! You were in the good old fashioned one we all know and love....the whole ruddy time!

I have a feeling that Daniela’s beau would find it unacceptable that she would be unavailable because of the love of an extra large charcoal grilled doner with added shish, chicken, kofte and salad. I feel such a rejection would cause some mess and no doubt some consequences. She can say it’s a ‘non relationship’ till we are both blue in the face... but she’s in one. A proper old fashioned romantic tryst, with a modern twist but...

A proper old fashioned romantic tryst. (Jane Austen would be thrilled!)

If it wasn’t so ridiculously early in the morning I’d give Daniela a call and let her know the conclusion of my ponderings... however, I doubt anyone wants to hear how doner kebabs, booty calls, and a train that certainly wasn’t a helicopter cleared that up for me!

(Well not for a few hours yet anyway!)

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