Big girls don't cry

Big girls don't cry

When I was growing up, I often joked that I was a princess. But not in a pretty, tiara-wearing way; my royalty meant a heavy burden of responsibility. Daddy was a big somebody in his home town and far beyond and this put our family into a spotlight.

My brothers and I tried to rebel. We wanted the right to a childhood and to be allowed to make mistakes. But we quickly learnt that that those would cost daddy his reputation so we did our best not to embarrass him.

I have never heard my mum shouting. She always carried herself with dignity and class. Friendly, wise and full of energy she was loved by everybody. She was my queen and I was looking up to her.

And even though she was a warm, affectionate woman, the display of emotions felt somehow inappropriate. Because I never saw her crying (other than an odd classy tear at funerals),  I adopted ‘Big girls don’t cry’ attitude and started dealing with emotions in the privacy of my room and after dark.

By my early 20s I learnt the art of denial and was excelling at pretence. Tears and any display of emotions became a huge no-no and a sign of weakness. If I ever got overwhelmed and the tears could no longer be contained, I felt the need to apologize to whoever witnessed my embarrassing outburst – even if it was my boyfriend. Good girlfriends don’t cry.   

Years went by. The queen passed away and I was swallowing my tears over her grave. She left me her crown but it felt too big for me. So in desperate attempt not to let her down, I stayed strong for daddy and my brothers – being positive and helpful during the day, I sobbed myself to sleep at night, missing her dearly.

Last summer I found out that daddy had a cancer. Not wanting to believe and deal with the reality, I pretended it wasn’t serious and carried on with my life. It wasn’t until I saw him (or what was left of him), did I realise what was going on. My daddy was dying. The illness was eating him away and there was nothing I could do.  The feeling of helplessness and despair swept through me like a tsunami, washing away denial and any scraps of hope I had left.  

But my family needed me, and I had to stay strong. So I bought a month worth of supplies in cakes and chocolate – we ate, drank, laughed, took photos, shared stories and reminisced. I was constantly aware that I needed to be positive and cheerful. It took every ounce of my energy but I never let go.

Back in the UK, in the privacy of my flat I collapsed.  I got in the shower and cried until I had no more tears left.

What felt like hours later, I climbed on the sofa and called Mr Chateauneuf. As soon as he picked up, the floodgate opened again. I was embarrassed, I didn’t want him to see or hear me being a mess. So I apologised.

Much later that night, disintegrated into the sofa and surrounded by a box of used Kleenex tissues I was staring at TV. I couldn’t help but wonder, when something so terrible like cancer happens, surely it is ok to be upset. Then why couldn’t I give myself a break? Why couldn’t I let be my nearest and dearest to be there for me?

The following morning I got ready to get back to work. With the keys in my hands I took one last glance in the mirror. The reflection smiled – it wasn’t me, it was the queen. And right there I realised I grew into her crown.

Life is about making happy memories

Life is about making happy memories

I will never forget the day I found out daddy had a cancer. I still remember calling him to find out about his visit to the doctors. As soon as he picked up the phone and said ‘hello’ I knew. In fact, I had known from the moment he told me he wasn’t well a few days before.

A couple of weeks later he started radiotherapy. It drained him completely; having destroyed his immune system, it left him with the second degree burns. Those took over a month to heal. Daddy then faced a major decision – whether or not to have an operation.

Being a real denial pro I did what I do best - pretend that everything was ok and daddy had just picked up a case of a seasonal flu. It lasted until Mr Chateauneuf had enough of my nonsense. He bought me a ticket and sent me to Ukraine to see daddy.

One flight, two G&Ts and way too many hours on a bus later I arrived in a little town somewhere north of Kiev. I got off the wretched bus and looked at the man walking towards me. I barely recognised him – he looked like a ghost of my daddy past. Deep lines pierced his face, dark circles settled under his eyes and had he lost half of his body weight. Last time I saw him this skinny was on his wedding photograph.

I gently hugged him, afraid if I squeeze too hard he would break. It took me all my self-control not to cry. So I babbled about my trip, work, kids – anything and everything to divert my attention from thinking about how sick my daddy was.

My baby brother arrived the following morning. We needed to talk about daddy’s illness and the options he had. It was simple – he needed to have an operation which meant a major lifestyle change. Daddy refused point blank. There were no other options.

That afternoon I took my brother for a walk and a much needed cigarette. We sat on the bench looking at the river and talked about mum. We reminisced, we laughed, we smoked. Mum’s death was sudden, it came as a shock. Neither of us wanted to be shocked again, we wanted to be prepared and to spend as much time with daddy as we could.

As I turned to look at my brother I suddenly saw a little boy who was scared but wanted to look brave. I couldn’t help but wonder, in our attempt to come to grips with grave reality are we failing daddy? Should we try to convince him to have that operation? Can we do more?

Later that night we all settled in the lounge drinking whatever was going, taking silly photos and laughing. We laughed so hard, my stomach ached. It was like the good old days.

And as I looked at daddy, with his face lit up with laughter, I suddenly realised that we weren’t failing him. We both were there spending time with him and making him laugh.

I don’t know how long he has got left. But I will always remember that night, I will remember my mascara running and my stomach aching; I will remember daddy’s deep laughter and the sparkle in his eyes. After all, life is about making happy memories.

The Price of Friendship

The price of friendship

When my girlfriend Lora texted and cancelled our girlie dinner, I barely reacted – I simply changed the channel and ordered a pizza. But when half an hour later she texted again and asked if we could PLEASE go shopping on Sunday, I was worried.

The thing about our shopping trips is that they are usually planned in advance and coincide with sales. They are always more about catching up, gossiping and venting (in fact my whole post-divorce recovery took place mainly in Bluewater and Ikea), although I always manage to arrive home with lots of shopping bags and a maxed out credit card. So getting an unscheduled shopping request from Lora was disturbing. I knew something was up.

And boy was I right. I barely got in the car when she exploded – a very close friend upset her, to the point of no return. A relationship Lora considered to be solid collapsed like a house of cards.

I have always been a huge believer in give-take balance in any relationship. Sometimes you are there for your friend, other times your friend is there for you; sometimes you give, other times you take.  Unfortunately Lora was stuck in a relationship with a taker only who inevitably left her behind as soon as a better source of taking became available.

In the shopping centre Lora ranted through Next, Phase Eight and John Lewis. She was so upset that I couldn’t even leave her to try on Phase Eight’s 75% off dress, and the floral Ted Baker 60% off shoes didn’t seem that appealing when my best gal was almost in tears.

There was only one thing I knew that could make her feel better – sugar and coffee. I dragged her to a coffee shop that sold expensive cakes with astronomic calorie content. Those were desperate times and desperate measures were required - my strict diet before the big charity ball was in jeopardy.  

One enormous piece of cake, two buckets of coffee and what felt like an eternity later we left the coffee shop. Having exhausted her vocabulary of swear words and comprehensively scrutinised the topic of cheap friends, Lora switched to a more expensive activity - shopping. When I saw her checking out cute tops at Hobbs, I knew she was on the mend.

Lora dragged me back to Phase Eight and made me try that dress on. As I was twirling around in the dress the RRP of which was could-never-afford, I couldn’t believe my luck – I was getting it at the fraction of the original price. I was getting a bargain.

And as we hit the sales in Laura Ashley and my arms were full of discounted clothes I couldn’t help but wonder, why do we discount our friendships? When the takers try to get a bargain out of our relationship, why do we let them? Why do we discount ourselves to that level?

We left the shopping centre much later than usual. I knew Lora started recovering when she substituted her cheap friend for an expensive pair of Jones’ and a River Island bag – yep, she was definitely getting better.

I felt good too - I was there for my friend.  Although I maxed out another credit card and ate my monthly allocation of sugar in one sitting, it felt good seeing her smile again.

And as Lora asked me if I wanted to come over for a movie and Chinese that night I suddenly realised that good friends are a very rare commodity. In fact they are like that limited edition pair of perfectly fitted jeans. Incredibly hard to find but once you do find them, you don’t mind paying the full price.

A City girl in Shoreditch

A City girl in Shoreditch

A few years ago my diary mainly consisted of birthday reminders and an occasional party. These days I navigate between my own errands, the kids’ appointments and school holidays, Mr Chateauneuf’s travel arrangements and the little matter of my two bosses.  Occasionally it gets crowded.

So imagine my delight when I come across an exciting entry - I almost forgot about -  jammed in-between a five way conference call and a waxing appointment. This is where the adventure begins.

The thing is, my schedule doesn’t leave any room for adventure and spontaneity. I work in the City, live in South London and spend most of my weekends in Lincolnshire. My geography is neatly connected by East Coast, FCC and Southern train lines; my life is run by a tightly packed diary in my iPhone and a strict routine.

My race against the clock begins in the morning – shower, getting dressed, hair, make-up and rush out of the door; I hop on the train where I battle against backlog of texts and emails. A day in the office features endless reports, meetings, infinite amount of filing, errands for the two bosses and gallons of tea and coffee. In the evenings I Skype with the boys; catch up with my friends, writing, laundry, ironing and whatever else I’m behind on.

So when one evening I turned off familiar Old Broad Street, aka where the City ends, and found myself trotting over the cobbled pavements of Shoreditch in my stilettos, I had to double check my diary to confirm if indeed I was in the correct location - I was. I have never been there before, but that was where my girlfriend chose to have her hen do.

A little turn right, just past Liverpool Street station, opened up a completely different world to me. This new world was full of vintage shops, markets and food stalls where the cooking was done mainly on a BBQ or an outdoor chimney type thing. There was graffiti everywhere, hair colours encompassing the whole spectrum of the rainbow and the smell of freshly cooked meat mixed with unmistakable hint of cannabis.

Even the crowd was different, more relaxed; people were dressed casually if a little eccentrically. I was fascinated by the new scene I was on. People in this world seemed friendly and happy; they were laughing and having fun. Nobody was rushing anywhere, the concept of a diary, or time for that matter, didn’t seem to exist. Even the air slowed down and relaxed here. 

I, on the other hand, was hyperventilating - my phone was showing only 20% of battery life and I was about to lose my connectivity, which at the time felt like losing air supply. My City outfit was suffocating me and killing my feet.

With my phone barely alive and my feet throbbing I decided to adopt ‘when in Shoreditch…’ attitude, ordered a drink at a bar, sat back and almost relaxed. As I was watching a guy wearing a ripped t-shirt and a brand new pair of green Converse, casually chatting to a girl next to him, I couldn’t help but wonder, when did my life become so busy? How did I let a little expensive device to run my life without allowing myself to actually live? When did I become so City?

My phone died half an hour later and I spent the last 17% of its life on taking photos of fabulous girls I was out with. It was a great night. We bowled and drank cocktails; we reminisced and ate deep fried food; we talked outfits and flights for the wedding.  And as a sign of any great night, the journey home night was a blur.

The following morning, hungover and clutching my travel mug with two precious shots of coffee, I got off the train and joined the sea of suits, polished shoes and laptop bags moving across London Bridge. It suddenly occurred to me there was nothing wrong with strict routine and tight schedules. I loved my life the way it was – busy and planned with the military precision. As long as I made time to escape to my own Shoreditch now and then where I could switch off and not think or wear City. I texted my friend immediately and made plans for that weekend.

Love lessons from my grandmother

Love lessons from my grandmother

My grandma was quite a beauty back in the 50s. With her dark long hair and vivid brown eyes she never had a lack of admirers. Oh, she’d seen them all – the popular guys who everybody wanted to date, the shy guys who never plucked up enough courage to ask her out; and then there was one special guy – my grandad.

The tied the knot in 1953 and stayed together until my grandad died in 1991. For 38 years they had a perfect marriage, built on love and respect. They never once argued or shouted at each other.

My grandma never met anyone else. She devoted the rest of her life to her children and grandchildren. She never moved out of the house either; the house where she spent many happy years with her man.

‘How did you know grandad was the one?’ – I asked her once. ‘It was simple’ – she said. ‘A lot of guys wanted to date me but your granddad did something special. There was a severe winter one year and I didn’t have a winter coat because I couldn’t afford it. When your grandad found out, he broke into his savings and bought me one. We got married that year.’ She smiled and her eyes lit up at the memory.

That story prompted me to revisit my own dating history. Just like my grandma I’ve seen them all - there was the poet, the guy who couldn’t spell, the very tall guy, the playboy, the stalker and finally there was the guy I married. We divorced five years later.

I couldn’t help but wonder, if it was a coat in the 50s, what is the 21^st century equivalent? In the world of strong independent women, what does it take to wrap it up?

The more I was thinking about my past dating mistakes, the more I realised how lucky my grandma was. She met the perfect guy who loved and cared for her till the death parted them. By the time she was 30 she had been married for five years and had two kids. At barely 30 I was freshly divorced with a bunch of unpaid credit cards.

Lost in the world of my past failures, I walked for what felt like hours. I got my phone out to check the time. And as I swiped it to life, a familiar face smiled at me from the screen. I remembered when I took that picture; and I smiled back at him.

Suddenly the past mistakes felt like last season’s outfit – discarded and forgotten. He man who was smiling at me from the screen brings tea to bed for me, buys me a train ticket when I go back to London and makes sure my sick dad has the best treatment available. He makes me feel like a little girl and a grown woman at the same time; he inspires and challenges me; and he is always there to catch me.

The longer I was looking at his face, the more I realised how lucky I was. I had the man who loved me and wanted to spend his life with me; the man who would shield me from the winter and would give me his own coat if needed.

It took me a very long time to find him - I tried many coats on. Until one day at a Christmas party he draped his coat around my shoulders. And just like that I got my wrap.

Soulmates - concept or reality?...

Soulmates - concept or reality?...

There are things in life that I’ve not given half a thought to and therefore don’t really have an opinion about.  I don’t get why hair goes grey, completely clueless about microwaves and I’m not certain what I think about soulmates.

So when one morning on the train I read an article about soulmates (in the absence of anything better to read), for some reason I became curious; I suddenly wanted to know what defined a soulmate and what the fascination was with the concept in general.

As soon I got to a PC that morning, I put a Sherlock hat on and began serious web investigation. I started with Wikipedia and from there my obsession lasted for another 10 Google pages. Somewhere between ‘dresses for soulmates’ and yet another dating website I got bored. I’d wasted half of my day but still hadn’t found anything remotely concrete.

That night, during a Skyping session I asked my boyfriend if he believed in soulmates. His reply was skilfully vague and politically correct which left me feeling nervous and even more obsessed.

I couldn’t help but wonder, what if Mr Chateauneuf and I had already met our soulmates in our previous lives? Does it mean our relationship is doomed to be the second best? Do two people have to be soulmates in order to have a happy relationship?

That Saturday we had a family breakfast sharing a pot of freshly brewed coffee and the stories from the week before. As the boys were telling us about yet another adventure, he looked at me.

Our eyes locked. The air around us suddenly became electrified; the intensity was surging through our bodies, merging and creating the sparks. The world stopped existing.

It only lasted for a split second. We broke the eye contact, I took a sip from my cup and turned my attention to the boys’ story; I hadn’t missed a thing.

The morning activities carried on - he topped up my cup, and we moved to the usual negotiations with the boys over finishing their breakfasts. And as the family banter continued sprinkled with the laughter and hundreds & thousands, I looked at him and suddenly realised the concept didn’t matter.

We had a sparkle – no make up or high heels, not showered and still wearing the dressing gowns. Right in the middle of a family breakfast, between sips of coffee there was a sparkle.

I had no more questions and I finally put my obsession to rest.

I still don’t believe in soulmates. But in famous words of Mr Big, my newly formed opinion boils down to this: ‘I like the word soul. I like the word mate. Other than that, you got me.’

Aging - embrace it or fight it?

Aging - embrace it or fight it?

‘I am getting a Botox’ – said my girlfriend Christina over a lunch one day, as she sipped her Chardonnay. I looked up at her beautiful, smooth face wondering if she was in fact serious - she was. The week before she had her veins injected so that in 5 to 10 days the world would be presented with sexy, drop-dead-gorgeous legs. And now she set her mind on Botox.

Christina is the kindest and the loveliest girl I know. She bargained everything for a big love but the odds were not in her favour and she lost. At barely 40 she is now freshly divorced with three kids and a vast task to rebuild her self esteem, business and evidently her body.

I knew there was no point me trying to convince her not to do it, so I didn’t. Instead we merrily toasted to ‘single and fabulous’, talked shoes and scarves, and after drinking her yearly supply of wine we powered on her laptop and started researching the new exciting word in our vocabulary - Botox.

Later that day I was running a few errands and needed to pop in to Boots to get a few essentials. While browsing, I started noticing what I never saw before - all the anti-aging creams that had words on them like ‘revitalizing’, ‘pro-collagen’, ‘anti-wrinkle’ and ‘intense hydration’. I felt like I had just crossed the great divide into the world of 41+ (that’s my scary age), the world of accomplished, experienced, confident women who go on expensive holidays, drive big cars and have afternoon tea with their girlfriends’ at the Ritz. The world where I didn’t belong. Yet.

And as I was looking at various magic portions with expensive and patronising words on them that promised eternal youth, I couldn’t help but wonder, whatever happened to aging gracefully? In a vain attempt to stay young and parting with a small fortune, are we missing the point of life seasons? Why are we so scared to get old?

That night after removing all the make-up, I spent good 10 minutes staring at my face in the mirror. And the longer I was staring the more imperfections I saw. There were two faint lines on my forehead, dark circles under my eyes, a handful of blackheads on my nose and I even convinced myself that I had crow’s feet. No longer 18, I was officially a Balzac-aged woman.

So in honour of getting old, I decided to treat myself to a pamper session. Out came the big guns – full body exfoliation and subsequent generous application (well, more like smothering in this case) of body butter, feet soak and massage, face mask, fizz, Ben and Jerry and Sex and the City.

And I don’t know whether it was legendary amount of alcohol consumed or Sex and the City which always cheers me up, but that night I firmly decided to embrace this getting older business gracefully, with dignity and in a lady-like manner. After all it is inevitable and unavoidable. So with my comfy pjs on (the ones you never let your boyfriend see!) I drifted to sleep feeling most content and with a smile on my face.

The following day, on the way to work I stopped by Boots and picked up my first ever anti wrinkle cream.

Did you know…?

… that ‘footloose and fancy-free’ came all the way from 16^th century. Back then ‘fancy’ meant love and ‘fancy-free’ meant you weren’t in love with anyone. In the late 17^th century, ‘footloose’ meant you were free to go anywhere.

Today it means free, not attached to anyone.

Did you know…?

… that ‘cooking with gas’ was invented by clever marketeers in 1800s. Before gas stoves started to be available wood stoves were the standard. Now you're "cooking with gas" comes from an old advertisement for gas stoves.

Today it means working fast, making progress quickly.

Did you know…?

…that ‘armed to the teeth’ is a pirate phrase which comes from Port Royal Jamaica in the 1600's. Back then pirates only had single shot black powder weapons and cutlasses so they would carry many of these weapons at once to keep up the fight. In addition they carried a knife in their teeth for maximum arms capability.

Today it means overly well equipped, prepared; or heavily armed.

Did you know…?

… that ‘dead as a door nail’ takes its origin from the 14^th century carpentry. Back then nails were hand tooled and costly. When an aging cabin or a barn was torn down, the valuable nails would be salvaged so they could be reused in later construction.

When building a door however, carpenters often drove the nail through, then bent it over the other end so it couldn't work its way out during the repeated opening and closing of the door. When it came time to salvage the building, these door nails were considered useless, or "dead" because of the way they were bent.

Today it means obviously, definitely dead.

15 things I didn't know about boys

15 things I didn't know about boys

They say you learn something new every day and I have always been a keen pupil. My secret passion for learning translated into not so secret passion for reading. So over the years I read hundreds of books. Fiction yes, but also works on cooking, marriage, motivation, dieting, fashion and divorce (not necessarily in that order). By my early 30s I found my head and my tiny London flat cramped with more books than the British Library. I was ready to take on the world.

So when I left the security of my reading capsule to explore the planet ‘Boys’, I thought I read and knew everything there was to know about boys. But nothing I have ever read could’ve prepared me for what I discovered by myself over the past couple of years…

1.       Boys love junk food and sugary drinks. Period. As a result the negotiations about eating vegetables are very real. And exhausting.

2.       They fart. A lot and everywhere (including at the dining table). And they think it’s funny. 

3.       They love talking about poo. The age doesn’t matter, 7 or 57 – they love talking about poo and giggling.

4.       They have their own vocabulary of describing and discussing poo.

5.       They eat burgers on the toilet while taking a poo.

6.    They take a bath while the other is taking a poo. In the same bathroom.

7.       They never stop talking. They talk from the moment they wake up, while they are eating and most annoyingly - over the movies. Some even talk in their sleep.

8.       If they are not talking at you they ask you questions. Firing them like a machine gun, they don’t necessarily expect them to be answered.

9.       They use your stuff, usually without asking for permission and never putting it back.

10.       They leave cups, plates, socks, pants and toe nail clippings everywhere.

11.   They come with pets and show a lot more affection to their pets than to you. If you don’t like pets you are labelled as mean and horrible.

12.   When you take them out they are suddenly hungry, thirsty and definitely need that thing over there that costs £1.50 because that is exactly what is missing in their lives. They play with it for exactly 1 minute before getting bored.

13.   They wear the same t-shirt or a jumper for days and only surrender it to the laundry if you take it away from them by force.

14.   Showers and baths need to be a compulsory not optional – otherwise boys will go for weeks without seeing water.

15.   They play, record and watch football. They talk football. They expect you to understand it and laugh if you don’t.

The more I was learning about the world of boys, the more convinced I was that they came from another planet. I couldn’t help but wonder, if they indeed come from another planet, how on earth can we ever make our worlds meet?

Unfortunately Amazon didn’t stock books on how to interact with aliens so I was left to figure it out on my own. And as I was trawling the internet in a search of clues, I noticed a little plastic flower stuck to my desk lamp. Little Dude made it for me during one of his school trips, it was the first present he ever gave me.  

And something clicked. Football, mess and poo don’t matter. What matters is when they come up, hug you and say ‘love you’. Out of blue and for no other reason other than because they really do. Just like that I found the trigger that brings two worlds together. And I figured it out without a book.

Did you know…?

…that ‘cut to the chase’ came from the silent films in the 1920s. The films would almost always end with a chase scene, preceded by obligatory romantic storylines. According to The Phrase Finder, this phrase was written in Joseph Patrick Mcevoy's novel Hollywood Girl, 1929, as a script direction.

Today it means getting to the point, leaving out all of the unnecessary details.

Did you know…?

… that ‘wear your heart on your sleeve’ goes back to jousting matches in the middle ages. Back then knights used to wear the colours of the lady they were supporting, in cloths or ribbons tied to their arms.

Today it means to display emotions freely and openly.

Did you know…?

… that ‘busman’s holiday’ started in London in the late 1800s – early 1900s. Back then buses were pulled by horses. The bus drivers loved their horses so much that on their days off they would ride on their own buses just to make sure that other bus drivers took  good care of their horses.

Today it means spending your fee time doing the same thing you do during working hours.

Love affair

Love affair

He had always been a family friend but we first became properly acquainted when I was at school. As an impressionable teenager, I helplessly fell for his charm. 

Our love affair started in the park in the late 90s. That day I wore baggy jeans, blow-dried hair a-la Rachel Green in early episodes of Friends and my heart on my sleeve - I was helplessly in love with him. He wore mostly brown, his signature colour, the cool air of indifference around him and a smell of rain.

Ever since that first date we made a pact to meet once a year. Come rain or shine, we meet up and go for a long walk and a catch up. Not once did he fail me, nor I him.

And just like every single year, I open the door and he is already there, waiting for me. I throw myself into his arms. His embrace is so familiar; I smile and inhale his refreshing smell. It makes me remember why I fell in love with him all those years ago. 

We walk in a friendly silence, the kind of silence that only two friends can share. The memories, like gusts of wind, sweep around us. The peaceful years back in Ukraine where we spent hours roaming the parks, the aroma of mum’s apple pies she baked every time he visited and our all-time favourite - the shoe shopping trip.

Shopping has always been one of our favourite activities, although my bank balance has never shared our enthusiasm. So later on in the day we indulge ourselves in a little retail therapy. I trust him implicitly; he has such a great taste and knows exactly what suits me. He picks warm earthly colours for me and they go so well with my skin tone.

Back at home as I am cooking dinner I add a handful of chopped up chillies. A bottle of Rioja is already opened and left to ‘breathe’. It was him who introduced me to spicy food and deep rich flavours.

And as we settle on a sofa and I pull a blanket over my shoulders, I feel his breath on my cheek. I tell him everything, I share my deepest fears. He listens and strokes my hair. And with every stroke I feel better and before long I know the answers to all my questions. And I feel inspired.

At night I open my window and curl up in my bed. I watch the curtain softly flutter against the window. And as I start drifting off to sleep, I feel his kiss, his brisk fleeting kiss on my lips. I smile. He has arrived. Autumn is here.

Did you know…?

… that ‘bury the hatchet’ comes from Native American nations. They used to make peace with their enemies by holding a ceremony of actually burying tomahawks, hatchets and other war weapons. If war broke out again, they would dig them out again..

Today it means to settle an argument, become friends after being enemies.

Did you know…?

… that ‘burning bridges’ comes from ancient military history. Soldiers actually burnt down the bridge they had just crossed so they wouldn’t be tempted to turn back in a cowardly way. It also kept the enemy from following them over the bridge. Julius Caesar was known to burn bridges to toughen up his troops.

Today it means to make a decision you can’t change, to permanently and unpleasantly end a relationship.

Did you know…?

 

… that ‘burning the midnight oil’ goes back to the days when lamps were lighted by oil and people went to bed earlier than they do today.  When you burnt the midnight oil in those days, you were up late working or reading by the light of an oil lamp.

Today it means staying up late at night studying or working.

Did you know…?

… that there are two possible theories for ‘bring home bacon’?

One was from the contest at early American county fairs of chasing after a greased pig. If you caught it, you could take it home as your prize.

Another theory is that it came from a practice in the early 1300s.  A baron willed that if any married persons swore at the church door that they had not had a single quarrel for a whole year and a day, they would get a free side of bacon to take home.

Today it simply means to support family by working, to earn living.

A photo is worth a thousand words

A photo is worth a thousand words

I have never noticed that you had freckles, a little splash of sunshine on your face. Did they only come out in the sun or did you always have them?

You are wearing a pair of stylish sun glasses which captures a magic moment of a family holiday in their reflection. There is so much motion, so much life and happiness – your family is having a whale of a time – the boys are running around enjoying the sunshine without a care in the world while he halted, tenderly looking back at you. I wonder what’s on his mind. The sun is blazing and the white sand is glittering, making the whole picture look like a fancy holiday brochure.

You positioned yourself on the sand in a very elegant manner like a queen - with your legs pulled up to your body gently hugging them with your arms - your posture and everything about you is refined, sophisticated.  Your handbag is loyally sitting right next to you like a faithful dog, the pink headscarf drapes perfectly around your head, the Prada sun glasses add that final touch of va-va-voom making you look like a glamour model from Vogue, you are picture perfect.

You are looking away - looking at the sea, taking everything in. You are tired, I know that now. And as I am looking at you being thoughtful and miles away from that perfect holiday, I realise that you knew, that very moment you knew that it was your last holiday with your boys and your man. The sands of your time were running out, fast. There was nothing left to do but make the most of it.

And the most of it you made. Having created so many happy memories with your family and your friends, you are forever ingrained on their hearts and minds like an ancient inscription, treasured and admired. They remember you, they talk about you, they miss you, they love you – you made a huge impact on more people than you can imagine.

And although you are long gone now I can still see you everywhere. You are in the colour scheme in the house; in the kitchen in the little ornaments; in the bathroom your jewellery is still hanging right next to where my electric toothbrush is charging every other weekend when I’m up in my country home; even in the bedroom you look over his bed, when I’m fast asleep cuddled into him - you are watching over me.

As I am helping to set up for yet another party, that was such a frequent occasion when you were around, I lift up my head and meet your steady gaze. And although I can’t see your eyes behind those sun shades, I know you are watching me.

The house is ready, the food is set up on the table, the drinks are chilling and the glasses are lined up like the soldiers awaiting their orders. And as I look around the sudden chill runs down my spine and a feeling of nostalgia overcomes me – not mine but yours, a party without you. And for a split second I think I see a tear running down your cheek and another set of freckles appear out of nowhere. I blink and look away for a moment; no, it is just my imagination running away with me.

But we don’t have time for melancholy today, after all we have a party to host. Drink, I decide! They say alcohol doesn’t solve anything but then again, neither does water. Yours was pink champagne, wasn’t it? I pour myself a drink, lift up my glass and toast you. Cheers! And as I take a sip from my glass I see a faint trace of a smile on your face… Or was it just my imagination?

Did you know…?

…that ‘bottom line’ is actually an accounting term. For hundreds of years accountants have added up the profits and losses of companies. The sum appears at the bottom line of a column of numbers. While ‘bottom line’ still means a bookkeeping figure showing profit or loss, it has taken on a more general meaning since the min-1900s, and now refers to any crucial decision or final result.

Did you know…?

… that ‘turning a blind eye’ is said to have arisen as a result of the famous English naval hero Admiral Horatio Nelson, who, during the Battle of Copenhagen in 1801, is alleged to have deliberately raised his telescope to his blind eye, thus ensuring that he would not see any signal from his superior giving him discretion to withdraw from the battle.

Today it means to pretend not to notice something.

Did you know…?

…that ‘bite the hand that feeds you’ has been used since at least the early 1700s. It originally referred to a foolish ungrateful dog that actually bit the hand of the owner who was feeding it.

Today the expression has been extended to include people who turn against anyone who helps them; and it no longer has anything to do with real food or actually biting a hand.

Kids Come With Pets

Kids Come With Pets

When I was a child we didn’t have pets. We had dogs who lived outside (because that’s how thing roll in Ukraine) but those could hardly count as pets. However, we never had cats, hamsters, fishes and anything else that qualified as pets.

As a result I grew up vaguely fond of dogs and without any urges to stroke or even touch an animal, let alone bring it into my house. No, no, no! I like my life simple and pet free.

So when I agreed to look after the boys for three days I tried to ignore the fact that it wouldn’t be just the three of us in the house – a hamster Nibbles, and two cats, Pinot and Grigio, had to be added.

The boys and I quickly struck a deal – I look after the boys and the boys look after the animals. And the looking after meant litter trays, feeding and keeping the pets as far away from me as possible.

It all started very well until I remembered that Mr Chateauneaf asked me to clean the hamster’s cage with Little Dude. After tough negotiations we agreed that we would clean it at 3pm on a Monday afternoon and bake cookies afterwards.

We started just after 3pm by bringing the cage downstairs – hamster and all. Having safely detached Nibbles from his cage, DeeQ (aka big brother, also the only person who could touch the hamster) put him into a hamster ball and was now in charge of looking after him and keeping him away from the cats. Little Dude and I started cleaning the cage.

We opened the bottom part of the cage and were just about to empty it when the cats arrived, smelling the hamster. They are at an age when they chase flies, eat butterflies and play with dead voles in the garden. The latter is particularly unpleasant as I found out the day before while trying to eat my lunch in the garden with the boys. That day I also discovered that I had developed musophobia (the technical term for I-hate-mice-rats-and-any-other-rodents) having successfully tipped my lunch over, after one of the cats deposited a dead vole at my feet.

But Little Dude was unfazed by the cats. Skilfully moving them out of his way he emptied the cage contents into the black sack. He then emptied all the layers of the cage, filled them up with fresh shavings and proudly announced that ‘he always cleans the cage and daddy puts it back together again’.

Now, I can bake bread from scratch and I fluently speak three languages, but putting a hamsters cage back together required a skill I did not possess. The hamsters wheel ended up on the roof, the tube kept falling apart and was too short to connect the top and the bottom levels; and I had a pile of nuts and bolts, a new wrinkle and a bunch of grey hairs – all of which were not there when we started.

I had to admit defeat and called DeeQ to the rescue who fixed the damn thing in no time while casually chatting to me and stroking the cats, who were circling us like sharks wondering where the hamster was.

Later that evening we of course baked cookies, the only expertise I did have. I then cooked dinner which was significantly less of a success – mainly because living a single gal lifestyle meant I survived on bags of salad and an occasional take away. Cooking a homemade meal for three scratched the rusty surface off a skill that hadn’t been in use for years.

Much later that night, exhausted but satisfied I’d managed to keep the boys, the cats and the hamster all happy, fed and alive. I kissed the boys good night, tucked them into beds and poured myself a large glass of wine.

As I settled on the couch with The Big Bang theory, I couldn’t help but wonder…. Two hours later I woke up still holding my glass of wine.

Did you know…?

…that ‘touch and go’ came from 1800s. Ships would come close to touching the bottom of the sea while in shallow water. These dangerous situations sometimes ended with narrow escapes. If the ships touched the bottom but managed to go on, it had survived a ‘touch-and-go’ situation. This also applied to horse carriages when there was a narrow escape after the wheels of two carriages  touched.

Today it means any uncertain risky situation.

Did you know…?

…that ‘between the devil and the deep blue sea’ takes its origin in the early 17^th century in the sea. The heavy plank fastened to the side of a vessel as a support for guns was called the devil. Sometimes a sailor had to go out onto this plank to do repairs to the boat. In heavy seas he would be in great danger of falling overboard and drowning because he was between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Today it means between two dangers and not knowing what to do.

Did you know…?

… we started ‘beating around the bush’ back in 1500s. Hunters used to hire people called beaters to drive small animals out of the bushes so that the hunters could get a better shot at them.  So the beaters used long sticks beating around the bush, rather than directly into it.

Today it means talking about things in a roundabout way without giving clear answer or coming to the point.