Goodbye, sweet poison...

Sometimes, I catch glimpses of you across a crowded room, always looking cool, sleek, and refreshing.  For over half of my life you were an integral part of my routine; I couldn't imagine twenty four hours passing without your featuring in it at some point.

Sure, there were days that I had to make do without you, but it was never by choice.  Sometimes, other people who didn't understand how important you were to me just didn't want you around, so I was forced to do without you.  I couldn't bring you everywhere with me; that would have been rude and crazy, so from time to time I was forced to replace you with others.  I knew though that they were just pale imitations; they never lived up to what we had together.  They never quite delivered the same hit that you did, that same rush.

I'm a clean-living girl.  I don't drink (much) (anymore) (only at weekends), never smoked, was never interested in drugs. I eat healthy food, and not to excess.  Sure, I could exercise more, but other than that I'm boringly 'good'.  So it always came as something of a surprise to others when I confessed that I couldn't do without you.  I used to laugh it off;  "I'm allowed to have some kind of pick-me-up, surely?" but the fact that you were such a habit used to bother me, I admit.  Not enough to do anything about it, not really, but the concern was still there at the back of my mind.

My relationship with you was toxic.  Just a little bit, mind.  But still toxic.

And then recently I caught the flu, and suddenly you didn't seem so appealing. In fact, I found even the thought of you uncomfortable.  The next time our paths crossed I stood looking at you, temptingly decked out in red and silver, and I realised; I didn't need you now.  Why not try life without you for a while? I didn't imagine I would manage it for long; in similar situations in the past the craving has always crept back in the end; a few days or a couple of weeks were the longest I could do without you.

But it's been 10 weeks since I last reached in your direction.

So whilst we had good times for over 20 years, now? I really think I might be over you.

Goodbye, Diet Coke.

Thought-provoking

The title of this post was prompted by @Britmum's question on twitter today: 'If you could sum up your morning in one word, what would it be?'

My answer was 'Thought-provoking'.  Which I know probably counts as 2 words - so sue me.

Foolishly, they asked for clarification.  (Those crazy mixed-up kids).

In brief, then:

Why are Russian politicians running so scared of the prospect of any external expression of non-hetero sexuality?

Why do some expats (and yes, I know, this is a failing not only limited to expats) find it so difficult to walk in another person's shoes?  You're living in a country not your own; at least make the the attempt to understand the different situations that those outside the comfortable bubble you inhabit come from.

Just because a woman wears a short skirt and high heels, does not make her a tart.  Neither does it mean she is on the prowl for your husband, or has no idea about Feminism and what it is.

Some food companies are shameless in their drive for sales.  Read this and you'll see what I mean. (Hat tip to Amanda Surbey on facebook for the link)

How can it be that repeated - polite - requests to Boy #2 to get dressed in the morning have no effect, but using one word,  'Clothes' (as suggested by The Mummy Whisperer, here), and pointing to the pile of them on the floor achieves the desired result in less than 2 minutes?  (I do not know the answer to this but will be using this tactic again...)

I've made it to 14 days without Diet Coke.  I deserve to celebrate.  But with what? How about a diet co... oh.

That's it. I'm giving up...

Lent starts tomorrow.

I know this because the Boys insisted on pancakes this evening - and because I am, in a slightly woolly, pick and choose sort of a way, a Roman Catholic.  This time of year brings back memories of interminable weeks of Denial as a child: denial of  whatever treat it was that I had decided to give up, denial that I had in fact given up on Denial and sneaked whatever treat it was I was supposed to have given up (for some reason dark chocolate Bounty bars spring to mind here), and denial that the distinctive red and white wrappers in the kitchen bin had anything to do with me once they were discovered languishing at the bottom of it.  (Quite why I didn't dispose of them elsewhere I have no idea.  Must try harder on the subterfuge...)

So the thought occurred to me; should I give up anything this year? And if so, what? My life is quite sick-makingly boring in many ways at the moment;  I don't drink alcohol (most) Monday's to Fridays (and although all bets are off at the weekend, the drink-driving laws here make having even half a glass of wine, if you're planning on getting behind the wheel within 24 hours, a bad idea), I don't smoke, I scratch cook, I try and eat/drink my 5 a day.  Yes, I have a chocolate habit but even that's been curbed significantly in recent years, due mainly to the fact that nowadays I have decided life is too short to eat bad chocolate.  If we were living back in London then of course that would probably not impact significantly on my consumption levels, but here in Moscow the subsequent supply problems - not a Green & Black's 70% bar to be purchased for love nor money, for example - do rather put the stops on my galloping addiction...

Of course, there is always the polar opposite approach, that of doing something extra like, say, walking for an hour every day, or offering my services to carry a babushka's shopping across the road, but I think in the latter case I would probably end up being arrested, and in the former wasting so much petrol driving through the traffic to somewhere different each day to take the walk, that both seem counter productive.

So.  That leaves me with one thing.  One glaringly obvious thing I can try and do without for the next 40 days.

I am going to try and live without Diet Coke until Easter Sunday.

What - you didn't think I was going to give up the blog, did you? You should be so lucky...

May I just say; this is no small undertaking. I have been known to speak directly to my cans of Diet Coke in the past (usually to tell them that I don't need them and they shouldn't get big-headed about their regular 11am appearance in my day).  In fact, I actually don't expect to manage it.  The problem with leading such a boring lifestyle is that the 'little' indulgences like dark chocolate - which, by the way, was never under discussion as a potential 'giving up' target, since I have it on good authority that in (cough) small amounts, it's actually good for you - and Diet Coke assume a wholly disproportionate level of importance in your routine.

Quite how I'm going to manage without my daily fix of it remains to be seen, but I suspect that my parameters on what constitutes 'bad' chocolate may be about to change somewhat.  Dark chocolate Bounty bar, anyone?

???

I can't promise much for this post. Possibly, you might already have guessed that by the fact I can't even think of a relevant title for it.

I spent the last 24 hours catching up with a group of girls I used to go on hockey tour with, and am feeling more than a little shabby this morning.

We met up in a fantastic beach house in Wittering on the south coast of England after I had driven down through beautiful West Sussex. I'm a West Country girl personally, but West Sussex has to be one of the most visually pleasing places in the country with it's hills, valleys, picturesque villages and leafy woods. I swear, in the spring sunshine yesterday it so much resembled my mental picture of The Shire (for those Tolkien fans amongst you) that I kept looking for hobbits and doors in grassy banks.

Once I arrived, we spent yesterday chatting, gossiping, reminiscing, drinking, eating too much chocolate (one of them works for a well-known chocolate brand and seemed to have bought most of last week's production run with her for our delictation), walking along the beach, feeling the burn in our thigh muscles as we remembered how hard it can be to walk on shingle, and drinking (again) to recover from the exertion.

Throw in a meal out, more wine, silly games, more drinking on the beach, some embarrassingly bad campfire singing (without the campfire - even 3 sheets to the wind we weren't foolish enough to attempt that) and a restorative cup of tea at 1am and you have the recipe for a rather sore head this morning...

I should have known what to expect, of course. And I should have known that it would do me no good. It never did when we were on hockey tour 10 years ago or more, and now that I'm 40 + why would that lethal combination - vodka redbull - have a lesser effect?

The coup de grace was the fact that I needed to be back in London by 11am today so that Husband could fly off for another week of wooing Mother Russia.

Looking after the Boys, solo, with a hangover.

What was I thinking?