Brown is the new black

Courtesy of the release of the latest Census figures, we can now be sure that mixed race people are the fastest growing ethnic group in the UK.  They are now so strongly represented in every walk of life, think Jess Ennis, Barak Obama, Alesha Dixon, Rio Ferdinand etc, etc,  that the majority of people no longer have a problem with either the concept or the results of inter-racial breeding.

I must admit to having a vested interest in the fortunes of mixed racers as I happen to be one myself.  I am the product of a black, Trinidadian father and a white, British mother, who met and married in the late 1960s, a time when society was not blessed with the racial tolerance that we revel in now.  I believe they were actually spat at in the street and certainly, my mother's parents boycotted the wedding day.

I grew up in a fairly middle class, predominantly white part of Kent, where the nearest most of our neighbours got to experiencing another culture was when they went to pick up their Indian or Chinese takeaway on a Friday night.  At the primary school I moved to when I was 8, I was the only brown-skinned child there and boy did I know about it.  'Paki' seemed to be the greeting of choice, closely followed by 'blackie' and 'nigger'.  I remember wondering what on earth was the correct response when being yelled at by other kids to 'f**k off back to where you came from'.  "What, you mean Dartford?" I would occasionally reply to their snarling faces.

I could see that a lot of these kids were actually quite curious about someone who looked a bit different and as time wore on some of them became friends of sorts.  Even at that young age I could see that the problem lay with how they had been brought up, in households where ignorance and prejudice ruled the day and that they, by verbally abusing me, were simply regurgitating stuff they'd heard at home.

Secondary school, a typically 'bog-standard' comprehensive, was similarly white.  Again I found myself encountering racial abuse on a daily basis.  I remember other kids wanting to fight with me quite a lot. I probably did myself no favours as on the outside I refused to be cowed by people calling me a 'f****ing Paki' even though inside I was absolutely bloody terrified!

When I get together now with my two oldest girlfriends, classmates from that school, we reminisce about how different life was then and just how many times I was forced to use my fists to get through the day.  We can laugh now about the one time when they literally stood by me, one at each shoulder and said to the main tormentor "if you want to fight her, you'll have to fight us aswell". Ah those were the days eh?!!

But it's funny being mixed race - half and half - dual heritage - not one thing or the other - call it what you like, it's made me totally 'colour-blind' when it comes to other people; I really do not make assumptions based on how people look and I find it quite extraordinary when others do just that. Do you remember Greg Dykes's comment about the BBC being 'hideously white'?  I found that troubling in so many ways.

I suppose at the heart of it I believe in the very best people being chosen for the job, regardless of their skin colour.  It bothers me that in this tolerant age there might still be situations where a 'person of colour' (to borrow that slightly sickly American phrase) might be passed over for promotion because of their skin tone.  But it also bothers me to the same degree that a white person might be overlooked in favour of someone darker, just to balance the books, as it were.

So in my school days I was considered too black to fit in, until that is, we all turned 14 and something miraculous happened.  Suddenly (and I mean suddenly, it was literally overnight), the perceptions of my schoolmates began to change and being different equalled cool.  They also noted that I was lucky enough to have a year round suntan, something all my pasty peers aspired to in the days of 80s neon disco clothes and immediately, with a few stubborn exceptions (offspring of National Front supporters probably) I was someone cool to hang with.

Another time I shall regale you with the story of when I found myself curiously 'not black enough' to fit with my manager's stereotypical view of what a mixed race person should look like, if such a thing is possible.  Until then dear reader, until then.

Listen very carefully, I shall say zis only once

As from this morning there is a new rule in our house.  It's a very necessary rule as due to the apparent inability of my children to focus on a damn word I say to them in the mornings, I was well on the way to turning into something rather unpleasant.  Think half human, half sheepdog but without the winning displays of affection or the lovely waggy tail.

Sick of the sound of my own voice endlessly repeating tedious missives like "time to brush your teeth" or "ties, jumpers and shoes on NOW please" and observing said children wafting about engaging in push-shove-screech 'games' or simply just wafting, aimlessly around the place, the stress of simply trying to leave the house on time for school was just too much.

"For goodness SAKE" I'd hear myself cry, "it's the same routine every BLIPPING morning!  You KNOW what to do to get ready for school!"  And so it would continue, often culminating in me frantically herding them out the door, one eye on the clock and forgetting that vital envelope containing something so important that if it wasn't handed into the school office TODAY the world will surely end.

So at around 0732, I informed them, in a slightly detached, non-confrontational manner, about the new rule.  "Oh kids?  I have something to tell you actually, about this morning, in fact every morning from now on."  They pricked up their little ears and I suddenly had their full attention.  "You see the thing is, Mummy is only going to tell you to do something one time.  I'll make sure you've heard me" (it would be a bit unsporting to whisper it) "and then if you don't do it straight away, well, I won't be shouting at you or chasing you around anymore, no.  I'm just going to get myself totally ready and wait by the front door for you.  If you make us late then you'll have to go in, on your own and explain to the teacher why you're late and if it happens more than once, well, the headmaster will probably get involved too".

Reader, you should  have seen their little faces.  And it worked - a treat.  I didn't raise my voice once, the only moment of doubt was when delightful daughter - DD - tried to test me by not coming to have her hair plaited when I asked her to.  I simply put the brush down and told DD that she'd be going to school resembling a scarecrow.  She complied immediately and the hair got done.  The best bit was when super son - SS - allowed me to kiss him goodbye on the top of his head (I'm not allowed to make kiss-contact with any other part of his face anymore sadly) and said "Mummy, it was really good this morning.  Can we do that all the time?".

Mummy I feel sick

The words that every working mum dreads to hear, first thing on a Monday morning are probably along the lines of "mummy I feel sick".  Now I've written before about acting in a cowardly fashion and to my shame I'm about to do it again.  When my delightful daughter - DD - uttered those fateful words a week ago today, I'm afraid that my survival instinct not only took over, it firmly elbowed any maternal ones out of the way and it may even have launched a sly kick to the stomach as it raced on by in an effort to get me out of the house as quickly as possible before I would have to take responsibility and deal with the situation by not going to work.

DD said she felt sick at 07.14 and yes, as I risked a sideways glance, she did look a tad pale.  By 07.16 there was a something of a tense standoff in the kitchen as handsome hubby - HH- and I circled each other warily, neither of us daring to speak in case a weakness was shown or an inch of ground involuntarily given.  The stakes were high, who would blink first?  I calmly took my porridge out of the microwave and stirred it, pretending to be engrossed in an item on Today.

HH took a bite of his toast and said...nothing.  We ate.  In silence.  My stock rose a little as the realisation dawned that as I had got up before him and was in fact, fully dressed, I therefore had more right than he, still in his bathrobe, to go to work.  HH's chances drooped still further as he was also down to do the school drop-off that morning anyway.  I inwardly cursed the fact that I hadn't got up and left the house even earlier, thus avoiding being in this situation at all.

Both of us desperately hoped of course, that DD would suddenly declare that she felt better and could, in fact, manage some breakfast.  She didn't.  Super son - SS - munched his cereal and described to us, in detail, how he planned to modify his Lego Star Wars space ship thing into a B52 bomber. He must have sensed a lack of interest from his audience.  DD sat on a bar stool, shoulders slumped, and said again in a very small voice "mummy I really do feel sick now".

I swiftly ran through the various scenarios in my head, acknowledging and then dismissing them like flicking empty tin cans off a wall.  Childminder - no - she won't be able to have any other children so no income.  My dad - no - too risky as it might be the start of the noro-virus which could all but finish off a man in his seventies and I don't want that on my conscience just before Christmas. Me - no way - I can't let the BBC down as I'm only there a few days this month and I've pushed hard for these shifts!  But it was starting to look as if I had no choice and as I put my empty bowl in the dishwasher I resigned myself to being a good mother, but a bad employee.

Then without warning, like the sun appearing from behind a cloud, HH finished his toast and said, "actually don't worry, I can probably work from home today, I'll do my meetings via conference calls instead".  Honestly in my head the Allelujah Chorus sung by a heavenly choir was in full, glorious flow.  I didn't need telling twice.  I grabbed my coat and bag and ran for the hills. 

Hell is other people - and their children

I came away from our local leisure centre last night feeling traumatised and abused.  Not in the Jimmy Savile way thank goodness, but aurally.  Another mum was sitting, in the row behind me, watching all the kids take part in their usual Thursday night class.  This mum also had a toddler who was, shall we say, going through the 'terrible twos' with a vengeance.

This child was not behaving well, but so far so typical with a toddler.  God knows I have had my own fair share of brattish children screaming and generally behaving like they've got three sixes transcribed on their skull, but when they did kick off in public I would always try to remove them so as not to let it impact on those around us. 

Apparently this toddler kept hitting his mother so her response was to pick him up and put him on the floor about six feet away and say to him repeatedly in a loud voice "no hitting mummy!".  The child's response was to open his adorable little rosebud mouth and screech and yell with the intensity of a police or air raid siren for about five minutes until his mother picked him up again.

This pattern continued, without a break, for the duration of the class which was an agonising 45 minutes.  I turned to look at the screaming child on the floor and then to the mother who strangely, was not making eye contact with anyone.  I then turned to look at the other mums with a "WTF?" expression on my face which they all returned some with stifled giggles others with barely concealed irritation.

What I should have done of course, but was too cowardly to do so, was to go up to this woman and say "madam whilst I applaud your efforts to discipline your son, could you not take him elsewhere when he starts to scream and yell so that we, who are effectively trapped here in this area, do not have to listen to the racket?"

Next time, next time, next time dear reader.  Watch this space!

What is happiness?

This morning I caught an interview on the Today Programme with George Vallient, the director of a study into happiness at the Harvard Medical School, http://news.bbc.co.uk/today/hi/today/newsid_9769000/9769443.stm
who was talking about what is happiness or rather, the things that make people feel happy.  In his own words "true life fulfilment is about relationships....... happiness is the wrong word as it's too close to hedonism".  Apparently having a loving family is far more important than being in the possession of a huge trust fund - so far so obvious you might say.  One only has to glance around at all the 'poor little rich kids' prancing around clad head to toe in designer whatever, on the surface full of confidence, entitlement and poise, but underneath?  A bit of a mess in most cases.  But what I found intruiging is that he went on to stress that even for someone who grew up without emotional stability and loving parents, it's never too late.

I concur with this because my own upbringing was pretty messy: two parents who stayed married for 28 years, but were perpetually at war, a war mostly of the cold variety but with episodes that could 'go nuclear'.  I had a father who would go silent for weeks or sometimes months on end.  He would be there but not be there if you get my drift.  A great hulking presence would lurk around the house, at night sleeping on the sofa, by day not looking or speaking to any member of the family until he began to 'thaw' a bit and then would gradually resume family life and we'd all breathe a sigh of relief - until the next time.  It wasn't always clear what set these great sulks off; sometimes one of us kids would kick off and that might get the blame.  Other times it was an argument with mother over something so tiny, you'd be forgiven for not associating the act with the enormous strop that followed.

Looking back it's slightly ludicrous that an adult and father of 4 could regularly behave in such a way and still expect his kids to respect his views and authority - when he was communicating with us that is.  My mother kind of soldiered on, sometimes trying to get through to him, sometimes not.  For most of those years she was quite probably clinically depressed of course, but 30-odd years ago, depression didn't get the attention that it does now.  She did an admirable job in many ways, being the constant loving parental figure in such a dysfunctional household, but with hindsight, the fact that she always pathetically and gratefully 'took back' my father when he emerged from a super-sulk didn't really set a great example about self-respect or boundaries.  She also used me as a sympathetic pair of ears - well let's face it with such a sulker of a husband there often wasn't anyone else for her to talk to!  But it meant that I knew way too much about adult stuff way too early.

On the ghastly occasions when their war went 'hot' and violence erupted, as the eldest of the 4, I took it upon myself to try and shield the younger ones as much as possible.  I remember herding them into my bedroom and turning up the music on my stereo to drown out the fighting coming through the thin walls.  Like most kids trapped in abusive households, we didn't really discuss the situation.  My dream was to pass my driving test and get a little car so that I could quickly bundle my siblings up and literally spirit them away to spare them the sight of their parents slugging it out - again.

Anyway I digress.  I really think George Vallient has hit the nail on the head about relationships equalling happiness as he says that emotional intelligence is actually the key.  Having witnessed first hand the gamut of human emotions during my formative years, I reckon my emotional intelligence is quite well developed.  I guess it was sheer survival that at a very young age I learned to 'read' people and 'know' their personality type pretty much within the first few minutes of meeting them.  I can't describe how it happens but I'm not often wrong about how someone will behave.

I also agree with George Vallient when he states that a dodgy start in life is in no way a guarantee of disaster.  Thankfully I do not seem, thus far, to have repeated my parents' mistakes although I'm sure to make new ones all of my own.  I have found and married a wonderful man and together we are concentrating on bringing up our own children in a unified and peaceful environment.  I aim to give my son and daughter something I never had: a rock-solid foundation from which they can go out and discover the world.  I know from experience that shifting sands are no place from which to launch children upon the world and expect them to thrive.

But to those readers who had similarly disturbed beginnings, remember - what doesn't kill you definitely makes you stronger.

Another DG bites the dust

For the second time in my 14-and-a-half year association with the BBC, the Director General has been forced to step down from his post, very publicly and following weeks of damaging criticism from the wider media about how he has, or rather hasn't, handled the latest crisis.  I hasten to add that neither resignation had anything to do with me directly!

I didn't know George Entwistle personally, my opinions were formed purely from the round-robin emails he sent to every member of staff announcing his appointment etc, and his various appearances in the media following the Savile allegations.  He seemed perfectly pleasant; other colleagues who worked with him in the past when he edited Newsnight swear that he was "razor sharp" and completely on top of his brief.  I wonder what happened?  He seems to have lost his edge.  The job of being in charge of the entire BBC was perhaps a bit beyond his capabilities.

Greg Dyke, the other DG forced from his post following the Hutton enquiry into the death of Dr David Kelly and the alleged 'sexing up' of the government dossier, was a completely different beast.  I met him briefly a few times in the newsroom as he liked to be very 'hands on', famously  handing out yellow cards that you could hold up in a meeting if the bullshit level threatened to sap you of the will to live.  Those 'cut the crap' cards epitomised his style of leadership: robust and to the point.

It must have been back in 2002/3 when the word came to me from on high (yes, from one of the many layers of middle management that surrounds the newsroom like bubblewrap) that Greg Dyke urgently needed a briefing paper on the man who was about to become First Sea Lord (head of the Royal Navy in normal speak) before an introductory lunch between the two of them the next day.  At the time I was the BBC Defence Producer, the resident so-called 'expert' in all things military who provided analysis and more importantly, the line of clear communication between the two behemoths that are the BBC and the MOD.

I made a few calls to trusted military sources and discovered a few surprising facts to include in my brief along with all the usual boring stuff.  One was that the Britain's new 'Top Sailor' was allergic to egg - or something like that - come on it was a long time ago!, and the other was that he had been court martialled, not once but twice, in his career.  I wrote it all up with a slightly tongue in cheek ending and sent it off to Dyke's office.  The word came back that he was mightily pleased to have had such a thorough document and it had made the meeting go well.  Job done, brownie points in the bag.

I was sad when Greg Dyke decided to quit following the outcome of the Hutton report. I felt that we had lost a leader who was feisty, but more importantly really cared about  his journalists and what was going on in the newsroom.  He was prepared to put up a fight for what was broadcast on his output.  Wrongly, as it turned out as the reporter in question, Andrew Gilligan, was well known for his, shall we say, unorthodox research and reporting habits.

I remember a conversation I had at a party with Adrian Van Klaveren, the then Head of Newsgathering in July 2003, just as the David Kelly affair was gathering pace.  "What if we're in the wrong?  What if Gilligan's facts aren't as they appear" I asked him.  "What do you want us to do?" he replied testily, "just give in to Alastair Campbell?"

Well, no, the BBC should never give in to goverment pressure, but it should acknowledge when it's got it wrong, so horribly wrong, and someone has to pay the price for that by falling on their sword.  I just wonder where it will stop.

No x-rays please, I'm British

So I'm lying in the dentist's chair and she's having a good old poke around in my mouth.  So far, so normal.  I even had to sit and wait for 40 minutes to be seen which proved depressingly normal.  In fact the only time in the past 5 years that she's been running bang on time is the one time I was 5 minutes late.  But that's another story.

It's a routine checkup so for once I'm feeling fairly calm and managing  not to get the dreaded prickly, sweaty palm syndrome that makes me want to push her aside and run for the hills.  As she moves onto my molars, I risk a quick look at her face which although close, is slightly out of focus thanks to the plastic, mysteriously shaded safety specs that they make you don before any mouth action gets going.  It must be ok, she's smiling. 

"Beautiful" she croons, digging that little metal pointed thing into my gum.  Still I do not wince.  "Lovely" she purrs, pulling down on my bottom lip and inspecting my off-side lower canine or whatever it's called.  "You 'aff flossed very well and ze brushing is vehry goood".  I'm paraphrasing and emphasisng here for effect as she's from Greece so speaks in a pleasingly soft way.

"Now we'll  just do an x-ray to see if everything is as it should be".  I  shake my head now that her hands are out of my mouth.  No thanks, I say in a firm voice.  I've decided that I'm not having any more x-rays now unless I really have to - anywhere on my body.  She recoils and looks shocked, the smile dropping from her face.  I've had too many in my lifetime already, I explain as the dental nurse turns to stare at me too.

She says to me slowly and clearly, as if to a rather difficult child, that an x-ray will just check that there is nothing wrong, but rather rudely I cut her off and say again - sorry but it's my policy not to have a radiation shower, especially on my head, unless there's absolutely a good reason.  I start to get off the chair even before she's lowered it and end up sitting sideways, legs swinging awkwardly, waiting as she presses the pedal and returns me to terra firma, looking for all the world like a naughty toddler about to leg it.

As soon as Timberland touches floor I'm heading across to where my coat and scarf are.  She's still relating the benefits of x-rays to highlight hidden nasties in the dental area and hoping that maybe next time I'll change my mind and will agree to have one.

No chance.  Reader, I then did leg it, not in a rude way you understand, with a smile and a thank you and a see-you-next-time cheery wave.  But I'm holding firm on this one - no more unecessary x-rays.  Better go easy on the Christmas choccies as really don't want to be back in her chair come January with mysterious toothache issues!

BBC Bashing

So, quite a relief to discover that I have a cold.  To be honest, the way I was feeling yesterday I did begin to wonder if I was suffering from some sort of post-house moving depression and was quite concerned that I wouldn't shake it off too easily.  However, it's just a cold that was clearly looming so today, here it is, out in the open for all to see.  So while I feel coldy in body, at least I feel better in the head.

It's always a comfort, I find, when one is feeling under the weather, to look at, say, another individual and to know for sure that however bad one feels, it doesn't even come near whatever that person is enduring.  And that's a comfort I've solely derived from BBC Director General George Entwistle, who, unless you're living on Mars, will have noticed is really in the merde today over the Jimmy Savile allegations.

A few weeks back when the Savile stuff began to hit the airwaves, Rod Liddle, former editor of R4 Today Programme, wrote in his Sunday Times column that he always enjoyed watching the BBC "stab itself to death with its own penis".  Or something like that anyway.  It was a phrase that resonated with me and has ultimately proved utterly accuate as we observe this current mess.

I must declare an interest at this stage; I am a sometime employee of BBC News, on occasion gladly taking its shilling for an honest day's toil on the newsdesk or out and about interviewing folk for TV and radio.  Some years ago I used to be what they call a 'lifer'; a member of BBC staff who lives and breathes the organisation and is expected to be there until they drop, or survive just long enough to draw the still-quite-generous pension of the faithful worker-bee.  However dear reader, I escaped, and am now able to stand back and observe the various goings-on with a mixture of empathy and horror, rather like the parent who stands just out of sight while their offspring plays with their dear little friends and witnessing him or her declare loudly, as they chuck the dolly into the corner "you look after it, I'm off to a party".

In fact it was at the very height of my being a dedicated lifer that the BBC was embroiled in a very similar scandal, only that one involved the alleged sexing up of WMD rather than the touching up of very young children. OK there were no under-age innocents involved in the Dr David Kelly/Andrew Gilligan debacle, to my knowledge everyone was a grown-up (although some of the behaviour witnessed made that hard to believe) and fully answerable for their actions.  Although to be fair, one of the main protagonists did end up dead, in mysterious circumstances in an Oxfordshire woodland, so there are some parallels in that Kelly's answers went with him to the grave as did Savile's.

But it was the same, slow, stilted, strangulated, disjointed response from BBC management that tied the whole corporation up in knots and ultimately brought about the downfall of the then DG, a certain Greg Dyke, who in my opinion was one of the best things that had happened in years.  Dyke, rather like George Entwistle has done with Newsnight editor Peter Rippon, put his trust in the person at the centre of the story, in that case it was reporter Andrew Gilligan, and effectively bet the whole farm on the reliability of that person's judgement and the accuracy of their statement in response to the unravelling crisis.

For all my insider knowledge of the BBC and in particular, the internicine workings of the newsroom and all the diverse news programmes it feeds, I cannot be certain that deliberate obfuscation is at work here. The BBC is huge and complex and no one individual, however switched on, can ever possibly know every story that's being covered, or second guess the impact those stories will have. 

However, the questions that remain unanswered are: did George Entwistle in his previous role as Head of Vision realise the seriousness of the evidence that Newsnight had uncovered as regards Jimmy Savile's disgusting ways?  If he did, then why on earth did he let the nauseating Christmas tribute programme go out when he knew that these allegations existed on camera from verifiable witnesses?  Also why was that Newsnight investigation never broadcast?  I know the reporter, Liz MacKean from years back and she is a completely credible journalist with top-notch skills and a brilliant track record.  If she thought the story stood up, then it stood up.

Those questions, in my mind, are crucial and I hope the Select Committee MPs get to the crux of the issue today.  I've not yet watched the Panorama that went out last night.  I think I might just pop off and watch it now over a rather alarmingly large pile of ironing that's morphed up out of nowhere.

Dark Days

Ugh I'm having a 'dark day'.   Occasionally, and thank goodness it is only occasionally, the gloom descends and I can do nothing about it.  I awoke feeling a bit bleugh, nothing unusual there as it's been happening for about the last seven days but I put it down to fighting off the seasonal sniffle that seems to be doing the rounds.

I forced myself out of bed and up onto my hind legs.  HH was at the gym so I had two bouncy kids to feed and get dressed for school.  The cat also needed medicating.  This cat, one of our four, is the one I shall call LDT or Little Dark Tortie.  Late on Saturday night (or it may even have been early Sunday morning) I blundered in from a girlie night in London, only to discover that LDT seemed to have half of her tail hanging off.  That sobered me up.  I held her close and wondered what the hell to do.  HH apparently knew about it as she had come in like it earlier in the evening, but he'd not thought to warn me.  Great.

So on Sunday morning I found myself at the emergency vets, waiting while they sedated and then stitched up the wound.  I am now about £300 worse off and LDT isn't very grateful as they made her wear one of those plastic lampshade things around her neck so as I write, she's clumsily making her way around the house knocking said collar into everything.  I feel helpless and unable to ease her discomfort as the vet said she would only try and chew out her stitches if the collar comes off.

So, back to my gloomy morning.  When HH reappeared, we somehow got a tablet down LDT's unwilling throat and I got the kids to school, just about before the bell.  It's amazing how physically the gloom in my head affects me.  I feel a bit like I  have partial facial paralysis; smiling is a no-no today.  My shoulders are drooping and my posture is shot.

You know what my real trouble is?  I officially have nothing 'on' just now.  As a freelance journalist and property developer, my work is sporadic to say the least.  As a period of  well earnt 'downtime' approaches, I feel giddy with relief at not having to sort childcare, often at short notice, and not having to plan what we're all going to eat with military precision and make sure I've got the right thing out of the freezer at the right time.

I positively relish the opportunity to just 'be' for a while and not rush around like the proverbial blue arsed fly.  However, I am, at the heart of it, an adrenaline junkie who thrives on pressure and deadlines.  Whilst I might enjoy a short period of rest, I cannot do it for long.  And there, dear reader, is the crux of the matter.  I know that should the phone suddenly ring or an email drop into my inbox with promises of exciting offers of work, my mood would shift as dramatically as the sun appearing from behind a cloud.

But for now I'm heading back to the sofa where a hot water bottle and Homes Under the Hammer awaits my presence.

Hello World, this is me.

Well hello world!  Welcome to my blog.  If you're wondering what a polymath is, I'd describe it, certainly when referring to myself, as a sort of 'jack of all trades'.  The question I'm always asking of course is am I, or indeed will I, ever become a master of any.....

I'm a mum of two, an 8 year-old son and a 6 year-old daughter.  I've decided that for brevity's sake they shall henceforth be referred to as SS (super son) and DD (delightful daughter).  I have a husband (HH - yes I'm in a good mood - handsome hubbie, but that could always change to 'horrid' or any other unflattering adjective beginning with H depending on the state of our maritals when I sit down to write), and 4 cats who don't really require separate identities on a blog - well not yet anyway.

By trade I'm a journalist, working mostly for one of the world's largest news organisations - I'll give you a clue; it's the bane of the Daily Mail and depending on who you believe, it either employs paedophiles or tax dodgers.  I'm relieved to say that I fall into neither category, I'm just a simple, jobbing broadcast journalist who turns up for her newsdesk shifts on time and tries to make sense of this big, bad, complex world which we inhabit.

I am in thrall to the TV goddess that is Sarah Beeny.  In fact it has been thanks to her that I started developing properties.  I love doing the planning and designing of all my property alterations and have discovered that I probably should have studied architecture all those years ago as nothing makes me happier than drawing little tiny bathrooms to scale.  I can spend whole days sitting in front of my drawing board (20 quid off ebay) with my calculator, ruler and pencils, designing a house until it looks 'right'.  I now have 4 successful developments, including a new-build that I designed from scratch, under my belt - happy days.

Talking of belts, that's another of my 'things' that I should probably mention at this stage - my habit of donning a white, baggy (some might say Hong Kong Fuey stylie) suit and going out several evenings of a week and having a fight with someone.  I've been learning Taekwon-Do for about 3 years and am slowly but surely nearing my black belt.

HH can't understand it, "why do you want to go around hitting people?" he wonders from the comfort of the sofa when I arrive home, either quite pumped up with adrenaline because it's gone well, or thoroughly deflated as a six-foot-tall black belt has got the better of me.  He won't, however, let me give it up, no matter how badly (and yes sometimes I have returned home in urgent need of an ice-pack) I've fared when sparring against a more talented individual, and let me be clear, I meet plenty of those. "Keep going darling" he soothes, still from the depths of the sofa, merlot in hand "you're so nearly there, you've got to get your black belt".  Hmmmm, not for the first time do I have a niggling suspicion that I am both male and female in this relationship and should a fire-breathing dragon appear at the door, it would be my job to defeat it.

So what else can I tell you?  I've had a few near misses in my time, the biggest probably when I was 24 and astride my pride and joy, a 500cc motorbike.  Yes reader, you've guessed it.  Young, foolish and in my head thoroughly invincible, I promptly smashed the thing up and myself with it.  But that incident, like many others has made me believe that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Anyway, enough.  I started my week in a rather lovely way, dropping the kids at school and meeting 4 girlfriends for breakfast and coffee before cycling home to start this blog.  Now I hear some mundane chores calling me so I must away for now.  Until next time.