The hardest phone calls I have ever made

The hardest phone calls I have ever made

It started off as a normal Wednesday morning. I arrived in the office, powered my PC on and went to make myself a cup of tea. There were people in the kitchen from the big office across from mine chatting about the night before - evidently very hungover, trying to fix the January blues.

I got back to my desk, mentally making a to-do list. I was planning to process the invoices that accumulated during the Christmas break, ‘close’ December accounts and send all the paperwork off to my accountant. I needed all my concentration and a lot of coffee.

As I was gathering all the invoices, I happened to glance at my phone. There was a Skype message from my brother and a text message from my sister-in-law. The Skype message read ‘dad is dying, there is no hope’. I didn't bother reading the text.

Daddy had been ill for the past year and a half. He had opted out from the treatments available and we had no choice but to respect his wishes. His condition was progressively declining and I knew it was just a matter of time.

So that morning, as soon I saw the message I immediately found ‘Daddy’ in my phone and pressed ‘Call’. His wife picked up. Her voice was quivering with tears. ‘He has just stopped breathing’ - she said. 

My brain knew what it meant but my heart refused to believe. How could he stop breathing? People need oxygen to live, don't they? Daddy just needs to take a deep breath and everything would be ok, couldn't she make him breathe again? He has to be ok, he is my daddy. Daddies don't die, my daddy can’t die, not yet.

But instead of crying, I asked her if there was anyone to stay with her. When I got an affirmative answer I told her I would make the calls, the hardest phone calls I ever had to make in my life. 

First I dialled my baby brother. As I heard the dialing tone I suddenly panicked. I had no idea how I was going to tell him that he had just lost his daddy, his second parent.

He picked up and I froze. I still didn't know what to say. ‘Tash, are you ok?’ - he asked. ‘Daddy has just stopped breathing’ - was all I could muster. I couldn't say ‘daddy died’ or ‘passed away’, it sounded too final, too scary.

The suppressed sob from the other end of the line sliced through my heart like a knife. My baby brother was hurting and I wasn't there to hug him. I muttered something about being in touch and hung up. I still had to phone my other brother.

Phone calls made, I sat staring at the screen. The pile of invoices was sitting there, the cup of tea was still steaming. Everything must’ve happened in a matter of minutes but felt like an eternity to me. My heart was still hoping that it was just one big joke. Maybe daddy was just holding his breath and messing with us. 

I wished for somebody to call and tell me that daddy was breathing again, that he was ok. But my phone was showing no signs of life. Anguish started spreading through my body filling me with despair. I was scared and crashed. I couldn't  imagine my life without daddy. He was always there - school, university, my wedding, my divorce. He was my shoulder, my friend, my mentor. And now he was gone.

The tears started streaming down my face. But I wasn't ready for them, couldn’t fall apart in the office. Besides, I had one more call to make. I swiped my phone to life, found ‘Mr Chateauneuf’ and pressed ‘Call’.

The power of 'sorry'

The power of 'sorry'

They say that the hardest things to tell someone are ‘I love you’, ‘Help me’ and ‘I’m sorry’. And because of their significance they are often the most important things to hear. They have the power to change everything.

The 00s wasn’t a good decade for my middle brother – he mixed with the wrong crowd, hit a rough patch and started stealing. As a result our relationship grew colder, froze and eventually shattered like an icicle that fell from a skyscraper.

In summer 2005 I came back from the UK after my gap year, with my boyfriend. One day we all were hanging out in the lounge in our parents’ house. I remember sitting on the sofa and my handbag was on the floor, right next to me. Mum called us for dinner and we got up and went to the kitchen. An hour later when I came back to the lounge, my handbag was gone.

We searched everywhere but I knew what had happened – my brother had stolen it. He denied it of course. That was the day when our relationship ended and to me he was dead. From that day onwards I only had one brother.

We haven’t spoken for ten years. Ok, that’s not completely true – we did speak out of necessity a handful of times to keep up the appearances for the sake of our family. And the last time we spoke, it was me who made the phone call because I needed him to come home to see daddy.

Over the past year daddy’s health had progressively deteriorated. Knowing that it might be the last opportunity for all of us to get together, I summoned both my brothers.

We all arrived on a cold October morning; we hugged and we acted like normal siblings. But the frost of the betrayal still chilled me to the very core, and I simply couldn’t get warm.

I looked into his eyes – he was my blood, my brother. But we were strangers and we had nothing in common, apart from our father and the desire to have a picture taken of the four of us.

The old wound had long turned into an ugly scar and all we had to do was to get through a few days. After that we all would return to our lives, separated by thousands of miles and mountains of recrimination and hurt.

We had a wonderful day with daddy. He wasn’t well and couldn’t get up. But we stayed with him all day; we joked, laughed, reminisced and made sure he laughed with us.

In the evening, as he was nodding off, we quietly slipped out, leaving him to get some sleep. It was the time for a long overdue siblings catch up so we headed to the nearest bar where the boys promptly ordered a bottle of vodka.

An hour and a bottle of vodka later, we were happily chatting away, filling in each other on what’s been happening in our lives. Suddenly my middle brother pulled his chair up and sat right next to me.

‘’I need to tell you something’’, he said. My heart stopped beating for a second.

‘’I am sorry’’, his eyes were welling up. ‘’I am sorry I stole your bag ten years ago and I am sorry was such a jerk to you’’. Unable to utter a single word, I hugged him and we sat motionless for a couple of minutes.

I couldn’t believe he remembered, or how sorry he was.  The brother I considered dead for so many years, was suddenly back in my life and very much alive.  

Of course I forgave him, and in true woman style I pretended it didn’t matter and said it was ancient history, water under the bridge. But he shook his head and said that although it was water under the bridge, it also took ten years of our lives.

And as I looked at his sad eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder, what did it cost him to say sorry? When did he turn his life around? What did we miss out on?

The boys ordered another bottle of vodka and champagne for me. The night was young and we had a lot to catch up on, ten years worth.

Why autumn is so important

Why autumn is so important 

Autumn has always been my favourite season. I never cared much for summer – it was always too hot, spring – too muddy, and winter – way too cold and snowy. But autumn was special - mild and colourful - to me it was the best season of all. Even when I was a kid and the beginning of autumn also meant the beginning of school, I still loved it.

And as the years were flying by, my love for autumn never faltered. I would still go for a long walk in the park and collect a bouquet of colourful leaves. Even shopping I find more inspiring in autumn and I always pick up a new jumper or a pair of boots, or a coat, or a scarf – or all of the above.

The beginning of this autumn was very exciting – Mr Chateauneuf got a new contract, and we quickly realised that it demanded all of his time and energy. And the more he was getting involved with the job, the more house responsibilities I took on. Until everything began to spiral out of control.

Mr Chateauneuf filled his days with meetings, emails and phone calls – oh, there were so many phone calls. There were made and taken at ungodly hours in the morning and inappropriately late in the evening; they interrupted our family dinners and brought to a halt so many conversations.

Some nights I would go to bed and Mr Chateauneuf would still be working, I would wake up in the morning, and he would already be on his phone answering emails or taking/making yet another call – at 5am.

I became a full time mum, desperately trying to hold a full time job as well. My priorities shifted from writing, shopping and lunching with girlfriends to making sure the boys woke up on time, had showers, changed their pants (Little Dude had been known not to shower for days!), did their homework, fed the cats and that there was a dinner on the table for them in the evening.

I also lost my mascara but didn’t realise it until a week later, because I hadn’t worn it. Elegant heels were collecting dust in a shoe cabinet while flat boots were getting more wear than ever.

Our diaries were filled with carefully planned entries, and we had to live our lives with a military precision to ensure nothing was dropped or forgotten. And as crazy and manic as our schedules were, somewhere in that whirlpool of events, there was a long awaited annual lunch with some dear old friends.

We usually meet up in our friend’s house, and this year was no exception. On arrival we were greeted by a bear hug from our host and the traditional glass of champagne. And once everybody was there and the kids ran off to play, we all gathered around the Aga, enjoying its cosy warmth and a long overdue catch up.

The entertainment for the kids was carving out the pumpkins in  preparation for Halloween. The idea was to carve out all the pumpkins and set them on the table covered and surrounded by leaves. As the kids expedition to collect the foliage was getting ready, it was hardly a question of who would go out with them.

In the garden all the girls were bubbling with excitement, admiring different shapes, sizes and colours of the leaves. We were rushing from one tree to another, collecting the most colourful and bright leaves. These were then carefully deposited into plastic bags and given to the boys, who bored and disengaged, were awkwardly tugging behind us.

And as my own leaves bouquet was growing bigger, it suddenly occurred to me that in-between cooking dinners, washing and worrying about clean pants, I nearly missed autumn.  

Ok, I didn’t forget to shop this year but I didn’t go for my traditional walk. I missed the smell of fallen foliage and rain, I never stopped and listened to October silence and I didn’t collect the leaves. An important entry was missing from my diary – I forgot to schedule autumn.

Much later that night, as the pumpkins were carved and placed on a vibrant blanket of leaves, and my glass was refilled for the hundredth time, I couldn’t help but wonder, maybe I didn’t miss autumn. After all I shopped – check, collected leaves – check, kind of been for a walk – check and as a special addition to my traditions, we carved out pumpkins.

Ok, I wasn’t carving out anything – Mr Chateauneuf was – I was drinking wine. But still, pumpkins were carved and most of my boxes were ticked. Autumn officially happened and I most certainly didn’t miss it.

Questions every stepmum dreads

Questions every stepmum dreads

As a stepmother, I get asked an unending string of questions posed by the family, close and not-so-close friends, and even by people I barely know.

When I first started dating Mr Chateauneuf, those questions didn’t bother me. But now, three years later, I have developed something of an allergic reaction to them. The last time I had a volley of them fired at me, I was at a hotel bar. The lady asking them was somebody I had only met that night. As soon as I got the first question I excused myself and fled for my room. And I still didn’t come up with an adequate defence to stop them.

One Saturday evening, after a busy family day out, we managed to get an earlier train home. Because it was a busy train and our seats were reserved on the departure that was due an hour and a half later, we didn’t get seats.

Like professional commuters we found a solution - we sat on the floor. Right next to the toilets. Directly opposite the loos and leaning against the window, were two older ladies chatting away.

The migration towards the lavatories began as soon as the train left the station. After the third visitor, an orderly queue was formed. And as the passengers were coming up to the loos, the two ladies by the window were asked the same questions – are you in the queue? Is there anybody in there? Have they been there long?

When eventually the queue disintegrated, I jokingly said to the ladies that they should write a sign with all the answers to the questions they’d been asked at least ten times that evening, to save them answering the same questions over and over again.

And as Mr Chateauneuf and the boys joined our friendly banter, I suddenly had a thought. I needed the answered questions board.

If only it was socially acceptable to produce my answers sheet to the questions people are dying to ask, I might start liking people again. I might even be less anxious meeting new people and dreading the compulsory Q&A session of introductory conversation.

After all, we email each other at work sitting right next to each other. One night I even emailed Mr Chateauneuf, while lying next to him in bed. So, I think it’s about time I produced a neatly prepared answer sheet and skipped all the drama.

• Three years we’ve been together.
• No, we are not married.
• Yes, we are going to one day.
• No, the boys are not mine.
• No, I don’t have any children of my own.
• No, I am not going to have any children of my own.
• Because we don’t want to.
• Because I’m selfish and like my life the way it is, and my breasts – not saggy.
• No, I don’t want a girl – I have a niece.
• I know the boys are not mine.
• No, I don’t feel I am missing out.
• Yes, I am sure I am not missing out.
• I don’t need my own, I love these two.

Broken heart

Broken heart

I had barely walked through the door after a long day at work, when I was pulled into the lounge and the door shut behind me.  DeeQ urgently needed to speak to me and it clearly couldn’t wait.

As soon as the door was shut behind me, I was hit with the news – he had broken up with his girlfriend. At that point I needed to sit down. Only a couple of days before we were talking about his adorable girlfriend and planning a trip to the cinema. And now they were no longer together.

Turns out somebody started a rumour in school that DeeQ was chatting to another girl. As soon as he found out about the rumour, we had an emergency conference at home and agreed a strategy on preserving his relationship.

So DeeQ spoke to his girlfriend and assured her that those were lies and that there was nobody else other than her. She took it well, they made up and lived happily ever after for the whole day after that.

The following day at school DeeQ caught her with another boy. Without hesitation he broke up with her there and then.

I was shocked and really didn’t know what to say. Obviously catching your girlfriend talking to another boy is bad enough to break up with her.

Did I get it? Absolutely not, but I had to support DeeQ. After all, I knew what it felt like to break up with somebody when you are 15.

In October 1999, just after half term, I started dating this cute boy who was in the same class as me. We used to skive PE together, and after school he would walk me home and carry my bag for me. Which was oh-so-adorable and thinking of it now, rather chivalrous.

Our undying love lasted for the whole month. Until one day he came over ‘to help me with my homework’ – code for ‘snogging in my room’.

It was raining that day and I took his wet coat into the kitchen to let it dry out, leaving him in the hallway to take his boots off.

When I came back, they were already off. I looked down at his feet and froze, a look of sheer horror on my face. The undying love that I had been nurturing for the whole month, died on the spot. No, his feet weren’t smelly. His socks were clean and didn’t have holes in them. The problem was that his socks were orange.

They say there is a thin line between love and hate. It turns out for me at 15 that line was orange socks – I hated them so much that I broke up with my boyfriend. I figured I couldn’t risk being seen with somebody wearing something as embarrassing as orange socks.

For the rest of the night DeeQ was glued to his iPad. He was constantly checking his Instagram and Snapchat and eventually announced that she had changed her status to ‘Single’.

He tried to be blasé about it, but I could see he was hurting. Even though he broke up the relationship because he knew he couldn’t be with her after what she had done, he still liked her.

So to show my support, I opened my emergency box of chocolates. We then changed into onesies, climbed under a blanket and put ‘Sex and the City’ on; because nothing cures a broken heart like sugar and a movie. 

Teach them young

Teach them young

“You do it Tash”, whined Little Dude. “You do it so much better. And look, I’ve just created another crease.”

I started teaching Little Dude how to iron but he had been martyring himself over his school shirts for 40 minutes now. He started off cheerfully enough but towards his fourth shirt he lost all the interest in the lesson, along with his jumper and some of the skin off his fingers. He claimed to have burnt himself with steam at least five times. I wistfully looked at the bottle of Malbec, patiently waiting for me on the counter.

At regular intervals he kept reminding me that it was unfair he had to iron his school uniform when there was ‘an important England game’ on (if I had a penny for every time I heard the adjective ‘important’ in relation to a football game).

A couple of times I was close to snatching the iron off him and finishing the job myself, but I knew it would achieve nothing. After all I was on a mission.

It all started a week before when I was having a lunch with Jenny. She recently joined a new company in the City which meant we now were only one tube stop apart and could lunch whenever we wanted to.

Over a bowl of delicious pasta, Jenny confided that her boyfriend does absolutely nothing to help around the house. He doesn’t know how to hoover, dust, mop the floor and it would never in a million years even occur to him that the chores should be shared. No, in his world house work is a woman’s domain and should never be imposed on a man.

“And you know what”, Jenny was seething, waving her fork with a meatball stuck on it in front of me, “I blame his mother! She taught him absolutely nothing! The man is over 40 years of age and he can’t hoover, for goodness sake!”

I stopped with my own fork mid-air, the spaghetti I carefully wound on it unravelling and splatting me with spicy tomato sauce. Slowly I put my fork down and stared at Jenny as if she had just told me she was an alien.

His mother taught him nothing and in his early 40s not only he didn’t know how to hoover and dust, but didn’t think he should be doing those jobs either. I have two boys of my own growing up, who hide and put their headphones on as soon as I turn a hoover on, only vaguely know how an iron works and whose rooms look like the aftermath of an exploding bomb.

I couldn’t help but wonder, in ten years from now, what will my boys’ girls have to say about them? Will they be helpful and handy or will the girls quietly condemn me as a parent? What does it take to bring up a successful man?

Suddenly a penny dropped and I realised that my job was not only to teach my boys everything there was to know about taking care of themselves, but also that splitting chores is a perfectly normal arrangement in a 21^st century family.

As I looked at Little Dude huffing and puffing over his last shirt, I knew that the 40 minutes of ironing were a great investment into his future.

He finally finished his shirt, put it on a hanger and exhaled. “I’m really not good at this, Tash”, he gave a theatrical sign.

“It takes practice, darling. By the end of your school year you will be a pro. Well done today and I will see you next Sunday”, I chimed, unfazed by his performance.

Unimpressed, he made a quick escape towards the lounge and the noise of yet another ‘important’ game. I poured myself a glass of Malbec immediately.

Baking bread

Baking bread

I love baking bread. There is something comforting about the whole process – kneading, proving and watching the dough double in size, knocking it back, shaping, proving again and finally putting it into the oven.

But however captivating the process might be, baking bread is a complex exercise as so many things can go wrong.  I’ve learnt that simple things like using water at the right temperature or fresh yeast can make all the difference.

But the best advice I’ve ever received was from my grandma years ago. Before I started school I used to spend a lot of time with her, watching her cook and bake. ‘Dough is alive, it has a mind of its own’, she used to say. ‘You must only make bread if you are happy, it feeds on positivity. If you are not happy while you are making bread, the dough won’t rise for you.’

And that advice became my own lucky charm, superstition and one of the fondest memories of my grandma. I have never made bread while I was unhappy. I couldn’t risk it.

Linda was leaning on the breakfast bar in my kitchen and enjoying her third glass of Prosecco, while I was getting the ingredients ready for sundried tomatoes and olive wholemeal loaf. ‘Exactly what is he waiting for?’, she slurred. ‘We’ve been together for four years – we got a mortgage and a dog together. I’m not getting younger and my biological clock is ticking. Why isn’t he proposing?’

The reason Chris wasn’t proposing was because he didn’t have the slightest interest in marrying Linda and was regularly caught with the trousers around his ankles by Linda herself. And each time she forgave him and took him back.

Meanwhile, I had a dilemma of my own – I had all the ingredients for my loaf but I wasn’t sure about the yeast. It was still in date but I know from experience that date on the yeast means nothing. If it’s been open long enough, it won’t work.

‘I do everything for him – I clean, cook, wash, iron and shop. He doesn’t have to do anything,’ – the bottle was almost empty and Linda was now struggling to sit upright and was half-laying on the breakfast bar. ‘Am I that undesirable? What is wrong with me? Why won’t he marry me’, - she wailed.

I replaced the flute in her hand with a glass of water and pondered if I should take her to the lounge and settle her on the sofa. On the other hand I wanted to prepare bread dough and leave it to prove. But looking at the sorry state of Linda I decided to leave the bread making until later and took her to the lounge.

‘Tash, what if he will never marry me? What if he finds somebody better than me and leaves me?’, - suddenly sober and her eyes were gleaming, as if she had just discovered Penicillin. I knew that my response wasn’t required, Linda was merely voicing her thoughts and talking to herself – I just happened to be sitting next to her.

As I listened to her stream of consciousness, I couldn’t help but wonder, when it comes to relationships and baking, is it worth starting something if you don’t have the right ingredients? And if you are already half way through, do you keep going and hope for the best or do you bin it and start from scratch with the right ingredients?  At what point do you whisk away?

I didn’t make bread that day – didn’t want to start it with bad yeast and an upset girlfriend. But Linda didn’t follow my suit.

She came to a conclusion that she should leave Chris before he left her. Two days later she called and said that Chris proposed. There was no ring as he ‘is saving up’ for a special one, Linda ate that right out of his hand.

Things I didn't know about living in the country

Things I didn't know about living in the country

It’s been two months and one day since I swapped my heels for a pair of Converse and moved to the sticks. The countryside met me with its relaxed way of life, sunshine and quietness. It sent the birds to wake me up in the morning, lit the stars for me to admire in the middle of the night and enveloped me in its serenity, shedding stress and tension like an outfit that no longer fits.

 

And as with any great relationship, ours has gone past ‘Dating’ and arrived in the region of ‘Familiar’. As a result I started seeing the country for what it really is:

 

There are flies everywhere. It’s not just the noise - they getting in your eyes, up your nose and under your clothes. It’s like all the flies have been banished from the cities and into the country. My Google history is full of search words like ‘fly deterrent’, ‘insectocutor’ and ‘how to get rid of flies’. So far I’ve spent two months’ worth of my shoe budget on various fly killers and nothing has worked.

 

Living in the middle of nowhere means everything is far. My nearest pint of milk is six miles away, let alone the emergency bar of chocolate, Chinese take away or a decent bottle of wine. I had to bribe the man from Dominos to deliver pizza this far away from civilisation.

 

You have to get up REALLY early to catch a train into London. My alarm clock forgot what 6am looks like as it’s no good here. Unless you get up before 5.30am, you are already late.

 

Cats eat birds. I know this is a common knowledge but until you see your cat casually eating a pigeon he had just dragged in - with feathers flying everywhere and other unsightly things deposited on your freshly mopped, still wet floor - then you have no idea what it really means.

 

I have developed a desire to kill. Sometimes I lie in bed at night and scheme various ways of murdering the cat, as the visions of that pigeon all over my kitchen floor haunt my dreams.

When I look back at the London life I used to treasure so much, I realise the value of everything I have left behind is indeed in comparison.

 

I thoroughly enjoyed living next door to an M&S garage and satisfying my midnight cravings by walking less than five minutes; loved rolling out of bed at 7am to catch my train to London and still being the first in the office; and didn’t even realise how great it was to live in cat and insect free environment.

But as I sit in my lovingly-constructed writer’s cabin, wallowing in the sunshine, listening to music and sipping tea (while Mr Chateauneuf is cooking something delicious in the kitchen), I realise that the country life isn’t that bad either.

After all, getting up at the crack of dawn is actually satisfying (once you get used to it); some of the fly traps do work – I just need to find them; and a cat’s life span is on average 15 years, so I only have 14 to go.

What men really think

What men really think

It is a truth universally acknowledged that women never stop thinking. We can accommodate thousands of thoughts at one time, create much ado about nothing and successfully have a full blown argument over ‘what we thought someone might’ve said’.

However, if that someone happens to be our beloved, it gets a lot worse. The misunderstanding begins as a spark and gets fuelled by an unending supply of thoughts that we regenerate prodigiously on a daily basis. Until eventually it explodes into an inferno.

If Mr Chateauneuf and I kept diaries, this would’ve been an account of events for last weekend.

Me:

‘Dear Diary

It was a glorious Saturday morning. I jumped out of the bed and hit the gym while Mr Chateauneuf was getting ready to go for a bike ride.

I was ten minutes into my cross trainer session when he came to kiss me good bye. We briefly discussed our plans for the day and off he went – all happy and cheerful.

A couple of hours later he came back home and I noticed he was a little subdued. I thought he was simply exhausted after his bike ride so I drew him a bath with oils and salts, got a fresh towel out and while he was soaking, I went downstairs and cooked him an omelette.

After bath and lunch he settled in front of the TV for his usual sport-something-or-other-match which inevitably turned into a couple of hours nap.

But even after his bath, lunch and nap he was still distant. While cooking dinner he barely said a word to me. I asked him if everything was ok or if I had upset him, but he only smiled and said everything was fine. Over dinner the boys did all the talking, completely oblivious to how quiet their daddy was.  

When we got to bed, I snuggled up to him and whispered ‘I love you’. He mechanically smiled ‘I love you too’. He then reached for his phone and remained glued to it for the rest of the night.

As I rolled over to my side of the bed, I couldn’t help but wonder, is this it? Is this how the most beautiful romance in my life ends? I am losing him and I don’t even know why, is it possible to stop loving somebody in one day?

That night I cried myself to sleep, he didn’t even notice. There was a massive wall between us.’

Mr Chateauneuf:

‘Dear diary

There is something wrong with my bike brakes; I wonder what it is…’

If the shoe fits....

If the shoe fits...

Sometimes the only thing standing between a girl and that perfect outfit is the last item that is being delivered hours before the event. And suddenly everything depends on whether or not it will fit.


A few weeks ago I was attending a garden party and had spent months researching and planning the outfit. I bought three dresses (all returnable), a bucket of jewellery pieces to go with all of the dresses and at the very last moment I found the perfect pair of shoes.


They were due to arrive the day before the party and I didn’t have a plan B. Those shoes suddenly became my universe and they had to fit, there was no other option. 


I always took my relationship with shoes very seriously but this was a different level altogether. So when I got that email notification that my order had arrived at the store, I leapt out of my chair and flew to the shop. The deadline I was working on became so insignificant compared to this.


As I was approaching the store my stomach got tied up in the knots. I timidly pushed the door open, ''What if they don’t fit?'' – was all I could think.


The sales assistant was very helpful and produced my order in the matter of minutes. She then helpfully released my order from careful packaging and opened the box…


I released the breath I didn’t realise I was holding – the shoes looked perfect. In fact they were better than the picture. And I knew it would break my heart even more if I had to send them back – I was already in love.


''They have to fit'' – I nervously laughed. ''I have a garden party tomorrow and no plan B. But I’m a bit concerned that they might be a little too big.''


''Oh don’t you worry'', - she said and disappeared into the back room. Seconds later she came back holding a pair of insoles.


''Here'', - she said. ''These will give you that half a size you might need.''


She slotted the insoles into the shoes and put them on the floor in front of an oversized antique mirror. I nervously moved forward and stepped into the shoes. It was like a fairy tale and I was Cinderella. The shoes made me feel like I had just stepped out of a magazine cover, and they fitted perfectly.


I thanked my fairy god mother sales assistant and she just laughed it off: ''Comes with experience of working in a shoe shop. That, and years of making the wrong size shoe fit.''


With the shoes and a new pair of insoles safely tucked away into a big signature bag, I left the shop. But as her last words kept ringing in my ears, I couldn’t help but wonder, in the world of anything-is-possible, are we too used to quick little fixes? If we worked out how to make the wrong shoe fit, then does it mean we are settling for less?


That weekend as I got dressed for the party and slid into the shoes, I studied my reflection in the mirror. It was well thought through – the colours worked, the jewellery complemented the outfit and the shoes were just perfect.


I couldn’t resist a twirl and as caught the reflection of the shoes in the mirror I had a thought. Maybe I saw it all wrong, maybe it wasn’t about the settling for the wrong size at all. Sometimes life surprises us with something so amazing and rare that if all we have to do is apply a little fix to make it work, we would be crazy not to.


That weekend I knew I didn’t settle for less, I made something fabulous work.

Things you never say to a girl

Things you never say to a girl

‘’You really need to learn to look after your skin’’ – the words jolted Carla away from her phone. They came from her boyfriend who was lying right next to her, lazily scanning her face. ‘’You, white girls, have no idea how to look after yourselves.’’

Carla stared at him in disbelief. ‘Are you actually saying those words?’’ -  was all she could muster.

Not reading her reaction well, he continued - ‘’You have that spot on your face and you could’ve prevented it, you know, and…’’

‘’Enough! What is wrong with you? Who says THAT to a girl?’’ – Carla roared.  Not one to accept insults, she attacked like an angry tigress, sending the message loud and clear – ‘In the interests of safety and preservation of manhood, leave the premises immediately.’

The following weekend, when Carla relayed the story to me over brunch of eggs and coffee, I didn’t dare to ask what happened to him after that. (Although I do recall reading a story in a local paper about a man who drove himself to A&E with a folk sticking out of his face. I guess it could’ve been a coincidence.)

I must admit, I was shocked myself. I’ve always thought that it was common knowledge not to say certain things to a girl. The skin comment would be there together with ‘Did you put some weight on?’, ‘Must be that time of the month’ and ‘How much did those shoes cost?’ But evidently, the common knowledge memo never reached Carla’s boyfriend

On the way home from brunch I was trying to think of enraging comments I have heard from men. But at the time I couldn’t remember a single one.

Later that day, as I was sorting out some papers in my office, I stumbled across a box of old photos. They mainly consisted of bad hair styles, poor fashion choices and questionable taste in men. Most of them made me laugh until I came across I picture of him – a boyfriend of four years and his remark that haunted me for ages.

It was summer of 2000 and we were hanging out in my room. He put his hands on my shoulders in that melt-your-heart romantic way and I thought he was going to kiss me. Instead he said: ‘’Whoa! You have really broad shoulders!’’

I spent the following few years avoiding strapless outfits and covering up, without realising I was doing it. Until one girlie night, when my sister-in-law and I were swapping stories and steadily emptying a bottle of vodka, I remembered the reason why I didn’t wear strapless.

‘’Tash, he is hardly a fashion icon! He is fat, boring and he can’t spell, are you really taking criticism from that guy??’’ – she shouted without pausing for a breath. ‘’Besides, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your shoulders’’.

She had a point.  I went back to wearing whatever I wanted, archiving him and the whole experience so deep in my memory, that I needed a jolt to even remember him.

I put all the photos back into the box and put it away, but the memory was lingering like a bad smell. I couldn’t help but wonder, what makes us let people affect our lives with their language? And if they speak negatively, what makes us stay with them? When does constructive criticism become destructive?

That night I had a date with Mr Chateauneuf and as I opened my wardrobe, my eyes went to a red strapless dress I bought a couple of months earlier. I knew I had to wear it that night.

An hour later as I slid into the passenger seat next to him, I felt his gaze caressing my shoulders. ‘’Looking hot hunni’’ – he winked at me and started the car.  

I smiled, wondering if he realised that he had just given me the best compliment I had ever received.

Why I hate cats

Why I hate cats

My mum, a proud lady of the house that she was, taught me the importance of order in life. She had a strong sense of right and wrong, a tidy house and a system to organise just about anything. Her cupboards were neatly arranged, bills always paid and she even managed to find time to keep the biscuit tin filled with homemade goodies.

And as I grew older, the inbread obsession to be tidy grew with me. Not only do I keep my drawers tidy, but I apply the same principle and have a mental filing system.

A part of this structure is my ‘Love’ and ‘Hate’ section. Everything I ever come across gets filed away in to either ‘Love’ or ‘Hate’ folder. Over the course of the years a number of files in my system got transferred from ‘Love’ to ‘Hate’ but only a very limited number of ‘Hate’ items redeemed themselves into ‘Love’.

One file in my ‘Hate’ folder that never changed is cats. I grew up with dogs and as a result never developed affection towards their rivals.

A year before I moved in with Mr Chateauneuf, he got cats. Not just one but two kittens. It was a drunken night and the kids pestered me – was his excuse. To say I was furious was an understatement.

The following months I considered a break-up, hiring a cat hit man and oldie but goodie – an ultimatum ‘me or cats’. But as the anger subsided and common sense prevailed I decided to do the unspeakable – move in despite the cats.

So on 23^rd May 2015, having packed my life into boxes and loaded it into a van, I left the safely of my London pet free flat and moved to the country and into a house with cats. If somebody said to me three years ago that I would do that, I would’ve slapped them and unfriended them  on Facebook.

Mr Chateauneuf knew that no good would come out of me living with cats and came up with a genius idea – create a space for me. So he built me a teremok (Russian for cute wooden house) at the bottom of the garden, where I could escape to read, write and just take a break from general noise. But more importantly where cats are not allowed.

As my teremok was filling up with familiar items I brought from London, I was feeling more relaxed and at home. And although it was nowhere near finished yet, one cold evening I escaped there, just to get some solitude.

And just as I made myself comfortable on the chair, I heard a scratch at the door. I looked over and surprise, surprise – the cats found me, both of them. Like sharks, they were circling my teremok, trying to find a way in.

For a split second a felt a panic flutter, and then I remembered that I it’s mice I’m scared of, not cats. I can deal with cats and more importantly – there is no way they can get in, unless I open the door. So I ignored them, listened to music, flicked through magazines and eventually relaxed and forgot all about them.

An hour later as I powered on my laptop, I noticed one of the cats sitting patiently by the door. She wasn’t scratching or begging, she was simply sitting there, looking at me through the window. It was like that episode from Catwoman when Selina meets cat’s eyes. Mesmerised and despite all my instincts I opened the door and she ran into my teremok.

I went back to writing while she went on exploring tour around my office. It didn’t feel completely natural having a cat in but I had to admit, she brought a certain degree of peace and serenity.  And before long, in true cat style, she jumped on my desk and I let her.

As I was watching her exploring my teremok, I couldn’t help but wonder, if something as huge as cats got taken out of ‘Hate’ folder, then what else can be moved? Is there a hope for other ‘Hate’ items? Can I learn to love after all?

I watched her jump on the book shelf and from there everything started happening in slow motion. She walked over to my favourite picture frame, knocked it over, it fell and smashed against the shelving unit underneath. The glass particles flew all over my office.

And right there I remembered why cats are in my ‘Hate’ folder. I kicked her out immediately and shut the door behind her.