Am I being served?

The topic of today's blog entry, is indeed my career, work, and ability (or lack of) to be a good salesperson. It all started in a village pub when I was thirteen years old. Driven by the sheer frustration of watching my family struggle financially, I decided it was about time I pitched in. I waddled off down the village to the Carpenter's Arms to have a go at getting myself employed. Obviously I wasn't going to pay the mortgage but I figured if I could by my own stuff it would take some pressure off my parents.

It was surprisingly easy to obtain my first ever paid position at the pub, realising now of course that I was the only girl in the village and as such would be a novelty for customers who had so far, been served their steak and chips by boys who looked like they were making their own mayo in little volcanoes on their faces for the last three years.

I started my little pub job and initially the work was daunting, but because I knew most of the villagers who frequented the Carpenter's, it wasn't as bad as it could have been. After a few Saturday nights I'd pretty much got the measure of the job. The thing I liked most was that I didn't have to sell anything. My job was based on 'would you like', 'would you like a dessert, would you like to see the wine list'? I could do that, if a customer said no, I couldn't then go on to say 'are you sure, I don't care if you are full, eat this bloody Viennetta or we won't hit our targets and then then Landlord and his family will miss out on his fortnight all inclusive in Lanzarote and I will get the sack'. People told you what they wanted, you didn't tell them what they wanted.

I stayed at the Carpenter's until I was sixteen, throughout my school days, but I wanted to move on when I got to college. Somehow keeping the job I'd had since thirteen was just not convenient any more. I needed a job in town, to help finance my education but that I didn't have to drive to. A job with a better wage. I looked in the window of the Job Centre and there was a position as a Shoe Fitter available in the Co-op department store. I went for an interview and got the job. The wages seemed huge to me after my terribly paid pub job, and I have to say, the work was not as hard. That's not to say it wasn't hard work, but it wasn't in a hot, greasy, smoky pub. I felt I was the height of sophistication!

I had a uniform, a horrendous spotty navy blouse with a long navy pleated skirt. We had to wear a pair of shoes from the shop, which we had to buy, but at staff discount. I was trained by Hush Puppies, Start-Rite and Clarks to measure and correctly fit shoes, on children and adults. No amount of training however can prepare you for a pensioner's post-grocery shop bunions, or a toddler with a full nappy which is just at the same height as your nose.

Three of the other ladies were middle aged, and a lot of fun. There was camaraderie. As ever though, there was a fly in the ointment. This particular fly went by the name of Helen. Helen was my age, but clearly resented the fact that I was at university and had a bigger plan. She however, was going to be a shoe fitter for life. Now I have never been one for job snobbery, I think if you want to be a shoe fitter all your life and it makes you happy, then bloody good on you. But she was clearly trying to second guess me and had given herself a massive inferiority complex, which then grew into a superiority complex.

Anyway, in the midst of all these complexes (complexii?) she had one skill that I did not. She could sell extras. She could make single mother's and old aged pensioners buy all the polish or suede care or insoles that I didn't want to push on them, because they'd already saved up their money for some decent shoes in the first place. She ruthlessly hit her extras target like a woman possessed. Not one of her customers left without these goods added onto their bill, and why? Because she made them feel too awkward to say no. I hated this. I still hate this.

When people try to sell me extras, an extended warranty for example, I ask them if they'd like me to leave without buying anything at all, and if they would, then they should continue with their patter. Otherwise, they should just take my money, give me my goods and let me be on my way.

As life unfolded for me, I ended up full time as a graphic designer. My chosen path. The subject of my degree. You'd think I'd be happy. No. There is nothing more soul destroying than coming up with beautiful creative ideas, when their only purpose is to make the rich richer. I loath it. And unless you work for free, it's all you can do in graphic design. I decided to change career path whilst I was still young enough (cough).

A position as a teacher in a further education college came up. I'd always fancied teaching, the chance to make a difference to someone's life appealed to me. The trouble though was that I was teaching graphics, a subject that I no longer had faith in. How could I give others passion for something I no longer felt a passion for? I managed to teach for two years and it was the most exhausting two years of my life. I would never make it as a teacher, because I'm honest about life, and colleges don't want you to be honest. If a student wants to leave, let them, what's the point if they don't want to learn? The trouble is, the student is worth money to the college, therefore you have to make every effort to persuade them to stay, even though they really don't want it. That can't be right surely?

I don't regret my years as a teacher. I found that despite the subject being a little empty for me, I actually formed some great friendships and instilled enough confidence into some of the least confident young people I'd ever met.

In between all this I thought if I couldn't get the subject right, I'd try working at a beautiful place instead. So, I chose Doddington Hall in Lincolnshire. It was not short of beauty, and I would end up getting married there. I still love the place. Again though, all emphasis was on money and how to make more of it. To make the wealthy wealthier. For a crap salary I was expected to work very hard to put more money in the pockets of people who had so much already. This didn't really sit well, although the owners of the hall are actually lovely people, they are business people, and I am not.

I'm not remotely business minded. I'm soft, pliable, sympathetic and considerate. I wanted to make a difference, I wanted to have a job I was proud of. I count myself extremely lucky because I have found that job. I saw an ad in the local paper, for a digital imaging expert, for the police. My degree and my previous experience as a teacher meant that I ticked all the essential, and some of the desirable elements of the job description, so I went for it. I never dreamt I would get it, but I did!

Now, I spend my days helping people. Perhaps an elderly lady who has been burgled, I can make her feel safer. A teenager who has had their bike stolen, people who have suffered terrible and more serious crimes are all made safer by the work I and my colleagues do every day. We go the extra mile, we stay the extra few hours, because we are genuine people, who just want to help others. No selling, no extras, no pushy pitch.

The conclusion to my ramblings I suppose is that some people are born to sell, and others are honest! My salary is reasonable, not massive, but I consider myself rich in other ways, ways that are more important to me by far. I haven't dreaded a Monday morning since being in this job and I will remain doing it for as long as I am able. I'm one of the lucky ones who love what they do.

Calories? I never was good with maths.

For some time now I have been considering a blog about food and eating, since they are subjects that I am experienced in. I've been hesitant, mainly because those of you who know me, are most likely fed up of me banging on about it already. Reflecting on this I decided to go ahead, based on the fact that if you don't want to read about it, you can vote with your feet.

Let's begin with my early relationship with food. My mother was a woman who loved you with food. She would cheer you up with an extra dollop of lovely mashed potato or give you a hug with some home made chips and a fried egg. We didn't really do physical hugging, so this was our way of doing it. Our Sunday lunch would take the form of a small mountaineering expedition, roasts potatoes, mashed potatoes, three veg, half a cow and a Yorkshire pudding teetering on the top like a brown crispy base camp. The largest conceivable dinner plates were too heavy to lift with one hand once loaded with one of these bad boys. If you moved anything on the plate even slightly, a sea of gravy would slip over the edge. I have to confess, that I do the same thing myself sometimes, my husband complains there is too much, but strangely manages to eat everything on his plate!

Waste was not permitted when I was a child, and I still detest it, as there has never been money to burn in my wallet. Cleaning your plate was also the only way to get to an apple crumble and custard dessert, and as such, everything put in front of me, I ate. In truth, given this fact, it's a minor miracle that I'm not the size of a castle, never mind the small semi, with conservatory and garage extension, that I've now become.

My family were not wealthy, we had hand me down clothes and a rusty car, but food was the one thing Mum could give us in large quantities, relatively cheaply. She would not economise with meat. Our regular butcher must have rubbed his hands with glee when we turned up once a week and spent a small fortune on the best meat he had. I'm guessing we paid for several of his new cars and the odd holiday.

As I grew older, fourteen or so, I would prepare my own food. With the advent of the microwave oven, leftover cold mash, became cheesy mash in no time at all. McCain microchips were being consumed at a vast rate and as for crispy pancakes, well, just call me Findus. I was old enough to eat all the stuff my mother had previously banned! I grew up helping mum and both grandmothers to make cakes, pies and bread, my grandparents also loved me with food! I got so much of this love that I ended up rather overweight.

There really is something to be said for cooking and the joy that it brings me, and thousands of others. The smell of baking bread is something that authors describe in novels, always to give the impression of homeliness, cosiness and security. Estate agents even tell us that the smell of baking bread and fresh coffee help to sell a house, making it more welcoming. This had to come from somewhere right? To me, a good meal means that you are being looked after, you are safe and cared for. It runs so much deeper than just the eating.

In the evenings, when you really don't need to eat anything else, there's the TV problem to deal with. I swear to God that you could be as full as Mr Creasote, (post mint, pre vomit), yet still, an episode of Masterchef can have you convinced you have eaten nothing for a week and if you don't get a pistachio macaron in the next five minutes you might actually die. The Great British Bake Off is even worse! I only need to see Paul Hollywood now and I get cravings for a profiterole mountain and half a dozen marshmallow teacakes (don't even get me started on the other things I crave when I see that man)!

The thing that is weird though, is how food can give us all of these feelings, positive, cared for, feelings, but then bring so much guilt and misery to so many people. Like most things in life, it's about balance. My balance is wrong. If I get down in the dumps I cheer myself up with food. If I feel really happy for some reason, I celebrate with food, thinking, 'sod it, you only live once'. When you are overweight though it's a very viscous circle, and with a mindset like mine, it's a really tough battle.

One time I lost weight. Quite a lot of weight. I was almost a size ten. How did this happen? Husband number one cheated on me with a tall skinny blonde. She was supposed to be my best friend. In a way I suppose she was, she after all, made me sit on my sofa for a fortnight not eating anything and losing my body weight in tears for the whole duration. She also made me convinced that if I were thinner like her (she turned out to have an eating disorder, the irony) my husband would once again love me. This also proved to be untrue, but I did it anyway. All that happened was I got a lot of interest from a lot of men, several married ones, that hadn't wanted to know me when I was chubby. I can't say that this did anything to improve my mistrust in men.

I find myself sometimes thinking, that if mine were an addiction to alcohol, I would be able to find help? I think people must think that I'm greedy, have no self control, the same things that make drug addicts take drugs, I do with food. I suppose there are self help groups, those fat clubs that make you eat dust and then suffer the humiliation of a public weigh in. I just can't subscribe to all the overly cheerful and very American feeling that it all has. I'd rather sit in an under stairs cupboard secretly binge eating crisps (I once did that until my mouth bled, seriously, I need help) than sit in a village hall, patting strangers on the back because they managed to take a massive shit before the meeting and hence lose three pounds.

I'd love to say that writing this particular blog has in some way made me feel better or had some positive conclusion. Sometimes I wonder if it's just in your genes, and there is some science behind this theory. I may be genetically disposed to eating too much, or having a slow metabolism. I may even have a thyroid problem, but all of those things sound like poor excuses. Boredom is my biggest problem, coupled with a love of food. We can all lose weight if we want to, but I don't want to eat fibre bars made of shrapnel or spend two days of the week eating nothing. It would make me miserable, and when I'm miserable...... I EAT!!

Oops, I married a Gamekeeper.

At the age of sixteen I became a vegetarian. Yes, it coincided with my first year at art college, funny that. Art college is a great environment when it comes to being a bit left wing and developing opinions on subjects that may well have passed me by had I just gone down the job centre like everyone else. I was also very 'Body Shop' in that I didn't (and still don't) like the idea of testing vanity products on animals. Potential cancer cures, yes. Anti-clump mascara, no.

At seventeen and a half, a bacon sandwich broke my resolve and I returned to a carnivorous diet. I felt guilty until I had a chat with myself about nature. Now, anyone who's watched any David Attenborough programs will know just how cruel nature can be. During my time as a veggie, I was also passionately against any cruelty to animals (I still am), particularly hunting foxes on horseback. Foxes are such beautiful animals, and so like dogs, that to me, the idea of them being torn apart by hounds was simply abhorrent.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that I was a fully fledged 'anti'. I didn't go spreading funny pongs around the countryside or blowing horns to confuse the hounds, but if the local hunt came our way the odd expletive did leave my opinionated art student gob (much to my mother's horror)! To her, and my grandparents, the hunt was a beautiful tradition and a fine sight to see.

I was also against shooting. As far as I was concerned it was utter madness to go to such lengths as to employ people to look after birds merely for the purpose of scaring them into the air to shoot them a month later. In fact even when I type that now it seems a very slightly crazy idea.

All of this came into question when, oops, I married a Gamekeeper!

Now this did put me in something of a quandary. I wasn't sure how I'd deal with some of the issues that were key to his every day life, yet went against the things I believed in. Not only is he the linch pin of the local shoot community, his hobby (when I say hobby, I mean obsession) is deer stalking, another pass-time that I was absolutely against.

How to deal with this? One of my firm beliefs is that you cannot judge a man, until you have walked a mile in his shoes, or in this case, about six miles, across very muddy fields, in all weathers. How could I discuss and decide on these matters, without fully understanding the other side of the argument?

As far as shooting is concerned, I can see now that the birds that are 'put down' on the shoot, are looked after in terms of food, water and health. The amount of effort involved in keeping the birds safe from their natural predators most definitely gives them a quality of life that they wouldn't see in the 'wild'. I say 'wild' because pheasants aren't native to this country, and we probably wouldn't see any were it not for shooting in the first place.

I was also impressed that the shoot was a responsible one. Meaning that every effort to ensure every bird shot, is eaten, and has not died without reason. The Gamekeeper also goes to great lengths to ensure that all the birds are not shot in one shoot, and keeps statistics so that he knows how many of the birds put down, have been shot. This rarely rises above fifty percent, ensuring that there is a constant life cycle of 'wild' birds that survive and breed the next year. The shoot also puts huge emphasis on shooting well, i.e. ensuring a bird is killed outright and doesn't get injured and continue to live in pain. Far more effort goes into this than I think most people appreciate. The Keeper is very quick to reprimand anyone shooting outside of the sensible range in which you kill a bird instantly.

This is all part of an intricate balance though. Vermin, particluarly foxes, have to be kept down as they will kill for the pleasure of it. Now I love to see foxes, they are beautiful creatures, but too many of them, will upset the balance, and result in the loss of the lives of birds. I love to see rabbits, but too many rabbits, will destroy crops and shove the price of our food right up. I love to see deer, but too many of them will destroy woodland, and I love to see woodland. It's all about the 'too many'.

Fox hunting was tricky, I wasn't sure that I wanted to take part in that, but how could I argue for or against if I hadn't experienced both sides? The one thing I can say is this; one of the things that 'anti's say, is that the fox can suffer a long and painful death. I disagree. A pack of hounds will kill a fox quicker than any bullet. Hunting is now illegal of course but we can see from current news stories that it still goes on. I disagree wholeheartedly with sending in terriers when a fox has gone to ground. To me this is, and always has been both barbaric, and unsporting. If the fox has made it home, it has won the chase and that's that. I have also seen many foxes that are suffering with injuries having been hit by cars, or having got caught up in discarded litter etc, I think it's humane to end their suffering and they are much more likely to be caught than the healthy foxes. Survival of the fittest has always been nature's way. After experiencing hunting, I'm not ashamed to say that I can see the beauty, the tradition and the enjoyment of the hounds, the horses, and the people. Just as my parents and grandparents did.

Deer. Beautiful and majestic animals. They can strip a forest of bark in no time at all in too great a number. Marriage to a deer-stalker has opened my eyes to the life cycle of the herd, deer injured by traffic and caught in fencing etc. Again, it's not a case of wanting to shoot everything in sight merely for sport, but to manage and maintain a balance. When done properly and by an experienced gunman, it's not cruel, the animal dies immediately. The old are removed to give the young a chance.

To some degree, I think we have become a nation of sissies! So far removed from the food we eat, because we don't have to hunt it any more. I am proud to say that I have shot, and eaten a deer (not all in one sitting). If I hadn't eaten it that would be terrible, it would have died for nothing. Surely it's better that the deer has a free life, wandering as it pleases up until the moment it dies? Better than any cow that is farmed and may have to suffer a life in confinement? I dare say if we saw the conditions that most of our supermarket meat came from, we'd be appalled. I also find it interesting that because foxes or deer are pretty, or 'cute' they get a lot of press. Who worries about the amount of insects we all kill with our cars every summer? No, thought not, because they're a bit creepy and not cute.

 The next thing I'm going to say on this subject, I know will cause a bit of a fuss. There is one element of the hunting and shooting that I haven't mentioned. The excitement. I'm not too proud to admit that the thrill of the chase is exciting. The horses on the hunt, the stalker, the experienced shot, all experience excitement. This is not something we learn, it's something deep inside us. I haven't grown up with shooting and hunting, so I cannot have learned to feel that emotion, it's just there, within me. We have that instinct because nature intended us to survive, and to survive we had to kill. It really is that simple.

After a lot of deliberation, I can still say, hand on heart, that I'm against animal cruelty. Some of my acquaintances from the past struggled so much with this that they kicked up a little and declared they couldn't possibly visit me any more because they disagreed with what my husband does for a living. I think that says more about them than it does about me. I can also say that I'm proud to have a proper understanding of killing the food I eat. Food that has lived a free and natural life. But, killing it quickly and humanely. I'd much rather do that than stick my head in the sand and not think about the conditions in which my dinner lived and how it was slaughtered.

I can conclude, it's all about the balance. I can see the 'for' and I can see the 'against'. You may not agree with my opinion, but at least it is an informed one.

Gracing Agefully

Age. Getting Older. Over the hill, past it and one foot in the grave. There are so many ways we add a comical spin to this subject, yet really, aren't we all just a bit terrified of it?

Now, at thirty eight, I'm no spring chicken, but nor am I quite ready for a home that smells of pee and cabbage, where I have to argue about what to watch on the communal TV whilst I dribble into my twin set and attempt Sudoku to convince the nurses I have my marbles. What I have noticed though are some disturbing changes in the last few years.

I have become aware that there is a lack of good music being released. Or is there? Is it just that the music of 'today' is mainly monotonous rap (yes, without the 'c') full of profanities and soul-less pop invented in Simon Cowell's song manufacturing plant. If I hear a guitar it's probably just another Irish type folk band with a song that sounds like some I used to like, or at the other end of the extreme, Elbow, who I want to like, because they're cool, but nevertheless make me want to commit suicide if I sit through an entire album. Well, I say album, is there such thing as an album any more? I try to embrace music, I'm a huge fan of it, but I have a new theory, which is that I've simply heard it all before. That's it, simple as that. People are still producing music that sounds good if you're nine years old, because you've never heard it before, but me, I've heard it before!! As a result I find myself trying to like people I wouldn't normally, like PJ Harvey, I've had several attempts at liking her music, every time I nearly like it but wish she didn't sound a little bit, well mentally unstable.

Speaking of mentally unstable, I find myself unable to remember song lyrics. I can almost remember them, but not quite. My brain somehow muddles up words that are correct, with some others from deep inside my memory somewhere. 'I belong to you, you belong to me you're my sweet-heart' becomes 'you're my scream' - now where in hell fire did that come from? It doesn't even make sense. In fact I had to sit here for five minutes to actually remember the wrong words. Is this early onset Alzheimer's, or simply old age? Or, have I got so much space rubble floating around in my mind that there's just no room for retaining anything that's not absolutely necessary? I really don't know.

The same theory can be applied to greetings cards as is to music. At the age of about fourteen I can remember wandering into Clintons (other card shops are available) and laughing out loud at some of the cards on offer. Now however, I have just simply, heard or seen them all before. Unless there is genuinely a lack of really ground breaking designs lurking in a corner somewhere? I find myself settling for the 'funky' designs instead, but even they are lacking in new ideas these days. Maybe I'm just becoming miserable, harder to make laugh? Surely not. I mean, when we age we can't lose our sense of humour, otherwise how would we cope with our drooping appendages and not being visually appealing any more, it's the only way, surely? We have to find the funny. Clintons however, is not the place to find our funny at all. Another theory of course could be that we are just too bloody busy to spend half an hour choosing a funny card, this is viable, and so we plump for a slightly classy blank card from Waitrose, if it's for someone we like. If not it's Asda. If we really don't like them but still need to send a card, a petrol station or the emergency stand in the works canteen works just fine.

To add to the list of uncomfortable signs of old age, is hearing yourself saying exactly what your parents said to you, and you thought at the time 'if I ever get like this, kill me, beat me to death with the bluntest instrument you can find'. So far I've employed: 'turn that ipod (was walkman) down you'll damage your hearing', 'if you're hungry, you'll eat what's in front of you', 'no dessert/sweets if you don't eat your dinner', 'please play the whole of the song and stop skipping through the first four seconds of each one', 'open the curtains it's like the black hole of Calcutta in this bedroom' and many, many more.

One of the most glorious things about being almost forty, is that I find myself getting far less embarrassed about things that used to prevent me from leaving the house. I haven't shaved my legs, I'm wearing a massive pair of Bridgets and my hair isn't washed I've just used dry shampoo. I don't actually give a fiddler's flatulence because one thing I've learned is that it really just does not make a difference, it's not important, life is for the living, not for hours in the bathroom before I'll even get the day started. It's very liberating. There is a part of me that thinks perhaps I should make more effort for my husband's sake, but if I did anything else, I'd be trying to be someone I am not. I can't stand it when people have plastic surgery or botox. They actually do look ridiculous in the deepest sense of the word. Lesley Ash, now looks like Red from Fraggle Rock, Carol Vorderman looks as if she may melt when placed to close to a heat source. People no longer express things facially because their faces don't move properly. It's just wrong on so many levels. Putting yourself through the pain and discomfort and risk of infection when those doctors should be working on people who are actually poorly, not just vain. There are so many beautiful people who are just aging gracefully, I have a few grey hairs at my temples, and my face has gone a bit Judy Finnigan. But it's my face. If all else fails and my husband leaves me for a younger model I will just live by the sea with my dogs and be myself. I know what's important and he should too. Come on world we have this bit so wrong.

Worrying about my pension. Now there's a thing I never thought I'd do. But now I have the experience of watching my elderly father struggle because the system he paid into his whole life, has let him down, and now, I'm doing the same. I wonder if my grandfather had the best idea, secretly saving piles of cash in odd places around the house. I now find myself talking myself out of buying things and saving the money instead. The thought of having to live on the poverty line when I'm older is not one I relish. Grandad also panic bought jars of coffee and bags of sugar, whatever catastrophe hit, he was not going to fall asleep on the job with a supply pantry like that.

On the whole, I like to think I'll age gracefully, I've never done anything else gracefully, but I'll aim for this one. When I'm fifty, I want to look like a natural fifty year old, with all of my facial expressions (and probably hair) in tact. One thing is for sure though, I'm gonna be an opinionated, cynical and grumpy old sod, and I've already started to practice!

Potholes and Percussionists

I feel I have now reached an age where it is acceptable to complain. Not about everything, not yet, that, I figure, is somewhere after sixty. But just a bit, about some things. Whilst I think there is some danger that I may be invited to contribute to 'Grumpy Old Women', I'm going to take a punt and go for it anyway.

My car suspension has gone. My last car's suspension went. The car before that's suspension went. When I say 'went', I mean that springs have broken, and it now sounds as if I've been in a hit and run with Evelyn Glennie and she is stuck somewhere under my near side wheel arch.

These epic misadventures are not due to cattle grids, or speed bumps (though there are plenty of those in this county) or even the odd gristly pedestrian. Nope, none of the above. The state of the roads in this county is diabolical. There are craters so wide I feel like I could whisper in one side and hear an echo on the other like the gallery in St Paul's Cathedral. On one occasion I very nearly formed a temporary mudguard on a city bus by attempting to avoid a crevice the size of my vehicle.

As a result, my VW Golf had two new springs, my Rover (sorry) had four and I fear my current car, Wurthers to his friends, is also going to need two. I'm approaching a £2000 total for work done purely on suspension so far. I could have purchased a shiny new MacBook for that.

I have heard that people in other counties have taken to spray painting their own yellow circles around their local potholes, to trick the road gangs into filling them in. I actually wrote a letter to a person of importance in the pothole department. I even sent photographs, after risking life and limb walking to busy stretches of road to snap the moon craters. They didn't even reply. In my book, that's just rude.

After reading this blog through, I am slightly worried that I might sound a bit like Jeremy Clarkson, or Germy Claxon as he is also known. I'm not sure what to do about that. I normally disagree with him, we only agree on caravans, everything else he says is rubbish. I may have to go and get therapy, so whilst I book my first session, I bid you goodnight, and I will return when I have some other ramblings to bore you with.

Thank you if you read this. You're clearly as mad as a badger.

Moving on...

I was with a good friend at the weekend and I mentioned that I had read his blog, and enjoyed it. He said I should write one, I think he was basing this on the fact that one or two of my Facebook postings had made him laugh. He is actually the fifth person to tell me this.

I made the point that it must be very different writing a few silly words than it is to write an entire blog and remain interesting and engaging. His response to this was that if nothing else, writing a blog was almost therapeutic once one actually got going.

I actually started this blog when I was thirty seven, hence the imaginative title. I am now thirty eight but I don't suppose this matters too much, since I am probably the only person who will ever read it! I went through the old posts and they were very personal, too personal I think. So this is me, drawing a line under those and starting again.

So, today, I joined a gym. Again. Fourth one now. Most people, husband included, are already convinced I will go a few times and then stop, choosing instead to watch dreadful five o'clock telly. They might be right, but I really have to do something.

When I arrived at my joining appointment, I was greeted by a receptionist, not unlike Alice from the Vicar of Dibley but older. She asked me to take a seat, I did. Then, Jenny appeared and it was clear that I was a nuisance to her and that she really didn't have time to sign me up. After signing more paperwork than I did when I took out my first mortgage, she gave me a very quick tour and booked me in for an induction. Now, I thought these were for pregnant ladies but apparently Jack (who is probably fourteen) is doing mine tomorrow. I will let you know how that goes.

So that is my first blog. I hope you are still awake.