You know that feeling, you’ve been back living under your parent’s roof for longer than you all would like to admit and you parents are starting to give you the oh so subtle nudge towards the door. If you’re having difficulty picking up on their signals I have kindly listed below the signs that your parent s think you should fly the coop:

1.       Your Mum asks you repeatedly when you will be moving in with your BF/GF

2.       Your Dad persistently complains about how your red hair dye (insert other rage inducing messes caused by you here if this is not applicable) staining the tiles in the bathroom. You say you won’t stop dyeing your hair...there’s a significant pause while he waits for you to catch the drift...

3.       Your Dad starts referring to your beau’s place as your home e.g. “You can take that with you when you go home”...time to go then I think

4.       Your dog is getting cranky living with two other blind dogs; you comment that she would prefer to be an only dog, your parents cannot agree more. Pause. Silence. Penny drops.

5.       They tell you repeatedly how they can’t get over just how quiet the house is when you’re not in it. And how they are really enjoying the peace and quiet.

6.       The dog starts trying to tell you something Lassie style: “What’s that girl? What are you trying to tell me? Go...Home?” Oh.

7.       Your Mum has forgotten about your dietary requirements since you last ate with them. She poisons you. Hint. Hint.

8.       A whispered conversation between your parents ceases when you enter the room. You have caught snippets of a “swatches” and “paint charts” debate. They already decorated every other room of the house. Just yours then.

9.       Leaflets suggesting you engage the services of “first class” local removal services keep mysteriously appearing under your bedroom door.

10.   Your stuff starts migrating out of your bedroom. Into boxes. Into the hallway. Down the stairs. Out the front door. MOVING DAY.

And if you are more of a visual learner I have included below a video of a current advert that illustrates many of the above points nicely.

[youtube=f7qMGVH8]

As I may have mentioned before my boyfriend has a penchant for staring at another man’s lycra clad behind. Last weekend, like many other weekends was rudely interrupted by the pair of them spending Sunday at a cycling event. Do hold your “where’s the harm in that? What an unreasonable girlfriend” until I’ve explained my issue with this. My main concern is not that I don’t get to see him or that I’m concerned by the love of a man’s lycra clad bottom: no I’m more concerned with the fact that this morning I was roused from a rather lovely Saturday night – don’t have to be up in the morning snooze. At six. A.M. Yes that’s correct: SIX A.M on a SUNDAY. For those of you that know me well you will understand what this means. I am a snarly, fire breathing dragon when awoken from my beauty sleep. His cycling buddy made the error of saying something about my looking less than impressed to be awake. I believe my mumbled “good morning” (social niceties, pah!) quite possibly came out more like the guttural snarl one would expect from a very.Hacked. Off. animal.

I didn’t run off to my own bed for further slumber though dear readers because what I saw next had to be observed until the bitter end. Two lycra clad men (I think they think they are ninjas/power rangers) both scratching their heads and detaching various parts of bike turning them every which direction and both trying to be the most expert “NO, I’ve done this before you know, I know what I’m doing”. Nothing like a bit of a Chuckle Brothers re-enactment to make loss of sleep bearable: “to me…to you” between the boot and the back seat, I was desperately hoping one would let go and fall flat on their lycra clad behind.  Eventually they were off after a good deal of pushing and shoving.

So now, would you like to play guess the number of puncture readers?

Sunday morning the beast  (for those that don’t know the beast is me when I’ve been unceremoniously woken up) was awoken: firstly at 5.30 by a debate over whether a cycling event was going to take place in the god awful weather. Several text messages that I heard through lovely tap tapping of haptic feedback and a couple of phone calls later it was established that the event was cancelled: could you not have simply gone and stood outside for a minute my love, that would have told you all you needed to know surely (gale force winds and torrential rain do tend to be a bit of a giveaway)?

Woken again at 8.20. What kind of idiot would wake me twice in one morning: answers on a postcard please. Was I woken the safest way known to man: with a kiss and a cup of tea? No, no I wasn’t. I was, in fact, woken by the dulcet tones of football pundits talking over a match he had watched last night “HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL GOAL!” He even, despair with me here readers, he even started drumming the Match Of The Day tune on the mattress. Drumming. It. I eventually open my eyes, slowly turning to face him to give him one of my menacing stares: eyes glued to screen. Sigh. In a rage I wrap myself in all of the duvet. That’s right: all of it. Which he tries to take some back of. But I am Queen of the duvet covers. All of it is mine and mine alone.

“I’m a little bit hot now under all these covers”

“Good, I hope you combust”

Now, my love, the rule is if you are going to insist on waking me up very early (for me) on a Sunday morning (my last day off and lie in for the foreseeable future) please remember that if your arm has a cup of tea at the end of it you are much less likely to wake the beast and you could probably even get away with putting the football on without me snarling and growling at you.

Tea first. Always. Tea.First

Q. So, how did you get started in writing?

A. My Dad was passionate about both reading and writing. My Dad was writing and trying to get published while I was growing up. I was working at Thames Television on The Bill as a production assistant. I went and enquired as to what I would need to do to be able to become a producer and the answer I received was “you need to write”. It wasn’t instant success as my first book was never published. I wrote a children’s book that went horribly wrong when it came to being published but was a fantastic learning experience: it was all part of the process of becoming a writer. Sometimes I feel that my best writing almost happens in spite of me rather than because of me. Eventually an agent asked if I would like to meet: so I went and bought myself a hat. I met the agent and then – I took my hat off – and started to write. I usually start with an idea of what the story is going to be and see where it takes me: I like the characters to tell me where they would like to go. I realise I speak about them as if they have their own life which comes across a bit odd.

Q. So what does Susan Lewis like to read?

A. Jodi Picoult, Susan Harwich. I’ll happily purchase a book by what I’ve read in the blurb. My thoughts about the kindle is that you don’t get that same experience: you can’t see a cover or who the author is so I have been known to read something and not know who it is I’ve been reading!  I’ve taken inspiration from the Poisonwood Bible and Sweet Francais. The latter was actually the inspiration for my novel The French Affair.

Q. So how did your family react to your memoirs?

A.  Well, the two main characters – my Mum and Dad- had already passed by then but my brother has chosen not read it at all. I think he would really feel the loss at the end of Just One More Day.

Q. In the second of your memoirs you have written from the male perspective – how hard was this for you?

A. I was fortunate that I got to know my Dad for a lot longer. As Dad wrote so much, an awful lot of what is in the book he really wrote himself: I just adapted it to fit into my writing. Dad did his best to keep us all together at a time when men would have fielded children out to aunts and grandparents. Writing from his perspective made me relive everything that I had put my dad through after Mum died: He really didn’t know what to do with such a hellish teenage girl. In fact, when I asked Steph to read it I actually said “I hope you still like me after reading it”. I am now a supporter of Winston’s Wish as they help support in times of child bereavement: who knows how things would have turned out if they had been around when I lost Mum.

When a member of the audience introduces themselves as a member of Sevenoaks writing group Susan very affably offers to “come along to your writers group sometime, for a chat, if you would like?” She then goes on to display how down to earth she is by saying that as she had gotten older she doesn’t hold ideas and details in her head like she used to. She tells us how she ran a competition on Face book for the winner to get their name used as a character’s name in one of her texts. Susan tells us how she had completely forgotten about this until the winner contacted her: there had been a vital component of the novel missing until this woman got in touch and then her character led the novel along. Susan explains how writing, for her, is much like being a sort of medium as she is taken over by the characters. When Susan wrote in her mother’s “voice” she felt as though her mother had taken hold of her fingers and had written those parts herself.

Steph then gave Susan a much earned break by announcing the start of the raffle and auction. There were some truly outstanding prizes on offer including a Jimmy Choo handbag donated by the author herself, a Chamilia bracelet with a B.C.C charm, a basket of goodies from Maisy K, A photo shoot with Catherine Hill Photography, a set of GHD straighteners and a voucher for a cut and blow dry with Matthew Cross, a one hour full body massage in the comfort of the winner’s own home, a mini car donated by Mini, a Pink Pandora Bracelet and an Amber Necklace. Overall this event raised approximately £3000 for Breast Cancer Care: a hugely successful event – congratulations to all involved!

Susan’s 28th novel No Child of Mine will be released on July 5th.

There are few people currently oblivious to the current Twitter - storm being whipped up by Samantha Brick and the Daily Mail. If you haven’t a clue what on earth I’m on about

1. Where have you been?

2. I have kindly provided the links for you:  http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.html?ito=feeds-newsxml

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124782/Samantha-Brick-says-backlash-bile-yesterdays-Daily-Mail-proves-shes-right.html

 In fairness to Ms Brick I feel a little bit sorry for her: she’s probably sacrificed a whole lot of female (come to think of it, even male) friendships through her article. There are few people that will trust her intentions now as all are likely to assume that she wishes to get something out of them. So, as I am feeling a little bit of sympathy for her I have decided to write something to counter all the hate mail and threats she has been receiving because, lets face it, whilst she may have gone about it all the wrong way, she has actually (a little inadvertently) done something positive with her article:

1.       Women once more stand united: the return of sisterly solidarity has occurred over the past few days. Unfortunately, Ms Brick, these women are not united with you. No it isn’t out of jealousy: nobody minds if you’re pretty or not I think you’ll find. The fact that you have distinguished yourself as separate from other women and placed yourself as their competitor rather than supporting the advancement of other women is what they are upset about. No woman is going to clap their hands with glee at being told “this is what you’re doing all wrong, and this is what I’m doing so right”. What the women have united against is a common villain I’m afraid and, as per, a woman has been set up to take that place as villain. The only positive to this is that:

2.       The stereotypical portrait of a villain has been altered significantly: evidently you are an empowered woman who doesn’t wish to skirt controversy by being meek and mild (good) however, instigating women criticising other women (bad) is far less admirable. Women have been portrayed as villains for far too long in fairytales and, yes, Samantha, it is indeed time that people stopped portraying the villainess as an ugly old hag with warts on her nose. The unfortunate part about you being the villain of the piece is that people aren’t questioning why you have been allowed to advance your own career goals based upon what you look like: why aren’t these men being held to account?

3.       The Social Media storm created by your article has given other women an opportunity to express themselves and their concerns: bringing women’s issues to the forefront of discussion. What I would like to suggest here is that we all get a little perspective on these women’s issues. If you aren’t aware of it readers there was a very important article posted recently about sixteen year old Amina Filali. If you haven’t seen this article yet, you should click here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2012/apr/03/moroccan-teenager-death-women-rights  Amina was sixteen but experienced a horrific ordeal at the hands of men: she was raped and then ordered by the Moroccan courts to marry her abuser. Amina couldn’t live under these circumstances and took her own life: this is a much more valuable insight into the Women’s Rights Movement as it stands internationally. There has been a reform in Morocco of women’s rights known as Moudawana:

“The moudawana was created to give more rights to women, but it isn’t the answer to all women’s problems” said Jazouani

 Do you see how this transfers to your article Ms Brick? It isn’t just the change in law that needs to take place, Ms Pankhurst only started the ball rolling for us with her cries of “votes for women” the idea, much like with the moudawana, was that women would continue to carry the baton after she was gone. This is about the need for a change in attitudes. The women that have reacted so strongly to your article, you may actually consider, are not suffering from the green eyed monster but are struggling with the inequity of it all. The female rights movement had come an awfully long way in trying to reverse the stereotypes that you not only pander to and endorse but you revel in these stereotypes because you feel a benefit from it. Whilst this is fantastic publicity for debates on female rights obviously you got the rougher end of the deal on this one: your article really did have all the subtlety of, well, a brick in the face. Plus, if you really want to endorse the stereotyping of women, then you’re doing it all wrong: you’re supposed to just sit quietly looking pretty. You made yourself a pawn in the Daily Mail “Women Beware Women” campaign.4.

Employers will now love you. Obviously. Productivity in the work place just went up ten fold. Why? Because the office romance just died Ms Brick and you killed it. No woman is going to want to put herself in your shoes: look at what you have experienced. And no man is now going to run the risk of being “Bricked”: sexism in the workplace will once more come under close scrutiny.

So, to close my argument (for now) and open the floor for discussion I will just say that every woman, every human being wants to be valued on their merits and seen for WHO they are: I want to get a promotion or a job offer because I am the best not simply because I reached a glass ceiling and was prepared to flash a bit of leg. And yes, I am aware that there are plenty of organisations where “looking the part” is essential (do men feel the same pressures of this I wonder?) but why do we need to substantiate this inequity by pandering to it? Why do we have to resign ourselves to living up to someone else’s idealised notion of beauty? Ms Brick, are you of the nature that if you can’t beat them join them? It certainly seems that way. How about, if at first you don’t succeed, try then try again?

That’s correct, I live in Ghetto Ville. Apparently. This is according to the 17 year old boy in our household who discourses with his friends in the “hood” style. Because they is well 'ard innit yeah, you get me? No, it’s alright, I don’t expect you to “get me” because “you don’t even know me bruv”, oh how I wish this were so. If you haven’t heard any of this ghetto speak and wish me to decode it for you I am afraid I cannot: I am no more able to speak “ghetto” (aka R.I.D.I.C.U.L.O.U.S) than you are.

Perhaps I should paint a picture for you of the Ghetto in which the “Village Massive” live. Our Village and the surrounding villages are much like any other countryside village really, everyone says good morning and good afternoon, walks their dogs on a Sunday morning, they all trade their garden produce and there is a “healing” retreat up the road. The closest high street is three miles up the road and holds a tiny police station that’s only open limited hours for lost cats and such. There are a handful of shops including an antiques shop, several hairdressers, a handful of country gentleman type pubs, a clock shop, a florist and a jeweller. Of course there is also the Ghetto Ville Mecca: Tesco. “I’m a bad man, you get me?” Indeed, bad at spelling, bad at grammar and BAAAAD  attitude but don’t worry you all get to spend Mummy and Daddy’s hard earned cash on Tesco sandwiches, kebabs and taxis to the high street because walking there is just “long man, innit”.  And no, I don’t get you, because, unlike you of course, I haven’t been raised in the “hood”.

The Ghetto kids were mostly raised in a suburban bubble surrounded by rolling countryside and farm land. They went to the little village schools and spent Sundays at Farmers markets with their parents. Now they have identical matching missing eyebrows, pants on display (that’s not just the boys) and somehow manage to have shiny new trainers every few weeks, despite having had a “deprived” childhood that we don’t understand and have got issues, yeah?

Our Christmas entertainment this year was the board game “CHAV” as a tongue in cheek poke at the attempt to “Ghetto – up” our village. We figured it would be interesting to see who would actually come out as king or queen of the chavs in our house: surely it would be the actual “gangsta” in our midst?  There was considerable mirth around the table as we battled to keep hold of Ayia Napa, Alco pops, a belly bar and a box of Super kings.  Much to his own irritation Ghetto Boy was the first to be eliminated and he stomped out of the house to go and “hang” with his “homeboys” in the bus shelter up the high street (no, I have no idea what this actually entails either).

So, who eventually won the chav crown? Well, if you hadn’t already guessed, me of course.

1.    1.  Your Mum can tell you what all your friends’ statuses have been updated to today.

2.    2.  Your Dad starts up a debate on what colour your hair should be using a picture you have been tagged in as a reference.

3.    3.   That burning smell coming from the kitchen. That’s dinner.

4.    4.    Your Dad sits through you talking to him without offering a single response to what you’ve said but merrily chuckles away to himself whilst tapping the screen on his phone. That’ll cost you Royal Bank of Dad.

5.   5.   Your Mum starts talking about old photos on your boyfriend’s profile page. The walls start to feel like they are closing in around this stage.

6.   6.    The teenager in the household deletes his Facebook account and switches to Twitter in the hope that it will take them years to catch up. And Facebook is his LIFELINE.

7.   7.   Your friends start a conversation with “Erm, this is awkward, but I’ve had a friend request from your Mum…”

8.   8.    Or (and I am yet to decide which is worse), your friend starts a conversation with “Oh yeah I was talking to your Mum about that earlier”….??!?!

9.   9.   Your Dad attempts an “I have more Facebook friends than you” type of competition. Sigh.

10.10.  Your “Newsfeed” no longer shows any news except that your Mother “likes” 50 odd things on Facebook and your Dad has continued his debate over your hair colour…for 50 pages.

11 11. You end up having to give y

our parents a “Facebook for Dummies” tutorial in order to stop them disgracing themselves (you).

12.12.  Your parents start attempting

to censor your posts in case you start disgrac

ing yourself (them).

Yes I am twenty three and in my friends list are both my parents. My Dad was temporarily removed a few months ago due to some images that I knew were going up and would offend his delicate sensibilities (what father wouldn’t be brimming with pride at photos of his little girl on a fancy dress night on the tiles I wonder?!). I live with said (sad) parents. My life is looking more and more desirable right? I got in from work this evening to find my mother far too engrossed in “how do I send someone a message?...OOOH SOMEONES TALKING TO ME!” (They can’t hear you if you squeal at the computer Mother although I – unfortunately – can) to say hello.

Eventually she manages to tear herself away from the social world of engaging with other human beings - solid proof that you really aren’t a teenager anymore mother - and comes into the kitchen to say hello: grinning like a Cheshire cat. This grin is something that women of all ages know the cause of. Deep sigh. “Ok. Who got fat?” no, not just fat apparently, like, SUPER fat. This is supposed to enrich my life in some way I presume as I am dragged to the computer to ascertain that, yes; my mother’s correspondent was, indeed, a little more than festively plump. Having established this I go back to making myself food and watching mum’s dinner cook into a congealed mess: “Mum, how long exactly are you going to cook that pasta for?” (It’s fresh pasta that requires about 5 minutes but has had about 20 minutes thanks to my mum’s somewhat limited attention span) “MUM, SERIOUSLY STOP TALKING TO THE FAT LADY AND COME AND HAVE DINNER”. She eats her “dinner” at the computer with her online friends. Ah, the joys of watching your own parents regress…

Following on from my last post...more thoughts on talking and why we should do more of it.

I was talking to a therapist friend of mine (Pauline, she does birthday charts) - we were just catching up with each other...nothing specific just general chit chat about our lives and how we learn and grow. And I said, in passing that sometimes I feel a little 'stuck'....I suppose a good example is that I stopped posting blogs here for a while because I got bogged down in a hundred other things all of which seemed to take priority at the time and and before I knew it so much time has passed.

Let me say here that we are both therapists and we both help clients with 'getting stuck' problems regularly and further to that we both have a different way of dealing with 'getting stuck'...I will use a blend of NLP and Hypnosis  and Pauline would use her Astrology understanding to work with clients. But at this point in the conversation we were only chatting and not seriously addressing anything in particular. It was just one of those nice round and round, not going anywhere in particular, conversations you can have with your close friends whilst drinking coffee, leaning back in the chair, enjoying the warm respite from the freezing cold wind outside.

Pauline surprised at my 'getting stuck' problem started to explore what 'getting stuck' was like for me because it was her observation that I seemed to have boundless energy and that I am always busy. And that is true, I am always busy .. the old adage about 'if you want something done ask a busy person' has meant that I have half a dozen projects on the go at any one time.

So - to further explain what 'getting stuck' meant I resorted to using imagery and said "I feel as if I am like lightening, always 'alive', always moving around, sometimes unpredictable but striking here and there in a difused and random way". And then I had one of those 'Ah Ha!' moments.

The 'Ah Ha'  was the reminder that for me metaphor and imagery is a great way to work at a conscious and unconscious level to deal with issues like 'getting stuck'...metaphor is so good at bypassing the literal and conscious thinking that most of us apply to our own problems. And there was also the realisation that although it had not been our intention to talk about problems and issues affecting us that just talking conversationally had allowed this particular issue to surface on its own. And that by just gently probing it, without even trying to resolve it I had reminded myself of a good method for exploring and working on my own issues.

There was another realisation, which goes back to my earlier post, about how good it is to talk to like minded friends because they can often bring a totally new perspecive and if you can look at something in a new light and perhaps change what you are doing you can avoid another well known cliche..'if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got'.

Taking this further I thought it would also be useful for practitioners and therapists, who often work alone, who might find some benefit in sitting down with a bunch of like minded colleagues and friends to explore problems and issues we have in common...problems like lack of confidence, or sadness, or isolation...and so many other problems that we experience sooner or later. And with that thought in mind I have started a monthly informal discussion group for practitioners and therapists (and a friend). If you want to join this group please do check out here to find if it meets your needs too.

I think that means my list of 'things to do' has increased by 1 :)

This is because after spending a day in my Mother’s company I am at the stage where I struggle to remember my own name. I was in the middle of a sentence which I stopped abruptly and couldn’t remember where I was going with it (a Mother favourite). He prompted me to continue but I couldn’t and told him so and that, really, I wasn’t even sure I could remember my own name at present: “Jim” was what he called me. 

I regularly inform my Mother that she has “early onset” although she has told me I need to stop saying it in case someone takes offence. Incidentally, last week when I was talking to someone at work about my Mum’s inability to retain information for more than 3 minutes, they did actually point out to be that Alzheimer’s isn’t funny and I shouldn’t joke about things like that: “I’m not joking, she really does have early onset” ok I probably didn’t respond in the most adult manner but I have a VERY warped sense of humour (which they really should know by now) which led to me informing my Mum that someone with Alzheimer’s wouldn’t actually mind and get all PC about it, because within a few minutes of my saying it they would have forgotten anyway.( I am in no way to be considered to be mocking Alzheimer’s or Dementia: I realise more needs to be done to raise awareness of these issues) I just, quite literally, am the kind of person that would laugh at a funeral – I REALLY have done that. I would say ask my Mum to back me up on that one but, well, she probably doesn’t remember. Memory loss isn’t really a joke. Because it’s coming my way: I take after my Mother in a whole lot of ways. That’s why when I remind her that I will be choosing her nursing home and she responds that its okay because she is going to come over and wee on my furniture I am not at all concerned: I wont remember this agreement or even that she wee’d on my sofa.

We drove to somewhere my Mum had never seen before today and pulled into the car park “Oh, is this it? I don’t like it. It looks like somewhere you might dump a dead body” my response to this? “Mother, if I was confident in my ability to drive any car back home safely, let alone yours, I would be seriously considering testing that dead body theory…[long pause]…sorry what was I saying?”