Well that's it then. My name is definitely on the list. I'm going to be grading for my black belt in April. Gulp.
Dragging my sorry arse off the sofa to go to my Taekwon-Do class last night was hard. I'd enjoyed rather too much the preceding two weeks of cosy warmth, twinkly Christmas lights and a Sky+ menu of fabulous TV teamed with lovely bottles of Rioja and Merlot and a groaning cheeseboard. Oh how I love to lounge about and stuff my face. Stepping onto the scales on Sunday morning was enough of a motivation for the lounging to cease and the exercise to commence - pronto.
It was a cold, wet and uninviting January night into which I trudged, hat pulled low to keep my ears warm. The training session itself was OK in that I didn't get an overwhelming urge to vomit half way through the warm up unlike last year when I remember having to lie down with my legs in the air to get the blood back to my head and then tripping over someone and spraining my big toe - ouch.
No, last night was all manageable and I very nearly remembered all my patterns. In Taekwon-Do there are nine patterns to learn, each one corresponding with a coloured belt. The patterns are meant to be sort of mock fights where you go through all the moves as if one or two invisible opponents were attacking you. They're all quite different but cunningly some sequences of moves are very similar to others so it's not uncommon to see people (oh ok, me) stood stock still, mid-move realising they they've unwittingly merged two patterns into one and now can't remember what should come next.
Then just when I was thinking "I've survived the dreaded return to training, I'm alive!" my instructor asked if anyone was intending to grade for black belt in April. My hand, seemingly with a life of its own, suddenly and rather precociously, shot up. "Aha", he murmured, jotting something down, "see me after class". I naturally assumed that this would be when he would gently but firmly tell me that perhaps I should wait for the next grading in October, work on my fitness, improve my sparring etc etc, but no.
Dear Reader, imagine my shock when my instructor (have I mentioned what a clever, patient and gifted man he is?) put my name down on the official list and said he was pleased that I was going for it! So there we are. I now have in front of me three months of bloody hard work, mental and physical, and those of you who read my previous post about not being a great sticker at things, well, I'm going to have to see it through now or risk looking like a right loser (note to self: channel La Mandelson "I am not a quitter..blah...blah")
Very soon I'm going to have to face my biggest demon and that is the sparring element of Taekwon-Do. I've had six months off due to the knee operation I had last summer to rid me of the crippling osteo-arthritis I'd developed and I just know it's going to be a massive challenge when I face my first opponent in training. For me it's a psychological barrier rather than a physical one that I have to get over. When you're face to face with someone, trading punches and kicks, it's self-belief and perseverance that counts. Of course fitness and technique play a huge part, but it doesn't matter how great your aerobic capacity, if you don't believe you can win then you won't, simple as that.
It was that rather sobering thought that reverberated as I battled home in the darkness last night. I have to believe that I can and then I will. Simple.....?
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
Saturday, 5 January 2013
Wanna be startin' something
First of all I'd like to wish you a Happy New Year and all that. I hope your dreams came true and your resolutions are holding firm. I'm a big fan of resolutions myself. In fact I'm what you might describe as a 'good starter'.
I'm the annoying one, usually sitting in the front row of say, a language evening class, eagerly lapping up all the knowledge from the tutor. At the beginning of anything I've ever taken up, I zoom ahead of most of the people in the room, pronouncing difficult words with ease, executing promising kicks and twirls in a new martial art. "Yessss! I'm going to be good at this" I say to myself "this is my thing for sure!"
I love that feeling of being on the cusp of something new, be it the determination to shed a few pounds "as from tomorrow breakfast time I am going exert an iron will and eat sensibly, avoid biscuits and definitely book myself into an exercise class every day this week", to the stunning realisation that if I actually forced myself to sit down and knock out a thousand words a day, my novel would in fact, be finished in 3 months - how easy is that! "OK, as from tomorrow, I shall return from the school run and simply sit down and write and I shall not stop until I have reached a thousand words. I shall repeat this process every day until the weekend comes around".
I get a physical thrill down the spine as I say these words to myself, sometimes even pausing to nod and smile confidently at myself in the bathroom mirror. My reflection glows back at me, returning my determination and future happiness without any effort or doubt.
And reader I do start exceptionally well! I can guarantee you that for at least 3 days next week (most possibly Tues - when the kids return to school, till Thurs) I shall be eating most healthily and exercising to the max. And when I am not sweating at the gym, I shall be sitting at my desk, engrossed in my novel, typing like a demon and probably knocking out maybe a thousand and fifteen words, just to prove how keen I am.
But sadly I know what I'm like. I'm not what you might call a natural 'stickler' at things. Reader it's not my fault - I get so bored! Instead of persevering with the aerobics or the writing, I will prefer to be chasing the next big idea in my life instead.
Rather depressingly I just know that a new concept, be it for an article or a business will suddenly ping into my little head and I shall have to abandon whatever it is I am meant to be sticking at to pursue it, just for a while you understand, to see if it has any merit. I shall be momentarily excited, fired up, all guns blazing while I do my research. I may even mention it to a few friends who, being the lovely people that they are, will give me encouraging feedback which will of course make me want to pursue it further.
Gah! By the end of January I'll still be the same weight and needless to say the novel probably won't have reached fifty thousand words. Bugger.
I'm the annoying one, usually sitting in the front row of say, a language evening class, eagerly lapping up all the knowledge from the tutor. At the beginning of anything I've ever taken up, I zoom ahead of most of the people in the room, pronouncing difficult words with ease, executing promising kicks and twirls in a new martial art. "Yessss! I'm going to be good at this" I say to myself "this is my thing for sure!"
I love that feeling of being on the cusp of something new, be it the determination to shed a few pounds "as from tomorrow breakfast time I am going exert an iron will and eat sensibly, avoid biscuits and definitely book myself into an exercise class every day this week", to the stunning realisation that if I actually forced myself to sit down and knock out a thousand words a day, my novel would in fact, be finished in 3 months - how easy is that! "OK, as from tomorrow, I shall return from the school run and simply sit down and write and I shall not stop until I have reached a thousand words. I shall repeat this process every day until the weekend comes around".
I get a physical thrill down the spine as I say these words to myself, sometimes even pausing to nod and smile confidently at myself in the bathroom mirror. My reflection glows back at me, returning my determination and future happiness without any effort or doubt.
And reader I do start exceptionally well! I can guarantee you that for at least 3 days next week (most possibly Tues - when the kids return to school, till Thurs) I shall be eating most healthily and exercising to the max. And when I am not sweating at the gym, I shall be sitting at my desk, engrossed in my novel, typing like a demon and probably knocking out maybe a thousand and fifteen words, just to prove how keen I am.
But sadly I know what I'm like. I'm not what you might call a natural 'stickler' at things. Reader it's not my fault - I get so bored! Instead of persevering with the aerobics or the writing, I will prefer to be chasing the next big idea in my life instead.
Rather depressingly I just know that a new concept, be it for an article or a business will suddenly ping into my little head and I shall have to abandon whatever it is I am meant to be sticking at to pursue it, just for a while you understand, to see if it has any merit. I shall be momentarily excited, fired up, all guns blazing while I do my research. I may even mention it to a few friends who, being the lovely people that they are, will give me encouraging feedback which will of course make me want to pursue it further.
Gah! By the end of January I'll still be the same weight and needless to say the novel probably won't have reached fifty thousand words. Bugger.
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, 27 November 2012
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?".
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?".
Monday, 26 November 2012
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.
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.
Friday, 16 November 2012
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!
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!
Wednesday, 14 November 2012
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.
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.
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