Praise you

As far as social blunders go I’m pretty much up there with Frank Spencer, Boris Johnson and that bloke from Something from the Weekend who always breaks the gadgets and seems to think mumbling words with no inflection whatsoever makes for good TV (which somehow it does, I hate that). I often feel like I’m a walking disaster area, going through life from one banana skin to the next just waiting to crash to the floor, take out a priceless vase on my way down and break something really embarrassing (like my ass bone) in the process.

But I don’t think I’m that different to most people. We’re all socially awkward in our own way, the difference with me being I obsess over it. I’ll do or say something I later consider stupid, then allow it to roll around in my mind over and over, until it has snowballed into this massive thought knocking out all other thoughts that threaten to get in its way.

After my teenage years when I felt like nothing I ever did was cool or right, and more sleepless nights than I can remember obsessing about how crap I was, I started to censor myself to avoid as much social embarrassment as I could. Over the years I thought I was delicately honing this personality that didn’t come out of the toilet with her knickers stuck in her tights, never had home hair colouring disasters and always knew the right thing to say. In short, I tried to become a cool, sophisticated, breezy person a million miles away from who I felt inside. I don’t think I ever actually achieved that persona, but it helped to have something to aim for.

But the fact is, you can only censor yourself so much. And now that I’m a grown woman, not a shaking wreck of a fifteen year old, I can finally, finally give myself a break. Because I now know that I’m not the only person that gets it wrong sometimes, and worries about it. There are millions and millions of us out there, feeling insecure, wishing we could go back and change some small inconsequential thing that we’ve done. So we might say or do the wrong things and want to kick ourselves in the head but that person that you are thinking you said the wrong thing to? They are probably kicking themselves in their head about something they said or did to you that you didn’t even notice. And if they’re not, well good for them. But growing up has taught me that those of us who do obsess and worry can comfort ourselves in the knowledge that it’s not because we’re crap, it’s because we care.

I can be a bitch sometimes, like everyone else. But it doesn’t happen often because I have an unquenchable thirst to please people, making people happy is what I like to do best in the whole world, and I think that’s true for most people. There was an article in this months Glamour magazine saying that we should all be complimenting each other more, because it makes us feel good. Erm, hello? This is not news to me. I love to praise people, because I know only too well how hard it can be if you are an over thinker, and I don’t want to give anyone any more cause to obsess and worry than their own brain already does for them. It’s not about being dishonest, it’s about seeing the good in someone, in something and everything, and telling them how really good that thing is.

I don’t want to go through life simply not upsetting people, I want to go through life making people feel great and helping them see how utterly brilliant they are. Maybe that’s not my job but I do it anyway. Always look for, and point out, the best of everyone and everything. It’s just a shame that sometimes my own mind won’t let me praise myself. But maybe that’s my pay off. And I’m hoping that if I can see the best in others, they might, just might, be seeing the best in me too (and not notice, or at least not mention, that I’ve got toilet paper stuck to my foot).

The best advice ever given

My mum rang last night to hear about my weekend shenanigans. Mums have a habit of handing out advice even when you haven't asked for it and don't need it anyway. But this time, she uncharacteristically said “Well I’m not going to say anything today”. It turns out she read my stars this week and the universe thinks I must ignore any advice from a loved one. Thanks mum, surely telling me to ignore advice constitutes advice?

Anwyay, people just love to give advice don’t they? What advice have you been given that has worked or failed? Here are a few little nuggets passed on to me over the years…

Good advice: Follow your heart

Your head may be pretty competent but your heart has the monopoly on your true feelings. When you’ve got your heart going one way and your head going another it’s all too easy to play it safe. But life is for living, rules are for bending, and hearts are for breaking. A life without heartbreak is a life unlived. Follow your heart, then deal with the pain and anguish by eating a huge bar of Fruit and Nut and having a three hour natter with your best friend. It makes everything better.

Bad advice: If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with

Well there’s a recipe for pain, heartache and/or disaster if ever I heard one. If you can’t be with the one you love… mourn the one you love until you are truly over them. Don’t drag other people down to mask your heartache. Admittedly “if you can’t be with the one you love, sit at home alone crying in your pyjamas eating Dairy Milk and looking through photo albums for months on end until you’re ready to go out and meet someone new” does not have quite the same catchy ring to it as the original (covered by many) versions of the song, but it would make for a far more useful pop song.

Good advice: Don’t over think things

Note to self: Listen to this advice. Enough said.

Bad advice: Having a plan makes everything run smoothly

But having a plan also means extra time taken to make that plan, stress caused when unforeseen circumstances result in straying from the plan, and massive rows over ones rigidity in sticking to the plan: “shut up about the plan woman” (which can all add up to a miserable holiday/day out/life for all). Good advice in theory but in practise, having a plan can ruin the fun.

Good advice: Never say never

Be flexible, keep all doors open, don’t limit your opportunities; are all sound advice in my humble opinion. In fact, I said a few months ago I’d never wear a crop top in public again. The fact that I’d used the word “never” played heavily on my mind so I wore a crop top just to prove to myself I could, and got a massive confidence boost from the reaction of a bunch of young, fit lads (admittedly far too young and fit for me but still). Best. Day. Ever.

Bad advice: Just once won’t do any harm

Just one fag can get you addicted, just one glass of wine can spiral into a drinking binge of epic proportions, just one bite of the kids dinner at dishing up time can result in hungry children and extra pounds on the scale (and not being able to wear a crop top in public). Take it from me, just once can do a lot of harm.

Good advice: Don’t wash with soap

The main ingredient in soap and shower gel? Sodium lauryl sulphate, which is also used to clean engines. Seriously, how dirty can you be? I just wish water smelled nicer, coming out of the shower smelling of, erm… water is not as nice as coming out smelling of rose and jasmine. OK, don’t wash with soap may be good advice as far as the condition of your skin is concerned but bad advice if you like to smell nice (which I do, just to stop the soap dodging comments flooding in).

Bad advice: That spot/scab is ready…

Really? OK go on then. Great, now I have a huge hole in my face three times the size of the original spot, weeping pus like the mouth of a drooling baby. The spot is ready? Stick some concealer on it and leave it the fuck alone.

But the best advice of all time is never, ever give advice. Or at least always issue a warning/disclaimer with it.

Disclaimer: All advice is taken at your risk, don’t come crying to me if you get your heart broken, the spot gets infected or your friends don’t want to sit next to you because you don’t smell of rose and jasmine…

What your Facebook says about you

Facebook is (weirdly, given it’s a public forum) quite a private part of my life. I don’t really want random people knowing what my kids look like or hearing that I’ve had a bad day. But Facebook is dangerous. It seems to have the biggest capacity for oversharing, over and above all other mediums. Most of us are occasional Facebook over sharers; from the gross “Check out my birthing pix, here’s Fleur crowning!!!”, boring child related info: “Agamemnon put on his own socks for the first time today, they grow up so fast” through to the downright too personal: “Period from hell L”

So, given my penchant for the occasional overshare I am really, really strict about who I add to my Facebook friends list. But I have let a few slip under the net in recent weeks so it was time to do a bit of housekeeping; update my job title to make it seem more corporate, untag hideous pictures of myself etc. It’s the virtual equivalent of tidying your house before someone new comes round for the first time. You really don’t want new friends to know that you have a stack of used toilet rolls in your bathroom and that you rarely change your bed sheets.

But should I really be editing my life like this? A new disorder called Facebook Depression, caused by the overwhelming envy felt when witnessing the glamour and excitement of other people’s lives as portrayed over Facebook, has surfaced. And I can see why. There is always an element of jealousy when someone posts pictures from their once in a lifetime holiday to the Maldives whilst you are cutting your toenails in front of Take Me Out. Every “ding” of a clipping in that ashtray represents another tanned, smiling photo popping up to remind you that your life just isn’t as fabulous.

But the beauty of Facebook is that we all have the option to make our lives seem as brilliant as we like. Sometimes a well meaning friend might post a less than flattering photograph, in which case the untagging button comes in handy. I’ll hold my hand up and admit that I untag myself from pictures where my burger head (to clarify: that’s when your head looks as wide as it is tall) or ham arms (to clarify: that’s when the tops of your arms look like those big bits of ham hanging in Spanish supermarkets) seem like the focus of the picture.

But if I am untagging photos of my burger head I can’t be so naive as to think that these people who are showing off their tropical tans, looking stunning in their drunken photos and constantly “checking in” at brilliant bars are not also doing a little bit of censorship of their own. I mean come on, we all have some skeletons in our cupboards.

Facebook has become both a blessing and a curse. As if we really need anything else to sap the few hours in every day, we now spend half our time trawling through pictures of other peoples new babies, finding out (whether you like it or not) that your friend has reached the dizzying heights of level 263 on Diamond Dash and there’s yet another competition from that random company that you only clicked like to because you mistakenly believed you might get some free stuff. And yes, I want to see who last looked at my profile, oh whoops that’s spam, now everyone can see that I wanted to know who was looking at me. Busted. But now it’s getting serious, we are paying for it with our mental health.

And now we’ve got the timeline (which I hated at first but now I kind of like), we all have even more of an opportunity to customise our page and make it our own. We can change the design of it and generally make our Facebook profile seem a little more special. But the reality is that the timeline feature is nothing more than a school uniform, everyone has to wear it so we all try to make it our own by hitching up our skirts, grafittiing our ties or wearing our jumpers round our waists but whatever we do with it, it’s still a school uniform.

We all want our Facebook page to seem like the cool place to hang out, and therefore there has to be an element of control over what people see. We want people to think our lives naturally fell into this pattern of uber coolness, with no censorship or life butchery on our parts.

But if the truth be known, Facebook tells very little about the real person behind it, because it’s all edited, highlighted and created about the you you want to show the world. They say never believe everything you read, and Facebook is no exception. So don’t fall prey to Facebook Depression. The truth is everyone has toenail clippings, and whether the ashtray you are putting them in is in Thailand or Telford, they all smell like cheese.

Retro Repost - My Goldfish Theory of Time Management

It's Manic Monday, and my new job started today. Son number two started at the childminder (and managed to not attack anyone while there), the son is shining and all is right with the world. Except that I didn't manage to write a new blog post. Therefore I am reposting this entry, written nearly a year ago. So much has changed in my life, yet so much stays the same. This post it is quite apt for how I have felt today, I just wish I had a little more time in my tank to write a new post. Enjoy.


My Goldfish Theory of Time Management


We all have the same number of hours in a day. The same number of minutes, the same number of seconds. So why is it that some people manage to do so much with those hours and others very little?

"I don't have enough time." "I'm too busy." I have said these things so many times. As a stay a home mum I always feel that I never have enough time. I don't have a very tidy house (and if I'm honest, it's not very clean either), I don't iron anything yet somehow I always feel that I am rushed off my feet and never have enough time to do anything.

My dad once asked me "but what do you DO all day?" I was so affronted by this. I felt he was insinuating that I spent all day watching Jeremy Kyle, while feeding my kids turkey twizzlers in their pyjamas. As anyone who has stayed at home looking after kids for very long knows, it's a busy job. Shitty nappies, trying not to get buried under a deluge of toys and mess, more shitty nappies, dealing with rowing children, dealing with accident prone children, trying to keep them fed and watered and semi clean, trying to keep yourself fed and watered and semi clean, not to mention doctors appointments, sickness and keeping up to date with their social calendar... it's pretty much non stop. There's a reason why you have to pay someone a full time wage to look after your kids full time. It would have been more apt to ask me that question after graduating university, when I spent endless months, literally, doing nothing. What did I do all day then? I've got no idea. Watching a lot of Jeremy Kyle probably.

So how come, when I have spent years using the "too busy" excuse for not writing, I have found an hour or two a day, to do it? Maybe some of my other jobs are suffering. The house gets more messy but I usually find time to tidy it up at the end of the day, and if I don't it's not a problem. And I no longer spend two hours a day cooking a meal for children who then refuse to eat it and demand pizza and chicken nuggets, at least 3 times a week they get their pizza and chicken nuggets, saving me 6 hours a week of futile cooking.

I've got a friend who wakes at ridiculous o'clock in the morning, gets herself and her little boy ready for the day (by herself) then works a full time (very stressful) job, picks up her son from nursery, spends at least an hour of quality time with him (I'm with my kids all day and I am embarrassed to say they probably don't get that much quality time from me), before working all evening, sometimes until midnight, before bed and waking up at 6am to do it all again the next day. And her house is spotless. Spotless, I tell you. And she still finds time to have a laugh with her mates, read, watch telly, iron. She has the same number of hours as me, yet she does everything that I do and so much more! How on earth does she do it?

I have a theory. There is a common belief (apparently not true but it works as a metaphor here so bare with me) that goldfish only grow to the size of their tank. I think the same is true of time. If you have lots of time on your hands, maybe cleaning the bathroom might take an hour or two, if you have very little, frankly you can do it in less than fifteen minutes. My bathroom may not be as spotless now that I spend only fifteen minutes on it, but you wouldn't notice the difference, and having a tidy bathroom really isn't that important to me.

I love organisation and time management. You give me a way to find an extra hour in the day and I'll try it. But it's like stroking a cat the wrong way for me because it's does not come naturally. My messy house, and childhood messy bedroom, is an outward manifestation of a messy brain. But being organised gives me more time. If I don't do a weekly meal plan for instance, I end up in the supermarket every day buying all kinds of things we don't need, and if I don't get my work out in before taking my son to preschool, I won't fit it in later in the day.

The man works 6 days a week, and long hours at that. Yet in the last 2 weeks he has found time to build me 5 raised beds for my veggies, taken down and re-sited our garden shed, build 5 concrete steps and gravel our driveway. I've hardly seen him, but this is all stuff he has wanted to do, not just to save us money (which I am eternally grateful for of course, thanks babe) but also because he enjoys doing it. We make time for the things that are important to us, and if we don’t make the time, maybe it wasn’t that important to us in the first place.

We all have the same number of hours in a day. I am busy. I don’t have enough time. But with a little organisation, and focussing on what's important to me, I'm finding some space in my tank I didn't know I had.

Single white female

I’ve been watching a lot of Sex and The City lately. I mean, a lot. And watching four episodes a night has made me really quite jealous of single American women.

From what I can gather, the American dating scene is completely different to dating in the UK. Dates are set up by mutual friends (“oh I dated this guy, he’d be perfect for you!”), guys going up to girls in the street and asking for their phone number, or girls slipping guys their number and simply saying “call me” with a wanton look in their eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever said the words “call me” at all, let alone looking wanton while doing it. US relationships are casual unless it is decided otherwise, so there is nothing wrong with seeing Chad on a Monday and Brad on a Wednesday, as long as no one utters the word exclusive.

In the UK, relationships start in an entirely different manner. My only “dating” experience - aside from being slipped a note in Maths saying “do u want 2 go out with me?” then “walking round” at lunch time holding hands, only to get another note in Science saying “I’m finishing with u” - is limited to one guy getting my phone number off a friend, inviting me out for a drink and then instantly becoming my boyfriend or going from friends with a guy then straight into cuddling up on the sofa in matching jammies watching reruns of Friends. I seem to have completely bypassed the entire dating/getting dressed up and going out section in all my relationships. UK couples are exclusive from the word go, and anyone dating more than one person is considered to be putting herself out there a little too much.

At first, when thinking about getting back into the dating game my thoughts were ones of sheer horror. Apart from the stress of peeling back thirteen years worth of not worrying about unshaven legs, I had a sudden realisation that any relationship I started would have to go through that emotionally awkward phase where you don’t want them to know that sometimes you need to fart really badly and your knickers don’t always match your bra. You never really know what they’re going to say next, emotions are up and down, and you spend hours on the phone to girlfriends discussing whether or not he’s the one (frankly I’d like to think I had better things to do). I just wanted to walk straight into a two year old relationship, where I could burp at will, not worry about morning breath and not suffer the exhaustion of trying to be sexy all the time.

The eHarmony advert shows single women spending their evenings painting old chairs and getting on buses with lots of other single women (presumably to go somewhere exciting and glamorous), and it looks kinda cool. Given, the reality may well be more sitting in tracksuit bottoms, watching Sex and the City and eating Tesco Value Crunchy Nut Cornflakes out of the box, but it’s just as satisfying as painting chairs believe me.

When I was part of a couple, all of my single friends seemed really glamorous. They remembered to use more than a token swipe of mascara and always seemed to be wearing nice pants. But the truth is you do make more effort when you’re single, because there isn’t someone there who is morally bound to tell you that you look great without makeup on a regular basis. Unless you count son one “I like your look today mummy” (he’s a little Gok), the only person judging your appearance on a daily basis is you. And you know the truth, you look better in makeup. I don’t believe there is a woman out there that truly believes the male party line of “you are so naturally beautiful, you don’t need makeup”. If I was naturally beautiful my friend, I would not scare the cat when I woke up in the morning.

But I really want a Sex and the City/eHarmony style dating experience. I want to do my hair every night and go out in a flippy dress and date lots of really good looking men who take me to the opera, fancy restaurants and other glamorous pastimes (none of which are available in my town, but my fantasy is steadfast). All the things I thought seemed so exciting when I was part of a couple.

So I have decided that dating is for me after all. I want all the excitement and not knowing what will happen next. And those delicious feelings of getting to know someone for the first time, before that amazingly sexy and cool guy turns into the man who leaves springy hairs in the soap and comes out of the bathroom just as you are about to have a long luxurious shower saying “Phew, you’ll want to give it ten minutes”. And I have discovered that caring about stubbly armpits and whether or not my underwear is fancy actually makes me feel pretty good.

I may well be dating, but if I’m honest, it would take a lot to wrench me away from my paintbrush and single girls bus pass. He would have to at least bring his own Crunch Nut Cornflakes, because I ain’t sharing.

My Messy Brain

What do you write when you don’t know what to say?

And how is it tomorrow when it was only just yesterday.

What do you say when all your words are gone,

And how do you choose when you can’t narrow it down to one?

How do you hold on when you just want to let go

How are you clever when you never really know?

How do you stand when you really need to sit

And how can you understand when you can’t make sense of it?

How do you whisper when you really want to scream,

And how is it dirty when you just got it clean?

Why are you wondering when you shouldn’t actually care

And why are you here when you really should be there?

Why are you playing when you should be at work

Why are you second when you really should be first?

How do you listen when you just want to talk,

Why can’t you run before you learn to walk?

Why are you dreaming when everything is real

And how do you touch when you don’t know what you feel?

Why are you messy when you really should be neat?

Why are you awake when you should be asleep?

Why are there so many answers but nothing to ask?

Can’t you just concentrate on one simple task?

Why are you you, can’t you just be me?

Jeez, why won’t my brain just let me be?

Become who you are

A couple of years ago I jumped on the, then latest, now old hat, interior design bandwagon and furnished my kitchen with a series of postcards each bestowing words of wisdom. The obligatory “Keep calm and carry on” (now so over exposed in can be found in mud huts in the far reaches of outer Mongolia, but still conveys a good message), “Many hands make light work”, “Work hard and be nice to people” etc. But my very favourite of all of these is “Become who you are.” It reminds me every day that I can always reach higher, try harder or change anything about myself that I don’t like that day.

Still reading my Robin Sieger book (Natural Born Winners for those who missed my last post), he puts forth a theory that what we hear becomes real in our minds. So a small child who breaks something and is repeatedly told is clumsy, will forevermore believe himself to be clumsy. And as he believes it to be so, it comes true. We are all susceptible to this, whatever age we are. But it’s not just what we are told by others, it is also what we tell ourselves.

Take me and my BFF for instance. She is anally tidy, I am messy. We have a long running joke about how tidy she is, and what a slattern I am. This is in built in me now. So when I do decide to get the house tidy, it feels far more of an effort than it does for her, because I am constantly reminding myself that I will never, ever get the last Lightning McQueen sticker off my stripped pine doors, a pair of knickers rolled up on my bedroom floor has become a permanent Tracey Emin style design element of the room, and every time I open my purse a thousand receipts will always spring out because I never get round to clearing it out. That’s because I’m just messy and that is what I expect of myself. And in the same way, BFF would never dream of leaving the washing up until later (when it might be more convenient/less stressful) because she is being constantly reminded, not just by me but by herself, that she has neatness OCD.

But we all need to listen to ourselves and remember that nothing is set in stone. Who we are as people is constantly evolving, through life style, the company we keep, the jobs we do, and the organic nature of the human spirit means that we can all become who we are, whatever we want ourselves to be.

We all hate being put into boxes, and people seeing us a stereo type. Just because I’m a stay at home mum doesn’t mean I watch Jeremy Kyle every day (only sometimes, as a treat), just because someone is gay doesn’t mean they are camp etc. However irritating it is, many people will always expect us to be a certain way because of our lifestyle, how we look, religion, whatever. But so often we do it to ourselves, “I’m messy”, “I’m boring”, “I don’t like tomatoes”… but if we would allow ourselves to be anything we want, we usually can be.

According to Sieger, the key is listening to, and then challenging, the inner stereotypes we have of ourselves and remembering that we all have the choice to change, if we want to.

I have a short attention span, and an unquenchable thirst for trying new things. Over the years I have come to dislike this side of myself “I’m too faddy” “I never see anything through”. One day I’m in sensible shoes trying to be supermum, sewing my own curtains, getting early nights and worrying whether or not the sons have got their five a day, the next I’m throwing on a mini skirt and going out on the lash, without a care that I’m going to want to tear out my own eyes when the kids start jumping on me at 6am. But maturing as a person is all about becoming comfortable in your own skin, and I am learning that the ability to change and adapt is part of the journey, if we allow it to be.

So no longer am I shameful of my chameleon nature. I embrace reinvention and all the ups and downs that await me as a result. We can all choose to be anything or anyone we want, and enjoy the adventure as we become who we are.

The Domino Effect

It’s funny how when one thing in your life changes it affects every other area too. When you have shared your life with someone they become inextricably linked to so many things in your life that it’s very hard to separate yourselves. Sometimes it feels like the man and me are wearing invisible Velcro suits, we just manage separate an arm when we discover that a leg is still attached. Trying to unravel the complicated web we have woven around each other is requiring a complete life reboot. It is lucky that we get on so well, I can’t imagine how hard it must be for those who have lost all respect for each other.

At first it just meant an empty place in my bed, then all of a sudden dominoed to the point where I realised that the least of my worries was not having someone to cuddle up to at night. And it’s not just the practical stuff; money, car, house, it is also entangled in everything else, confidence, sense of self, purpose, how I look at the world. I couldn’t name you one thing in my life right now that doesn’t feel strange in some way, and doesn’t require a level of attention to get it sorted out. I was struggling for a while there to be honest. I just didn’t know where to start.

But often all it takes is one thing, and those dominoes start going the other way.

Those of you that have been reading my blog for some time will be well aware of my love of self help books. To any newcomers, welcome! And you should know that I love self help books.

My current new squeeze is Robin Sieger, author of Natural Born Winners. I have never come across him before because he resides in the business section which aims to help companies and businessy people self help themselves, whereas I tend to hang around in the vague “yes I want to be happy and improve my life but I’m not too sure in what way and as long as its not too much hard work and doesn’t encroach on my TOWIE/Chelsea/Neighbours catch up” category of self help.

It turns out that the business self help section is a vast untapped resource of exciting new ways to improve my life (I can almost hear my Amazon shopping cart groaning under the weight already) and I am itching to use what I’m learning to help me unravel the web I’m in and make a happy life on my own.

Robin Sieger’s first lesson is that in order to be successful at anything you have to have a clearly defined set of goals and know exactly where you are heading, a major stumbling block for most of us. Being successful is one thing, working out what that means to each of us is something else. Not only do we see success in different ways, it also, like a long term relationship, filters into so many areas of your life that you could be forgiven for thinking it is easier not to bother. If it’s scary having one goal you might never achieve it’s a hell of a lot more scary to have five (and counting). We all have more than one goal though, and that’s probably why many of us don’t actually get anything done. It all feels far too complicated.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter how many goals you have, and whether those goals are to get out of phase one (tracksuit bottoms and comfort eating) or get a spot on Forbes list, because you can always make the domino affect work in your favour. The people who are truly successful are usually successful in many areas of their lives not just one. Achieving anything is all about having the confidence to do something, and every tiny success towards achieving one goal also boosts your confidence so you can get closer to another goal.

I dragged myself out of bed at 6am this morning to work out, and as a result feel happy, confident and prepared to take on the world, and have already made a start on sorting out the latest round of Velcro removal for this week. I have no doubt that if I hadn’t worked out today I might not have got as much done.

So no longer do I see to do lists as long as my arm or piles of Velcro in a tangled mess, I see a neatly lined up row of dominoes just waiting for me to push the first one which will topple the rest and snake towards an exciting new life.

Paulo Coehlo said “Everything will be ok in the end, and if it’s not ok, it’s not the end.”

The M Word

I’ve now been officially on my own for a month and it’s time to start getting finances sorted. I am stepping out into the world on my own, all wobbly legged like Bambi. The decision to stay at home with the boys was made when I was part of a team, and had the financial support of the man, now things are different, it’s time to get serious.

The other night our good friend, who works in mortgages, got together with us to discuss mortgages and all the hideous stuff that follows, urghhh. I am idealistic and a total dreamer when it comes to cash. Money will come to me if I need it, right who’s for another cup of tea and a slice of homemade cake? The fact that you can’t live without money makes me feel claustrophobic, and I just want to put my fingers in my ears and go “lalalalalalala” really loud. Frankly I would rather eat my own head than have anything to do with it at all, but sadly that is not an option.

I always look forward to visits from our good friend, despite the fact that it sometimes means discussing the “m” word, because he always gives me a kick up the arse and reminds me that the key to success is doing, and the key to doing is having the confidence to do it.

I don’t think it will come as a surprise to our good friend that when the man introduced us, 13 years ago, I thought he was an arrogant prick. He was a bit of a wideboy, all expensive shirts and expensive hair cuts, talking targets and goals. Stuff that I, as a student in second hand jeans customised into flares, charity shop coat, hair cut by a friend, uncaring attitude to money and using the word “man” far more than was necessary (or cool for that matter), couldn’t have been less interested in. That doesn’t mean I disliked him, I loved everyone (man), and for some reason he thought I was OK. However now, 13 years on (homemade flares thankfully a distant memory) I no longer see an arrogant prick. I see someone whose confidence and self belief was completely justified. He set himself goals and achieved every one of them, and he’s barely thirty. What an inspiration.

We were having a discussion about my writing career (or lack of) and my unfailing belief that I am going to make it as a writer. He gave me quite a hard time, as he should. We’re talking money here, getting food on the table and a roof over my kids head. I no longer have the financial support of the man to go off on my creative whims, writing when I feel like it, spending hours a week writing a blog just because I like to entertain people, having a vague belief that I will be successful somewhere in the future. He asked me what makes me so arrogant to believe that I can get somewhere with all this? What facts have I got to back it up?

I was quite affronted at being called arrogant. My self confidence is on the floor right now, I couldn’t possibly be arrogant. But there is a big difference between arrogance and confidence, and many of us fail to see it. I know I do. Arrogance is just unjustified confidence. Arrogance is probably the single least attractive trait in people, but not wanting to be arrogant is not a good reason to avoid being confident in yourself. You don’t have to shout your confidence from the rooftops, only arrogance is loud, confidence is quiet.

I have a dream but that is not enough. I am a good writer but that is not enough. I need to start earning money from writing or its game over. No one else can do this for me. I have an unfailing belief in myself that I was put here to write. To entertain people, make them laugh, cry, think, whatever. I could go and get a job in Tesco, I could work nights in a bar, I could find a million and one ways to eke out a living and find the money to pay my mortgage and support my kids. But none of them mean anything to me. I don’t want to just pay the mortgage, I want a successful life. And successful to me means doing something that I believe in. It’s not about being the next JK Rowling, having a huge house and squillions in the bank, it’s about spending what precious time I have on the planet doing something I care about, and earning enough money to pay the bills.

The man always said I was lucky. So lucky to have a dream and a passion for something when so many others do not. I want to make sure that I do my dream justice and make it happen.

I had a moral wrangling with myself about adding a donate button to this blog. But I don’t consider it begging, more a tips jar. I’m the waitress who made you smile over your coffee.

So you will now see a donate button (Paypal) and a Tips Jar (Google Checkout), you can use either one, whichever is most convenient for you. If I make you smile one day or give you something to think about maybe you might think about giving me a tip.

And you never know, there might be a billionaire out there who can spare fifty grand and thinks I’m worth it. But that is unjustified and therefore arrogance.

Vulnerability is the new cool

I’ve had a nice chilled out weekend. It was only my second weekend alone. The man had the kids and what I really wanted to do was go out on the town and let my hair down, show the world that I am now single and ready to party. Unfortunately, thanks to a lingering virus that has left me with a gargantuan gland on the left hand side of my neck (named Beryl), I knew I needed to act the grown up and concentrate on getting better.

Faced with an entire weekend alone and over 3500 hours of culture, documentaries and the like to choose from my On Demand service, I could really have educated myself. But, not wanting to stress myself out at all by using my brain to actually learn something, I decided to go for an entire series of The Bachelor. A programme where one man has to propose to one woman he chooses out of the original thirty. I thought it would be nice sentimental, drivelly guff.

I’m always looking for answers and ways to explain the world, but did not expect to get it from this sentimental, drivelly guff. At one point the guy spoke to his therapist because he was finding it hard to open up to the women. And his therapist said that in order to find true love, he must make himself vulnerable, and in that vulnerability was strength.

I don’t like the idea of being vulnerable. I have always been very careful not to show my vulnerabilities, and keep a part of myself back to avoid getting hurt. But having kids makes you instantly vulnerable. You have to be brave and lay your heart on the line. Be willing to give your entire self over to that tiny person who needs you, and the family you create. Sometimes you take a gamble and it pays off, sometimes it doesn’t. But unless you allow yourself to be vulnerable you will never experience true love.

Many of us try to hide our vulnerabilities. We like to show the world that we are strong and think being vulnerable is a weakness. But that’s wrong. Being vulnerable takes bravery, but also brings the biggest rewards.

And not just in the love stakes. Occasionally being vulnerable is essential in all areas of life. Trying something that you may not be sure about, being willing to take that risk. I risk a part of myself every time I put my fingers to the keys of this computer. Sometimes the risk doesn’t pay off, sometimes it results in a blah blog post that day, or a rubbish short story. But it’s usually when I have been my most vulnerable that someone comments on my blog and says I have made them laugh, or made them think, or made them happy… and that is the greatest reward for me. That is a connection I am making with someone, you, and that is what I love about writing. Making a connection with someone, maybe someone I’ve never even met is my reward for being vulnerable.

But you can’t make a connection unless you allow yourself to be vulnerable, and show a side of yourself that is often hidden. You need to be able to be yourself, and risk being hurt.

I read somewhere that the best writers are the ones that are not scared to show every part of them to the world. I don’t think that just applies to writers, I think it applies to everyone, in work, in relationships, in life. The biggest innovations, the most brilliant art, the deepest relationships are all the result of someone being vulnerable.

I’m not saying we should all walk around naked, and over-share at every opportunity but I do think that we should all be a little more willing to show our vulnerability. By being vulnerable we make deeper relationships, truer connections and more real progress. And only then do we find the sweetest rewards in life.

No man or woman is an island. However much they might want to be.

And everyone thinks I watch rubbish on TV. Next week, the deep philosophical themes running under the surface of TOWIE.