Sleepless nights, Coffee mornings, and "the usual suspects"

I have found a moment of quiet in the midst of a very busy day. Almost magically, it is 22 degrees Celsius, and I am sitting outside, in a sun hat, worried about sunburn…

Can this possibly be England in April? I wish I could capture this day and share it with you!

I have found an absolute haven of tranquility in the garden of The Glebe Hotel.  Sipping coffee, undisturbed, I try and process all that has transpired in yet another hectic week. I often think to myself, and the DEB often asks me aloud, whether I really need another challenge to take on, and clearly, it seems I do. Routinely.

My charity Coffee Morning went off really well. We raised £150.00! This was largely due to support from “the usual suspects” – loyal friends and kind neighbours who dug deep, and gave of their time and treasure to support our cause.

The night before was a sleepless one for me, as I tossed and turned and panicked: “All this effort, and what if no one comes?” I finally gave up on sleep at half five, and wandered around the house trying think of what I may have forgotten. Then, at half six it dawned on me: coffee, tea, sugar, milk and support staff.

Just a few minor things!

A frantic text to my friend, Hannah: “Help!” The reply came: “When do you need me?” My plea: “As soon as you can be here!” Friends like that are gold dust! When Hannah arrived, I threw my arms around her, and thanked my lucky stars! She dutifully set off to the village shop for supplies, while I blew up balloons and schlepped cakes and raffle prizes to the church.

Pam, Alex and Hannah’s mum arrived to lend a hand, as did my Darling Neighbour, Mary Sue. (Yes, a rather unique name for a Briton.) MS brought along a gorgeous, chocolate cake, and singlehandedly commandeered the coffee urns. Hannah’s sweet mother, Ann, donned the giant Marie Curie daffodil hat and walked up and down the road wooing punters to our party. Remarkable.

Of course, to start off, we had more helpers than punters, and I feared that this way the entire event would go. I had baulked at tradition and scheduled my Coffee Morning at the ungodly hour of 9:30 AM, in an attempt to woo the “school-run mums” who seem to gaggle and loiter outside the church each and every day around 9 AM. Monday was not one of those days.

The road was positively empty, quiet and devoid of mums. My plan had backfired. In my effort to attract what I thought would be a captive audience, I had seemingly offended purists who believe a Coffee Morning should start later. Sometimes, you just can’t win!

In my more cynical, paranoid and self-obsessed moments, I am convinced that the school-run mums – viewing me as some sort of childless, social pariah – conspired against me, and all purposely stayed away, and gathered elsewhere on the day. But that would be very cynical, indeed. And, to be sure, three mums from the school actually did turn up to the Coffee Morning, and seemed to have had a nice time, and each won a prize, I think.

All in all, it was a great experience, and one that has taught me (yet again) that no matter how “small” an event is, it is still an event, and requires lots and lots of effort. Pictures from the day, forthcoming.

After the Coffee Morning, I went home and collapsed. Despite the virtual ton of caffeine and sugar I had consumed, I was spent. But, my respite was short-lived – on to the next task. More fundraising, and of course The Big Swim.

The DEB and our new Teammate, Hazel, began our 15K challenge on Monday, with the goal of doing 1K per day. Our first kilometre completed, the DEB and I dashed home from the pool to host the first “Royal Wedding Street Party Committee” meeting. With wet hair and aching arms, I thought to myself “What on earth am I doing?” But, everyone’s really excited about the street party, and offering to help, I just needed to get the ball rolling.

No rest for the wicked: yesterday was spent facing down a massive, lingering deadline I had for a restaurant/pub review for the magazine. This is my first piece for our new editor, and I did not want to disappoint.

I made the foolhardy mistake of “tweeting” (Note to self: need to reflect upon Twitter.) that I would have the piece in by 5 PM. Great. Now, the entire world could witness my tendency to procrastinate. I must say, the fact that I had broadcast my own potential downfall, did propel me to get it done. Maybe Twitter is just what I’ve always needed…

And so, today. Finally a breather, of sorts, and at least a few moments of reflection. That, along with the workmen who have been in and out of the house today. We are having a new kitchen floor installed, and a new window in the living room.

Did I need another challenge this week?

Ironically, as the first workman arrived at 7:45 AM, I went to the door and found that someone had slipped a note through sometime in the night. I opened the card to find a donation to our Marie Curie funds and a short, simple note: “Thank you.”

As I stood there, my eyes filled with tears. All the aches and effort are truly worth it. And, in that moment I remembered what this is all about, and what it’s all for. So that somebody, somewhere may have the peace, comfort and care that a Marie Curie Nurse can provide them in their final days here on earth, in the comfort of their own homes. That is truly an incredible gift, and my efforts are just a wee, small part of making this wonderful gift happen.

That gentle reminder helped me to put aside thoughts of who came to the Coffee Morning, and who didn’t; who’s supported us, and who hasn’t, etc. It’s about love and the greater good. And surely, this world is in desperate need of that right now.

With these thoughts in mind and heart, I glided through my 1k today.  (Number 4 of 5!) Hazel arrived at the pool just as I’d hit my half way mark, and we chatted and swam the rest together. Hazel’s in my Aquafit class, and we had never really spoken much before, but once she heard about our swim she felt compelled to get involved. I think she may become a good friend.

As we’ve now all reached the 4K mark, we’ve decide to space out the rest of the swim for the remainder of the Swimathon. We’re talking about getting together and doing the last lengths together, and maybe taking a Team photo. I think we should break open a bottle of bubbly when we’re done as well!

Oh, dear, sounds like I’m on my way to planning yet another “little event”.

A mirror, or a friend

Two kilograms.

That’s roughly 4.4 pounds.  Or, as I prefer to see it: That is two, whole bags of caster sugar!! That is how much weight I have lost in precisely seven (7) days.  Yes, I have succumbed to the “I’m-a-bride-and-I-must-get-fit” mindset. But, thankfully, I’m not obsessing about it.  I have started a new fitness regime, and I love every minute of it! I’m actually having fun (so far).

Last week, I joined the Gym/Leisure Club at The Glebe Hotel. I’m not a huge fan of gyms and clubs, but this one is different. It is very small, and very friendly. With a lovely Hobbit-sized swimming pool that looks “crowded” with more than three people in it. There is a sauna (my favorite post-workout reward!) and a steam-room. The female trainer is a really sweet, Polish girl called Eva.  (Interesting point: There is a growing Polish population in the UK. Stratford-upon-Avon now has a Polish market on its high street. Fascinating, for a small market town in the Midlands.)

Eva is awesome. The first day I went in she asked me what my goals were, and I told her: “I’m getting married this summer, and I need to look less like the world’s shortest sumo wrestler.”

“No problem.” said Eva. “We work together. We make it happen. You believe in you, whatever it takes. Dreams are free.” I walked away from my first grueling weigh-in with high hopes. Eva’s words propelled me forward, so earnest, so simple, so inspired.

It was only later, after I’d showered, that I noticed the motivational posters on the women’s dressing walls. More tasteful and mature than the now legendary kitty-cat on a washing line-“Hang in there, baby” posters, these depict healthy, active people pursuing daring and challenging pursuits, complete with pithy catch phrases, such as: “Believe in yourself.” “Make it happen,” and, yes, even “Dreams are Free.”

Okay, so Eva gets no points for originality, but she scores big in her training prowess. She’s incredible. No shouting, no bullying, no showing off. She’s calm and soft-spoken, and takes a “gently, gently” approach to training. She has managed to create a fitness plan that I can actually follow. She has kept everything simple and user-friendly for me. My workout is a mix of running, light strength training and swimming.  This works for me, as I’m the sort of person who gets bored with monotonous routines. And, I’m in and out of the gym in an hour and a half each day. Brilliant! And that includes a post-swim snooze in the sauna. As with monotony, I’m not a: “3 hours in the gym” kind o’ gal.  I just won’t go. I want to walk in, do it, get it done, and move on to the rest of my day. I think I may just manage to stick to this one.

There is method to this bridal madness, you see, as of yesterday, I have found (and purchased) The Dress. As with so much in my life, this major occurrence happened purely by chance.

I decided to treat myself to a day out in Warwick yesterday. Stratford-upon-Avon will have to forgive my infidelity, but I have fallen madly in love with Warwick, the county town of Warwickshire. Anyway, I have decided—as if I have time—to start a wedding quilt.  So, a trip to “The Quilter’s Den” in Warwick was a must. I have meant to start this quilt project for several days, but kept getting distracted by the dress saga.

Short note on dress saga: I had placed myself on another “thrift challenge” to see if I could find a gorgeous dress without breaking the bank, i.e., "Vera Wang on a Budget". So, as noted previously, I have been wasting hours upon hours of my life trolling the depths of eBay, preownedweddingdress.com, myrecycledwedding.com, among other sites to try and bargain hunt for the dress. 

This is frustrating process to say the least. Frustrating, and in my case, pointless. Until someone actually invents Hobbit-Brides.com, I’m wasting my time.  I’m petite and curvy, and so unlike an average slim-Jim Jane, ordering a dress online and expecting a perfect fit is a pipe dream.

But, I’m a clever girl, and I had a cunning plan. I would take myself a proper Bridal shop, have a gander at styles, figure out what works on me, and what doesn’t, then proceed with the quest armed with the requisite knowledge.

Then, the unexpected. And, perfection.

The shop I’d chosen was “Eternal Bride” in the Old Square in Warwick. I will confess I was completely overwhelmed and nervous as I walked in. Would they be nice? Would I feel trapped by “a hard sell”? Would I be conned into buying something I didn’t actually like, or want, just for the seek of freedom and escape?? And goodness, I was doing this all alone!

My expectations could not have been more far from the truth. The staff at Eternal Bride: Debbie, Morag and Peter were incredibly kind and friendly. They gave very good advice, but more importantly, they listened to me. After an initial chat with the wonderfully effervescent Debbie (she has a great job, and she knows/loves it), I was handed a pair of white archivist’s gloves (much to the glee of my librarian heart) and was let loose on my own in a beautiful sea of wedding gowns.

To some, this may sound like an incredibly lonely experience, but I truly enjoyed it.  It had a similar and warmly familiar feeling to me, like when I am doing historical research in an archive or special collection. Handling precious things with care, taking your time to peruse and access the details.

So, it was just my opinion, and the dresses. And without any sort of high-pressure “suggestions” from shop assistants pushing a particular line. I took my time and made about a dozen selections, which I indicated by putting a bright blue tag on the hanger.  I went back and reported my findings to Debbie, who then had her colleague, take the dresses down for me and placed in a dressing room.

Looking back on it, I have no doubt, given her keen eye; Debbie knew which dress was going to work for me from the beginning. But she let me come to that conclusion myself. Her instructions to me had been incredibly simple and helpful: “Pick out whichever dresses you like for whatever reasons: the color, the bodice, its personality, etc.”

Of course, the dress that I had chosen purely for an example of a color/shade I like, turned out to be the And all, I mean ALL the dresses I had assumed would be solid choices for reasons of style, cut and design never even made it out of the gates! I had envisioned billowy organza, with a deep v-neck, and off the shoulder straps. Each and every one of the dresses of that type made me look like a smurf drowning in a giant pavlova.

I want the D.E.B. to recognize me when I walk down the aisle. I want to look like myself, I want to be comfortable. I also want to be elegant, sexy and fun. That’s a tall order for one dress. But, I think I found it. Made of scrumptious ivory, Thai silk, the dress --fitted strapless bodice, sheath skirt, with detachable train--was designed by award-winning, British designer Helen Marina, and part of her “Vintage Collection”: Helen Marina Bridal Wear UK

As for “sticker shock” – there was sticker shock, indeed! This couture creation was actually ON SALE, so I came in UNDER, yes UNDER, my target budget. Yea, Team! Now, if only everything else could work out so beautifully and economically.

Back to Eternal Bride…it was an incredible, incredible experience. And sure, there are loads of people in my life whom I would have loved to have been there to share that moment with me, but there was also a real sense of accomplishment in my doing this very major thing on my own. I felt very, very grown-up.

But, that is not to suggest that I didn’t misbehave. Debbie is a real sweetie, she put me at ease and we giggled and howled all afternoon as we waded through the virtual mountain of dresses. Ah, what fun it is to be a girl! And the staff at “Eternal Bride” made me feel just like a princess…

I will admit that I did get a little teary when I saw myself in “the dress.” It finally, finally dawned on me that I’m going to be a bride. That I’m actually going to marry my D.E.B. at last.

So, the quest now is to tone up—and turn my “hams” back into “arms”—as much as I can before my first fitting in March. It’s good to have a firm deadline. And it’s even better to have a team of helpful and gregarious supporters in my corner, to be the mirrors and friends I need.

p.s. The DEB and I have a catering/reception meeting tonight, with one of our top choice venues!!

Not your Granny's W.I.

Joining the Barford W.I. was one the best decisions I’ve ever made.  When I joined in September, I had an image in my head that most people—particularly Americans—probably have of the Women’s Institute: Endearing and enduring, old, English matrons who represent and uphold—with very stiff upper lips, of course—all that is “middle England.” Oh, and of course, Calendar Girls. Lovely. And in many ways that is what it is, and is true. But, I also see that there is more to W.I. than just “jam & Jerusalem”.

First of all, these ladies know how to have a laugh.  Last night’s W.I. Christmas “do” at The Glebe Hotel was fantastic! Our gathering started around 7:30 PM (half 7, as we say here) in The Glebe’s lovely, art deco bar.  There, we were greeted by our Lady President for “welcoming drinks”. Social hour was followed by a full, festive Christmas dinner with all the trimmings: turkey, with stuffing and sausage, roast potatoes, veggies, gravy, and cranberry sauce. We were escorted to our seats by restaurant staff in formal attire. Each of the tables was named after an English Christmas Pantomime favo(u)rite: “Dick Whittington,” “Puss in Boots,” and etc.

I had chosen a place at the “Cinderella” table with my friend Diane. Diane and I decided that the Cinderella table was the “bad girl” table. Mind you, I think every table at this event was a “bad girl” table! Although many of the “Cinderellas” were being decidedly “cheeky” in their refusal to don the festive hats that had been placed at each of our places, along with a Christmas cracker. Being fond as I am of wearing character hats for no particular reason, I happily joined in the fun, and donned my pirates’ hat with pride.

I’ve always been utterly fascinated by the concept of the British “Christmas cracker” and do wonder how (and why) we come have to have lost this “old country” tradition in America. For me, the Christmas cracker epitomizes the British sense of Christmas as a time of magic, merriment and fun.

During our luscious meal, the Restaurant Manager went from table-to-table performing magic tricks for a highly skeptical and increasingly inebriated female audience. He didn’t stand a chance. But, he actually did quite well. After dessert, that was of course, Christmas pudding, it was our turn to perform. Time for toasts and jokes. I have to say that the zinger Auntie Dorothy had given me went down a treat. I got a rousing round of applause and laughter, and had several requests for email copies of the joke.

I got four-stars for my “performance” of the joke – which means a lot to me, as I was nervous as heck, and longed to overcome my well deserved reputation as a “duff” joke-teller. As my friends will concur, when telling a joke, I inevitably amuse myself, laugh uncontrollably, and end up hashing the joke altogether. So, just making it through with a straight face was a coup for me, and let me tell ya, the Barford W.I.  can be a tough crowd.

An example. At our December meeting, last week, the Guest Speaker was a London Music Hall historian, and his presentation went up like a lead balloon. Bless him. I thought he was super. He shared details of the careers of a number of notable stage sensations from 1920s London. Periodically, throughout his lecture, he would burst into song, suddenly performing one of the legendary tunes of time. Apparently, the tunes were not legendary enough. He belted out the old classic: “When’re ya takin’ me up th’ altar, Walter,” and when he reached the chorus, he stretched out his arms towards the assembled women, paused dramatically, and waited for us to join the rousing refrain. No one did. He was a trooper, and in true stage form, the show went on. And on.  The W.I. member sitting next to me, who’s at least 70, if she’s a day, leaned over and whispered in my ear: “How old does he think we all are? He needs an audience that’s at least 15 years older.”

After trying unsuccessfully to win the group over with old show tunes, he tried some old, classic, music hall jokes:

“A man takes his girlfriend out for a picnic in a park. They reach a quiet spot, and the man sits on the ground. He pats the ground next to him and says, ‘Some dew.’ His girlfriend exclaims: ‘Well, some don’t!’”

(I snickered softly in the back row, as the sound of tumbleweed drifting through the room could be heard.)

“A man takes his wife out for dinner at a posh hotel. As they walk through the double doors, a gorgeous blonde sashays past them. She flicked her hair, wiggled her hips and winked at the man as she went by. ‘Who was that woman?’ exclaimed the wife. ‘Oh, don’t you start,’ said the husband, ‘I’m going to have a tough enough time explaining who you are to her in the morning.’”

(I snorted loudly in the deadly silent room.)

 “Two men in a pub. One says: ‘What are you getting your wife for Christmas?’ The other says: ‘A violin.’ ‘Oh, really,’ asks the first man, ‘is she musical?’ ‘No,’ the man responds, ‘but she needs a chin rest.’”

(I howled with laughter, amid the sound of crickets in the distance.)

These gals were not cutting this poor guy any slack whatsoever, and THAT made it all the more funny! But, needless to so, after seeing this poor guy lose his shirt, I was more than a little concerned about my own “performance” at the W.I. Christmas “do”. But, it went down really well, and there is a bit of mercy and grace in being a newbie. I’m just glad I had the guts to do to it all. It’s made me a bit of celeb around Barford. I have people coming up to me in the local shop saying, “Oh, I hear you told a cracking joke the other night at the W.I. dinner.” There are worst ways to be known, for sure.

In addition to my “zinger” I think the other top joke at the dinner was this one, told by my jam & preserve making hero, Hilary:

 “A couple goes along to the doctor’s. The doctor says he has some serious news for them, and wants to speak to the wife privately. The wife goes into the doctor’s office, and the doctor says: ‘I’m afraid your husband is in a truly bad way, very grave condition. But with your cooperation he could make it through this. Here is what we need you to do. Restructure his diet. Dutifully prepare for him three, solid, wholesome meals a day. The same time every day. All his favorite foods. Keep him comfortable. Let him have a drink when he wants to. No chores or extra tasks after work. Don’t make any demands, don’t complain, argue or badger him. And make love whenever he wants, as often as he wants. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes, Doctor.’ The wife says. The wife then leaves the doctor’s office. As the couple leave the surgery, the husband turns to the wife as says, ‘What did he say?’ The wife responds: ‘I’m sorry, dear. You’re going to die.’”

Brilliant.

But, the W.I. isn’t just about jokes and lemon curd. At the W.I. dinner, I also heard about one of the Federation of Women’s Institute resolutions for 2009: a campaign to legalize prostitution in Britain. I was more than a little surprised. This seemed a rather a strong proposition for a jam-friendly organization that has “For Home & Country” as one if its mottoes. But, then, as this was discussed over “welcoming drinks,” it became clear to me that this stance isn’t at all discordant with W.I. values, but rather well within them.

My wise friend, Diane, explained: “The W.I. stands for women.  And is committed to the welfare and safety of all women. All women. Every woman is someone’s daughter, regardless to where life may find her. That street walker is someone’s daughter, and she deserves to be safe.” 

This resolution grew out of the concern expressed by a local W.I. (in Bedford, I believe) following the murder of five prostitutes in their city. But, the concern is also one that the W.I. believes registers much closer to home, a concern for “the countless, good British wives who are walking around with no idea that they have been infected with an STD/STI.” The thinking runs thus: prostitution has and will always exist, so by creating some sort of regulatory standard in legalizing prostitution will ensure the health and safety of the sex workers, the clientele, and their (the clientele’s) families. This ain’t your Granny’s W.I., sister. I mean no offense to my countrywomen, but I can’t even imagine a member of the “Junior League” or “Daughters of the American Revolution” even using the terms “prostitution” or “STI/STD” in a sentence, let alone as the basis for a resolution or nationwide campaign! (Please forgive me, if my perceptions of these two revered institutions of American womanhood are not as staid as I assume.)

Such progressive and forward thinking is at the heart of the modern British W.I. We’ve gone way passed the now-infamous calendar, girls. The modern W.I. is tackling all sorts of issues of importance to the modern woman. Chins dropped recently when the Times reported on a recent W.I. development: sex guides for the over-60s. Of course, snickering could be heard from one end of the country to the other, but, I have to say, yet, again, I am impressed and inspired by the sheer chutzpah of the women of W.I. The guides are cover a range of topics, such as age and mobility issues; martial aids/devices; intimacy and libido; masturbation; and STDs/STIs. The videos are presented by Mrs. Janice Langley, a 66 year-old, West Sussex W.I. member, who is also a registered Nurse and sex therapist.  Janice’s presentation is frank, friendly, and straightforward.

Tastefully done, and filmed in Janice’s home, you feel as if you’ve just stopped ‘round to hers for a cup of tea, and a quiet chat. Janice’s tone is warm, conversational and friendly. However, this stuff is far from laughable, though the press mill has had a field day making fun of it.  Janice’s presentation is frank and candid. And there were even a few points that made a closet conservative gal like me blush a little.

I think the media’s reaction to this series of W.I. sex guides says a great deal about our present-day attitudes about older people, especially older women, and sex: ‘It’s all well and good, as long as the old dears stick to baking cakes, making jam and knitting.’ Indeed. I would wager that these naysayers will feel quite differently about it when they are over 60.

I think these videos are a testament to a contemporary “Old Age” renaissance. A renaissance that is long overdue. A movement against the tide, defiantly declaring: How old is old? To me, these videos and the women behind them are beacons of hope. There are possibilities for life, pleasure and fulfillment after 60, after heart attacks, or a stroke. And it is never too late to for love.

And, that is no laughing matter.

p.s. Three clips of the Women’s Institute Sex Guides are available on YouTube.