Militaryish Fitness sort-of

Very few people can get me out of bed before 6a.m.  In fact, most people tend to avoid me until I've had at least 2 cups of tea.  Nevertheless, my very lovely, persuasive and charming neighbour is managing to get me to Military Fitness at 6.30 in the morning quite regularly.  Because she lives opposite she knows I'm here.  Once I tried hiding in my bedroom but she still found me. 

So there I was yesterday in my baggy sweatpants, saggy t-shirt and 2 bras because I couldn't find my sports bra.  The other early morning lunatics are about 20 years younger than me and wear t-shirts proclaiming '10K 2012' , tight lycra shorts and proper trainers (the soles are peeling off mine, which really doesn't help.)

There are about 20 different forms of torture, each lasting 60 long seconds.  Then we do it all again.  Some forms of torture involve a stepper.  Some involve sandbags or weights.  Some require mats.  Surprisingly, getting down onto the mat and then up again doesn't count as an exercise, even though it can take me nearly a minute to do either.

I have my own versions of the exercises: some I do properly but slowly; some I do partially; some I just point in the same direction as my peers, and wave a limb in a vague parody of the true exercise.  I keep a very tight control on my inner giggler; I don't want to be lynched, especially by such strong, fit people.  Sometimes I laugh for quite a while after I get home.

My various injuries shout at me during each session.  My left ankle (torn ligaments, sixth form ball, 1984) tells me to ease off.  My left wrist (sprain, roller skating at a house party incident 1990 - the sprain barely noticed at the time as it was overshadowed by the rather serious concussion) won't tolerate any kind of push-up activity.  My right foot (fracture -running down stairs in clogs while 5 months' pregnant, 2000 and exacerbated by recent plantar faschitis) shrieks in agony.  My right big toe (proper sporting injury as I broke it falling over a step machine in 2010) grumbles and aches.  My left knee (no specific injury - yet) really doesn't like squatting.  In fact most of my body objects to this activity.  Even my ears ache from the high energy dance music - perhaps a bit much at 6.30a.m. 

However, the trainer is relentlessly positive and encouraging; no-one points and laughs at me (not to my face anyway); by 9a.m I've done an hour's fitness training, walked the dogs, cleaned the kitchen and had a shower.  And I feel virtuous.  Now, pass the cake.......

Hamish is out there

I'm so excited today as my short story is published!  Here's the link.

http://www.thefrontview.com/2013/06/hamish-by-eddi-goodwin.html

I hope you enjoy it. 

The Stupid Things People Say - part 1

If I had a pound for every time this has happened I would be able to take my children on holiday this summer.

OK, I understand that my name is quite unusual.  I've only ever met one other person called 'Edwina' in my whole life.  Hardly anyone ever calls me 'Edwina.'  I'm Ed, or Eddie or Wubzie (family name).  My Dad sometimes calls me 'Fred'.  However, when I'm introduced it's usually as 'Edwina', this being my proper name.

And do you know what people say when they're introduced to me?  Can you guess?

They say 'Edwina Currie.'

They just come out with it.  And then they look at me expectantly. 

Over the years I have tried all kinds of replies:
Polite answer, laughing as we shake hands - 'Yes, it is quite an unusual name isn't it?  She's the only celebrity I know who shares my name.' 

Jaded answer - 'No.  I'm not Edwina Currie.  Do you think I look like Edwina Currie?'

PMT answer - I just stare at them until they start to sweat.

Edwina Currie is everywhere these days, being interviewed on Radio 4, taking part in discussion programmes, reviewing Thatcher's contribution to christianity.  And so it's started again.

'Let me introduce you to Edwina,' says a friend to a friend at a party.
'Edwina Currie,' says the friend's friend.  I fix a smile to my face and concentrate on not punching friend's friend on the nose.

Maybe I should start doing it back.

'Edwina, this is Helen.'
'Helen Mirren,' I should say.

'Edwina, this is Paul.'
'Paul O' Grady,' I would say.
Do you see how totally stupid this is?  This is NOT me!

Pollyanna moments

You must remember the little girl in the story who always found something to be 'glad' about, even when her legs fell off.

(I recommend a book: Smile or Die - How Positive Thinking Fooled America and the World.  Barbara Ehrenreich. 2009.)

Positive Thinking is highly overrated and can be a substitute for serious reflection and analysis.  However, I think I'll indulge in some positive thinking today.  I've been ill for 5 days and need it....

Things to make me glad about having a stomach bug

1. Getting up close and personal with my toilets enabled me to inspect under the rim.  I'm so glad to find that my toilets are really clean!  A pat on the back for the cleaner - me!
2. Child one also had the bug and was forced to spend time at home with her mum.  Although she was weeping with boredom I'm glad that we had the opportunity to share this wonderful experience. 
3. General lack of brain cells during the worst days meant I had to resort to reading women's magazines. 
-Reading Cosmo I found that the sex moves they call 'new' just aren't.  I'm glad I can remember!
-From Woman and Home I learned that I can improve my cleavage with injections of hyaluronic acid at £370 per treatment.  I'm glad my cleavage isn't that needy.  I just rub it with lard every now and then.
- Also from Woman and Home I discovered that the 'free range' egg label covers chickens living 10 to a square metre, and that their 'daylight' can mean artificial lighting indoors.  I'm glad that my girls don't have to live like that.
4. I'm glad that I have precious friends and family to do emergency shopping for crisps, dioralyte, and lucozade.
5. I'm glad that my boiler chose now to break down because.....OK I'm struggling here.  Any ideas?

Proper free range hens! Daisy, Polly, Delia and Tracy (hiding) 

Incompatabilitygook

Imagine a world where you come home from work and last night's dishes have been unloaded from the dishwasher.

Imagine a world where people change the toilet roll.

Imagine a world where you can plug a new printer into a computer and it just works.

I feel a song coming on.  I thnk my lyrics would rival John Lennon's.

Anyway, re the new printer....this is how it goes: you do a bit of research about printers; you read something, you talk to some people and then you ignore all of that and buy the cheapest one available on-line, very late at night, when the red wine box suggests that it's a great idea.  Huge box of printer arrives 5 days later.  You put it in the kitchen and fall over it for 10 days, waiting for the signs to be auspicious.  You order some ink, which costs more than the printer.  Ordering ink makes you feel like a grown up.  Over a period of time you edge the box closer to the table.  One day you clear all of the rubbish off the table and lift the box onto it.  You don't open the box yet, because venus has to be in a particular alignment for the signs to be auspicious.  You buy a chicken, complete with giblets, and examine its entrails.  Then - joy!  The stars and the chicken guts and your personal biorhythms come together and it's time to open the box.  This involves wrestling polystyrene and you break into a sweat.

In the box is a huge black machine, a disc and a leaflet.  The leaflet has no words, just alarming diagrams and pictures of the machine.  You are in a Fahrenheit 451 world - life with no written words.  The pictures don't look like your machine.  You turn it round and now it does, sort of.  You unpack ink cartridges, leads, plugs.  This needs scissors and a kitchen knife and generates a huge amount of waste.  You cut your finger on sharp plastic and bleed on everything.  You get the first aid box (under the dog food) and attempt to find the right size plaster.  Blood drips into the sink.

You make a cup of tea and add a spoon of sugar, for stamina.  You tell yourself to think positive.  All over the world ordinary people are connecting new printers to their pcs, and they don't all have IT degrees.  Just because every single printer you've ever had has made you weep.....doesn't mean this one will. 

You put Madonna on and have a motivational dance around the kitchen.  Madonna wouldn't be beaten by a printer.

In a rush of enthusiasm you plug all of the bits into the various holes, press all of the buttons (one must be 'start') jam in the ink cartridges and put the disc in the drive.  Things whirr and click.  You click on 'yes' and 'continue' and 'allow' and 'next'.  You start to think that it might, just might, possibly be OK.

Then it happens....there's a clunk and a message pops up telling you that internet explorer is incompatible with the new printer.  You feel that internet explorer has decided this way too quickly.  It has only just been introduced and it's already decided that there's no future in the relationship.  You tell internet explorer to be nice.
"How much did you pay for this printer?" he asks.
"That's not relevant," you answer.
"I can just check," says internet explorer.  "I can do that.  I have your histoy here."
"£19.50," you mutter.
There is an awkward silence.
"There must be a fix," you say.  "Please find one."
Internet explorer gives  a huge sigh, but finds you some help screen.  This is like Relate for IT.  It can fix the impaired relationship between internet explorer and the new printer.  There's a price.  You have to agree to all kinds of stuff before the fix can be downloaded.  "Will you give your firstborn child to the witch next door?"  You click on 'allow'.  "Will you sign over all of your possessions, house, car, pension and future earnings to the software company just so you can get your cheap printer to work?"  You click on 'whatever...just get on with it.'  (They really should have a box which says that!)

Then suddenly printer is talking to internet explorer.

But you're not home yet.  There's a new message on screen:
"The pc cannot detect the printer" it says.  You give the pc a slap.  You unplug all of the stupid wires and then connect them again.  "Nice try," you are told.  "but the pc still cannot detect the printer". 
"Look," you shout, swivelling the laptop so its screen is pointing at the printer.  "It's right next to you.  It's that huge black thing."
"How much did you pay for that?"  the pc sneers.
"Don't you start," you say.  "You were thrown in with a phone contract.  You don't have any right to get snooty."

You switch everything off and on again and then the pc tells you that it CAN detect the printer.  You stick some paper in and something prints! 

It' only taken an hour and twenty minutes.  That's a record.  You clear up all of the packaging and wipe the blood away.
You didn't weep.  You only lost a little blood.  You are superwoman.  You can do anything.  And next .....retiling the bathroom!

She even fits on the shelves!

This is Rugby - be nice

I have lived in Rugby for 11 years.  This is the longest I have ever lived anywhere.  But it only took a couple of years for me to realise that everyone in Rugby is connected, or related, or both.  Despite its burgeoning high-density housing estates it's a town which still feels small. 

So, is this why people in Rugby are the nicest?

For example, many years ago I was just getting warmed up in a rant about someone who had given my poor service in a shop.  My friend held up her hand:
"I think that, before you go any further, I should tell you that the person you're talking about is my sister-in-law," she warned.  "I may agree with you.  I may understand what you're going to say.  But you should know that she's been having a bad time recently, and she's really low."
Of course I backtracked.  From then on I was a teeny bit more careful about what came out of my mouth.
As I always said to my girls.  "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."  It's easy to say, but not so easy to do and I still get caught out.  News travels fast around here, and if you hear only one side of the story you can jump to certain conclusions.  OFSTED have been targetting the area at both primary and secondary level and heads are rolling all over the place.  (Do you see what I did there?  Heads rolling....like a pun....) .  But just wait, and pretty soon someone in Rugby will give you the other side of the story. Because they will have heard the other side from their brother's wife's sister's cousin's neighbour's workmate.

I met  my lovely friend, Helen, for a coffee at Mosaic in Bilton this morning, then I went to the butchers, the post office and the Co-op.  I had proper conversations with everyone, in every shop, with eye contact and smiles!  On my dog walks strangers greet me and stop to chat.  Maybe you have to have lived in the South East of England to really appreciate this.  People born and bred here take it for granted.  They shouldn't. 

My students often comment on the friendliness of Rugby folk, particularly those who've lived elsewhere in the UK. 

Another good thing about Rugby is that everywhere is mixed.  There are posh bits, but they're right next to more mixed areas.  No gated communities here.  No exclusive neighbourhoods.  We're all in it together, for better or for worse. 

Rugby ....you don't have a department store but you have everything I need.  You're a bit grotty in parts, but you don't have any pretensions.  You've got beautiful parks, a canal, a river.  A great place to live.