shake 'n shack

Oh my goodness, when you go to America you get some seriously top rate bad/good foods. I like how there is no class divide when it comes to the stuff everyone sort of, definitely wants in the US. In NYC, you'll find all varieties of cafe rammed with everyone and your neighbour's cat. Pish to the over the top pretentiousness that can permeate every chopping serving board, sometimes it's all about getting down with the thick shakes and the burgers and fries. 

I do not care sometimes about my *ahem veg box principles and I have to embrace. And in NYC, you can still get happy meat in your burger and organic gherkins and things, just as per usual. Same as the UK, no? Basically, this is a round about way of stating that they have SHAKE SHAKE and everything in SHAKE SHACK is efficient and clean and frikkin delicious. Everyone pops along there, whether for a lunch stop, or strolling home through the bright lights and awe-inspiring vertical builds at night. 

I am desperate for a SHAKE SHACK right now. The kid clearly likes this food, it is very demanding of me and has put in a very precise request. I know there is one in Covent Garden now (JOY) and I would genuinely get on a train and go fetch one right now if I wasn't carrying a bowling ball and small knives in my back. 

I will console myself with cleaning. But I really want to dip chips in a concrete custard shake.

That's who I am right now!

Please use black ink to fill in the boxes

Photograph by Norman Parkinson - a creative photographing a creative

I've been thinking about creativity as a commodity. I think that everyone has creativity in them, but it can so easily be quashed with the pressures of conformity and the 'right' and 'wrong's setting us straight. But surely, straight is everything that we should be avoiding to be creative? Is something that has been churned out a million times before - I'm not talking about an inspiration, I'm talking about a structure, a thought process, a new way of seeing something - really enough the set the goosebumps on fire and the stomach churning with the elation of creating something new.

Children hold exactly that when they go about their creating. God, I used to absolutely love making things when I was a kid. When asked what I wanted to do day to day, my answer would always, always be 'make something'. I wanted to use my imagination to look and learn about something and then put my mark on it. My own little take. And boy did my heart and mind soar when I was creating. I had absolutely no fear at six years old, no fear of being wrong. Of people furrowing their brow or questioning my motives behind my creations. Either alone in my own little world or with friends or family, I'd make cakes, patterns, dens, go-carts, models, sheer off Barbie's hair and sew her culottes and a waistcoat, read books and eat peas in the field next door, ride my bike to Texas (because the fields looked like I thought Texas might), wrote to my pen pal, made up dances, sang and wrote and bound mini books and letters.

I am positive that allowing for and nurturing a style, being creative and enjoying creativity, allows for all round personal development. A confidence that makes the passing of exam papers seem more than inadequate for predicting, or at least aiding, our career choices. We are boxed from a young age and education seems to be heading for more boxing starting younger and younger. I remember my SATs when I was at Primary School. I could feel the pressure, but I wasn't interested in these tests, I wanted to write stories and understand the world. I had no idea how to revise. I remember that I didn't do as well as expected. I was bright, I should have done better. With the results, I had a feeling that I was not intelligent, not clever, not able. But yet I finished tasks ahead of time, enjoyed them and was a diligent student. So, why the disappointing test results? The D word. 'You're creative, darling'.

I feel like I've never shaken this sense overhanging me, that I don't fit the boxes correctly and I should do if I want to succeed. I'll never have success, a longed for house and a feeling that yes, I am clever. But this is total bull. What the hell? I make things everyday. I've achieved great things and I'm going to tell my kid that they are creative AND intelligent, as we take every day as an adventure. Not even necessarily out and about, but just hanging out - creating stories, designing things and having fun with science, geography, literature and maths.

But, as far as creativity as a commodity, this annoys me. While you can try and deliver your enthusiasm and understanding of something, you can't capture creativity or copy it and it's sad when your own style of creativity just isn't in vogue, so it's negated. Look how many people are 'suddenly creative' thanks to the make, do and mend revolution. Where did that come from? Was it hiding in the ready meals of the 90s? What about growing vegetables? That's pretty creative and teaches you about maths and science - why did the grannies and grandpas do this, but mum and dad didn't? Not to mention the entrepreneurs, incredibly creative. Where did this business come from? Eh?

Is it because everyone's massively fed up with the Government, the boom is over, bringing with it wild financial issues, dissatisfaction... lack? To simplify. With this change and new creativity out to be purchased on the shelves, there's a different need for individuality, not just owning something coveted, but maybe putting our mark on it too. Or finding something somewhere you'd never expect. Granny's attic has never looked so good. We were in danger of becoming homogenous before weren't we? Are we now? Or are we just looking for and pining for originality to fill our Instagram feed?

My argument is, all this creativity, pumping through us has always been there. We are humans, who can learn more than box ticking skills. The aforementioned creative boom should go way beyond a trend. These gardening, cooking, discovering and building skills are skills for life, skills to hold and cherish, with a value that surely rivals a 90% pass in another exam. Arguably, the exam results can set you up for life and get you 'where you want to be', but equally what if you don't know and you find yourself excelling at something you have only tried once? What about dance, theatre, carpentry and horticulture? Or even just knowing that there's something beyond law, medicine, English and engineering? More beyond the boxes. If you want to Make It, it's really not about competing with someone else's life. Or even your own.

My absolutely main point is that the tight and tested curriculum needs to be changed in schools. Kids need to know more about nutrition, understanding their neighbours, politics that's relevant to them NOW, law, businesses and trade (local and global) and there should be time set aside for own projects. Where a student can pursue an understanding of a path that they may want to try out, perhaps they could meet some interesting people, expand their horizons and do something that allows their hearts and minds to flourish. Outside of that home/school/social bubble, it's time for them. Surely through just having a meander outside of these oh so importnat boxes and being allowed to expel some energy and be guided in doing so, the kids will benefit. All 'types' of kid. There's so much more to life than fitting neatly into a money churning world.

so he did...

Last time I was on here, I was desperate for someone to cry, 'Halt! You may stop what you are doing, sit back, stop that whirring mind and rest. I'd just climbed an enormous hill after getting stuck in 30 degree heat right in the middle of town. Tiger man had called mid hill and I essentially just bawled down the phone to him. I was hungry, exhausted and emotional.

'Pack your bags,' he said. We're going away for the night. See you at 6pm. Be ready!'

Just a few hours after the hill of pain, I was sitting outside a quintessentially English pub, hills surrounding, light stone buildings solid with history, a tiny glass of (good) red wine, morris dancers dancing a jingly little fandango before me and lavender scenting the air.

The next morning I awoke at 7am and had the longest soak in the deepest bath before anyone had stirred. I breathed deeply. I did some thinking. And then I just stopped. Stopped all the worry, the anguish and teeny tiny flinches of stress building up and weighing me down.

One night felt like weeks.

Stop!...In the name of love

I really like this image and feel it's showing what I feel. By Sara K Byrne. She is very talented.

This week has been tough. Mainly because I have felt so incredibly emotional. It's ridiculous, I have never felt such a jumble of ups and downs, confusion and upset. Mixed with utter contentedness and happiness. I cling on to the latter. I know this is all probably normal, but I'm also trying to please a million people, tick off a million things and I'm just so tired. I want to know when someone can say, it's OK. You can stop now.

Slick

I think this oil is splendid. It's soft, not over the top, the scent is as calming as an enormous armchair for the mind and it helps to keep skin stretchy. Or as stretchy as it can be when there is a bowling ball inside of you. It's a treat, and a necessary one. I have used it throughout this pregnancy and am now a converted 'oil fan'.

Trimester one (in the moment)

So now I know that you are definitely real. I know this because of two reasons. The first is that because of my ‘scare’ at five weeks, I got to visit the early pregnancy clinic.

I think I will remember this forever. Charlie and I sat in the waiting room with the lights out. We stared at the non-identifiable blobs framed and mounted on the walls. It was before 9am, so the clinic wasn’t open. We had got there early as the doctor had told me it was a good idea to the day before. He was right. At 9.05am the waiting room was filled with a mixture of tightly wound faces, wringing hands, expressionless static behaviour and men popping off to the toilet. Not to mention those reading the enormous comments board, the aged toys wishing for Toy Story and the muttering midwives. I spent almost the entire time waiting thinking about my impending interview with a Springwatch presenter.

It didn’t take long to see the midwife and sonographer. A slather of gel, a quick shock and then there it was. Admittedly it was a blob. But it was also a vision of relief, elation and wonder. The blob was not unlike those paintings, but after pointing out the heartbeat, I realised it was my little blob. It had a heart, it was OK. It was real. Despite taking three pregnancy tests, I genuinely couldn’t believe what I saw. I resolved to try and not call it, ‘it’. It’s a baby. A baby. I interviewed the Springwatch presenter with my usual celeb-dazzle of butterflies, fluttering. Exaggerated, I am positive.

Good god, morning sickness. This is the other reason that has indicated in MASSIVE FLASHING LIGHTS, that I am pregnant. Though I love the kid, this is truly vile. Mixed with the exhaustion, you could push me with a feather and I’d fall down. The first week the sickness surfaced itself it hit me like a thousand rhinos. I was in Cornwall. Taking five of my 24 glorious holiday days. Suffice to say I spent a lot of it lying in bed catching up with Silent Witness, a programme I have never loved, but I’m fast learning that it’s all about The Series. I was recently given the boxset of The Killing series one and I could have wept at the feet of the gifter. During the week, I also walked along the beaches, meandered about and ate carbs. I told the kid it needs to like the sea, as its (might call it K-it aka Kit, for now I think – KIT’S) father is obsessed.

I’m touching wood as I type, but recently the morning sickness has been slightly less horrific. Perhaps it’s because I am back at work and busy. Plus I am never (TOUCH WOOD) actually sick, which helps. I just feel like gagging at the merest thought of eggs and jumping in an extraordinarily clean, white duvet is appealing at all times. Charlie has been frankly hilarious throughout Kit’s existence so far. I say hilarious, because otherwise I would batter him with cake. Par example: “Just think, every person that exists has had a mum that has probably been really sick, just like you. It’s life!”

Find out if the famous second trimester ‘glow’ is ignited next time. If not, I have iridescent creams and powders at the ready so I can look like Tinkerbell… at least. 

Seasonal, baby

I have no objection to this gold Burberry baby snowsuit. When you are young, you can get away with it.

Yesterday I was sat cross-legged on a mat in a hall. I was there for my - much-loved - pregnancy yoga class and after too many hours sat on an uncomfortable chair by a desk at home, I was prepared for my vertebrae to be tweaked one by one, limbs stretched and mind relaxed. As a draft whistled under the door and through the room, curling up one side of a piece of paper, to use a cliche: it hit me.

Just a few weeks ago we were all sweltering in the balmy heat, rubbing our aching, swollen feet and celebrating the ferocious air con. And at the very beginning, when I started pregnancy yoga, it was utterly freezing. My fingers were blue from the winter's chill and I was layered with jumpers and a thick blanket during the relaxation exercises. Now it feels like it's getting a little bit autumnal. Not really (obviously), but the nights are starting to draw in a tad and after we had that blast of summer in July, mid-August seems... like its getting ready, preparing for colder times.

Now, I for one absolutely love autumn, for a whole variety of reasons. It's birthday season for myself and the man tiger, I adore autumn wear, LOVE it. Boots, new coats and knitwear. Glorious. The skies are pretty and red (sometimes), nature is golden and red ('tis), new starts can occur, berry liquors and apples scent the air and the summer sun is still warm on the skin.

But. That means I have gone through winter, spring and now nearly summer/autumn crossover. That's a whole year nearly, being pregnant. I know this makes sense, as nine months is nearly a year and I am nearly at nine months, so this... makes. sense. However, it feels surreal. A whole year has nearly passed, a year that I am conscious about, as I have felt every week - and yet it's whistled by and will soon be gone, like a wave washing in and then retreating. It feels like yesterday that we were in Cornwall, wrapped up against the January freeze, the morning sickness first hitting me like a rocket to my whole being. Lying on the sofa, unable to move, looking at food (apart from carbs) like it was alien fuel. Staring out to the sea. Still unsure that it was real.

Now, I have a baby thwacking me all day and all night. Making me have to sit further away from my desk, because it keeps hitting it. Yesterday, I saw and felt a little hand pop out. I'd not seen that before, it was a tiny little fist. I felt proud. It feels incredible and although I am now pretty uncomfortable (NIGHT TIME), I am cherishing this time, so close to my baby. Keeping it warm as the autumnal winds sweep over us.