The 52 Fold Challenge

I'm an ordinary person looking for some motivation in this next year, so I'm going to set myself one challenge each week throughout 2015 to keep me on my toes. And then I'll write about it on here for you to read should you want to. Wish me luck! - Faye

[the52foldchallenge]

The Most Difficult Challenge...

Nakedness. It is at once exciting and terrifying. It is when the majority of us feel our most free and most vulnerable, whether we are body confident or not.

Personally, like everyone, I have bits I like and bits I don’t like. Generally, I have a flat stomach, some decent child bearing hips, thighs, and a sizeable arse. And yes, with that comes a few stretch marks and a bit of cellulite. Sadly, whilst God was being over generous with my lower half, he sort of forgot about my chest area, and I spent most of my teenage years praying for full C-cups that never came.

But this isn’t a pity party. If I’m feeling particularly flabby (like right now) then of course I’ll do something about it. I’ll go to the gym for a few months to tighten that shit up, and I won’t hate it, but I’m not going to pretend I love exercising, because I don't.

What I do love however, is food. I am a self confessed greedy little cow who will think nothing of devouring an entire batch of brownies by myself. I do not accept that a McDonalds meal is satisfying enough without at least one extra cheeseburger on the side, and don’t get me started on buffets. In fact I once read a quote that said “I am not done eating when I’m full, I’m done eating when I hate myself.” That is the exact mentality I will employ at an all you can eat buffet, and if you don’t do the same then you are not making the most of your investment. It’s just good business sense.

The point is, I am flawed. We all are, and that’s ok.

Despite this open assessment of my appearance, on the whole I would consider myself to be reasonably body confident. I’m not a lights off covers on sort of person, but nor am I about to strip off and let a bunch of strangers draw me for an hour…

Actually, that last bit isn’t entirely correct. That is exactly what I did for this particular challenge. And it was utterly horrifying.

My friend Fleur suggested this challenge, and I honestly couldn’t think of anything more perfect, because as soon as she said it I wanted to run home and put on my entire wardrobe, Joey Tribbiani style.

Once I’d accepted that I was going to do this, I started hunting round for classes. I emailed local art clubs in London, schools, colleges, and even pubs that ran life drawing sessions. I also trawled gumtree and agency sites, but was either turned away or asked to share a portfolio of my life modelling experience (BTW what does that even mean? Perverts.)

But to be brutally honest, nobody wanted me. Despite offering to do it for free, I clearly wasn’t London calibre. I literally could not give that shit away.

So, with much reluctance, I turned my attention to somewhere that I knew wouldn’t be quite so competitive - my home town of Harpenden. A nice little bubble where the six degrees of separation theory would never be questioned - what could possibly go wrong?

I found a nice looking art club that met at the public halls each week, emailed the contact on the website, and eagerly awaited a reply. And I didn’t have to wait long, because it turns out that their regular life model had decided to retire. My timing could not have been more perfect.

I arranged to meet with one of the art club members, Charlie, at his house (which he lives in with his wife, he hastened to add).

When I arrived I was greeted by Charlie (and indeed his wife), and then lead upstairs to their office where I sat with him as he gave me a bit of background on the art club, and asked if I had any questions (how many questions can you really have? Taking your clothes off and standing there is pretty self explanatory). Not wanting to seem rude, and feeling a little bit like I was in an interview, I searched my head for literally any question I could ask. And if I could take back the question I ended up asking, then I absolutely would...

One thing that had been playing on my mind was the posing. After 28 years of being alive, I still don’t know how to pose successfully for a photo in a carefully curated outfit on a night out with the girls; so how I was supposed to pose naked for up to 20 minutes at a time for a room of strangers was completely beyond me. And so that’s what I asked about.

And then I watched, with horror, as this sweet old man innocently typed “nude poses” into Google. Before I could even protest, he had hit enter, and time slowed down. We waited for the inevitable, and my face flushed to a shade of red so violent I don’t even think Dulux would be able to match it.

Sure enough, the screen filled with pornographic images of women doing some extremely naughty (and also flexibly impressive) things to and with their bodies. I bit my lip and willed myself to die. This was a bit like when you’re watching a film with your parents and an unexpected sex scene comes up. Suddenly everyone develops a cough and has a sudden urge for a glass of water / snack / pee. One of your parents will inevitably try and make light of the situation with a terrible joke, that will actually have the opposite effect and make everything much worse.

But in a realer sense, this wasn’t at all like that. Because I wasn’t with my parents who I know and love, watching a bit of light panting and tastefully shot silhouettes; I was sitting in a room with a 70 year old man I’d never met before, looking at women spread eagled and touching themselves. This was a deeply unfamiliar dynamic.

Credit to him, Charlie handled this very maturely, turning to me and saying with a total dead pan expression that these images weren’t quite what he was expecting to see, and perhaps he should have anticipated this result. He then apologised, and tried to salvage the situation. But instead of shutting down the page and trying something a little more art friendly, he decided to persevere. And so we scrolled through several pages of porn whilst objectively discussing the less graphic images and how I could draw inspiration from them. How I maintained a straight face, I will never know.

A few weeks went by, and on the Wednesday morning of the class I got up and went to work as usual. The day was just like any other normal day, with only one person in the office Googling the Harpenden art club website and reading aloud the bit of blurb about their “new life model”. At the end of the day, I finished up and boarded the train to Harpenden with a sense of unease in the pit of my stomach. In less than an hour I’d be standing totally stark naked in one of the least pornographic poses I’d seen on a Google search.

After one of the longest train journeys I’ll ever take (metaphorically speaking - this time not due to the fault of Thameslink), I entered the hall to meet the art club members. Two of the members, Keith and Hazel, ran the life drawing classes and were particularly welcoming. I was quite clearly cacking my pants at this point, but they were so kind and reassuring that I almost forgot the enormity of what I was about to do.

After a while, the warm comforting cup of tea they had given me was prised from my hands, and I was told I could go and change into my robe.

When I returned to the room, there was a stage with a chair and a spotlight, and about 30 people gathered around it in a semi circle. This looked way more serious than I thought it would, but I assumed it was too late to back out now.

Hazel directed me to the cold leather chair and kindly informed me she had put a towel down so that my bum wouldn’t get chilly. I sat down in the chair in my robe with the spotlight on me and observed the room. People were mostly aged 40-70, although there was one guy around my age. I made a mental note to avoid looking anywhere in his general direction. I turned to Hazel with pleading eyes and desperately asked her what I was supposed to do now. The fear was now very very real and I wondered if anyone had ever actually vomited up their heart and lungs before.

Hazel formally introduced me to the group, and they all said hello and clapped, thanking me for being there. It was honestly the weirdest experience already, and I hadn’t even disrobed yet.

But I knew I couldn’t put it off forever, and after the introductions it was time to get started. Hazel suggested a seated pose and told me to relax. It reminded me of the first time I held a baby. My cousin Joanne had given birth to a gorgeous boy, Bobby, and asked me if I wanted to hold him. My maternal instincts had a brief battle with the anxious side of my brain, which was convinced I would somehow accidentally throw him into a fire or kick him in the face. I compromised by holding him in the most wooden way possible, pulling a few abdominal muscles and prompting strange spasms in my shoulder in the process (thankfully he is still alive and well).

I willed myself to not do the same thing here for many reasons, but mainly because I didn’t want people going home with confused drawings resembling a female hunchback of Notredame.

I took a deep breath and eased the robe down one of my shoulders, and slowly pulled the tie to open it. Then I panicked that my nerves and reluctancy were making this look like some sort of weird strip tease. To be on the safe side, I whipped the rest of the robe off in the least sexy way possible, accidentally stared the guy I was supposed to be avoiding square in the eye, and looked straight up to the ceiling feeling totally helpless and a million miles away from any sort of comfort zone.

After a minute or two I began to ease up, and I found that if I stared at a spot on the wall in the distance I could almost pretend that none of this was happening. I stood like that for ten minutes, totally zoned out and detached from my own body, and casually entertaining the thought that I might be achieving enlightenment.

Then Hazels voice carried across the room, telling us that the time was up, and all of a sudden I was just a naked person on a stage in front of a bunch of fully clothed people again. She approached me and we discussed a ten minute standing position, and I pretended I was totally ok having a normal chat with someone whilst unclothed.

As I’m sure you’d expect, the more time went on, the less I cared about the naked thing. And soon it was time for a tea break, and I was encouraged to awkwardly work the room in my robe and look at all the sketches people had been scribbling away at.

This part surprised me more than I imagined. Because suddenly I was walking round a room and seeing myself through 30 different pairs of eyes. Of course you know how you look to yourself in the mirror, and others can tell you what they see when they look at you, but there’s never an opportunity to really see what you look like to others. And the truth is, I didn’t look half as bad as I thought.

Suddenly my hips were narrower, my thighs weren’t as chunky, and my boobs were fuller (sort of - it wasn’t exactly a trip to the plastic surgeon). One of the things I’m most self conscious about is my ribcage, which was squashed when I was younger and is slightly unaligned as a result. To me it is glaringly obvious, but nobody had even picked up on it. Whilst I wouldn’t say these pictures provided me with a life changing moment, I would definitely describe them as a reality check, and perhaps a reminder that we could all do with being a bit kinder to ourselves sometimes.

Talking to the artists was slightly bizarre. Most complimented me on how still I was, many describing me as a ‘natural' (suck it, stupid stuck up London classes). Others just asked me a bit about myself and what I do. But with every person I spoke to, I had the exact same thought running through my head: You have seen me naked. Worse, you have studied my naked body. Even worse, you have documented it right here on this page for everyone to see for all eternity.

One particular woman asked me if I’d had children and I pretended to not be offended as I told her I hadn’t. To which she replied, “Oh thank god, I was really going to hate you if you had HAHAHA.” I think it was a compliment.

The second half breezed by fairly easily, although my new found acceptance with the nakedness had brought about other internal struggles - like whether I was breathing / blinking / gulping too much. And the more I thought about those things, the more frequently I wanted to do them. It was a vicious cycle.

Eventually, the time was up, and I was able to sink into the comfort of my robe and run to the toilets to reunite myself with my old friends, the clothes. There had been a cinema screening in the main hall next door, and a few people were still making their way out of the building, doing a double take as I casually waltzed past wearing only a dressing gown. The last little shred of embarrassment I’d have to endure that evening.

And that was it. The most difficult challenge I’ve done was complete, and I could now bask in the warm glow of pride and achievement that I was feeling. Maybe Rose was on to something when she asked Jack to draw her like one of his French girls...

P.S. If you made it through this post without googling “nude poses”, well done you.

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty Eight - Care Home Companionship

This week is a tough one to write about. The challenge is not a hilarious escapade, in fact it was quite the opposite. On week Twenty Eight I volunteered at a care home for the elderly. As expected, there were a lot of elderly people with dementia. This is particularly difficult for me because my Nan has suffered from Alzheimer's for some years now. I’ve watched one of the most important people in my life slowly slip away into a shell of their former selves. It’s a horrible disease, because they are physically still there, and yet they are missing vital parts of what makes them who they are.

It’s easy for people to romanticise others when something horrible happens, or is happening, but she genuinely is one of the kindest and most generous people I will ever meet. She adores us so deeply and completely, I swear you’ve not known unconditional love until you’ve been her grandchild. So when someone like that stops remembering you altogether, it’s a pain like no other. When someone dies you mourn the passing of their whole being, but when someone has dementia it’s like constantly mourning parts of them as they disappear.

It’s not all doom and gloom though, there are some situations you just have to laugh at. One of my favourite memories of my Nan since her diagnosis was when we were sitting in her lounge with the news channel on in the background. There had been quite a bad train crash and as with all news channels the stories were on loop. Back in those days you’d barely know she had dementia at all and we were having a lovely conversation, but I could tell she was becoming increasingly distracted. Eventually I asked what was wrong, and she pointed to the screen with a worried look. I followed her gaze and commented on how awful the train crash was, to which she replied, “But it’s not just one Faye, I’ve counted at least five in the past hour!”

She had completely overlooked the fact that it was just the same train crash story repeated over and over. And when I told her she laughed, widened her eyes and shook her head before tapping it with her finger to indicate she wasn’t thinking properly. She’d always brush it off as a joke, and back then I refused to believe she had early on-set dementia at all.

Then of course there are the more touching moments. The most recent one of these was when she was in hospital a few months ago. I’d been to visit a few times with my Dad, and on this particular occasion she beamed up at me from the bed. She doesn’t often recognise me, and at times has even been wary of me (in fact one time my Dad had gone to check in on her elderly neighbour and gave me the key to Nan’s bungalow. I let myself in and went to the lounge to see her and she looked at me like I was about to steal all her possessions. It wasn’t until my Dad came in that she stopped looking at me with total mistrust). But this time was different. She waited until my Dad’s back was turned and beckoned me closer with her finger. I leaned in and she pointed at me slowly before flattening her palm to touch her heart. “I know you, you’re mine,” she said. I nodded back furiously, blinking back tears in my eyes. That’s when I realised it didn’t matter if she knew my name or who's daughter I was, as long as she knew I was there, and I was hers.

Now, in my eyes my Nan deserves a lot more than five paragraphs. But I have a different story to tell, and it begins on the journey to the care home.

I got the train with plenty of time to spare, and arrived at the station twenty minutes early. I checked my route on City Mapper and weaved my way to the care home. When I got there, I took a look around and noticed that the only buildings in the vicinity were huge office blocks, which looked like they had been out of use for some time (and were also locked).

In a panic, I began to sift through my emails for the name of the home. None of them had any real information in them. I glanced at the battery on my phone and saw I was dipping under 20% (I dropped my phone down the toilet over a year ago and although it thankfully sprang back to life after spending a weekend in a bowl of rice, the battery life has been nothing short of abysmal ever since).

Finally I found the home on the volunteers website, and furiously scrolled down to get a street name. My fingers were fumbling in my haste to find it, but eventually I did. I plugged it in to City Mapper and caught a brief glimpse of the route (leading me twenty minutes in the opposite direction) before my phone gave up on me completely and left me on my own.

As I followed the route from my memory of that one glance at my cruddy phone, I cursed myself for being so reliant on technology. I remember when I was younger and heading into London, my Dad would get his A-Z out, we’d search for where I was going and work out the best route. I’d then scrawl directions on a post-it note and be on my way. It was a simpler time. Now I walk around fearless and cocky, with everything I need in one little device. Which would be fine, except as soon as I have that device wrenched away from me I’m just a clueless idiot bumbling around the city.

After a while, I found the street I needed and began to look for the building. I wandered aimlessly for quite some time, very aware that I was now extremely late (although I had no real way of knowing just how late I was because my phone is also my watch). Eventually, I found it, and was pleasantly surprised to find another lost soul wandering around too. I asked if she was here for the volunteering, she nodded and introduced herself as Isabella, and we both sought comfort in the fact that we weren’t alone in having the wrong postcode to begin with.

After a couple of bum steers, we reached the reception, and thankfully our names had been put down on the volunteer list. The receptionist was a lovely lovely woman, and seemed exceptionally grateful that we were taking time out of our Sunday afternoons - she made us feel like we were making a real difference, which did feel good, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty for being so late.

We followed her directions and eventually reached the nurses station on our designated floor. Nobody was there, so we waited patiently for somebody to arrive. I could hear a woman calling out for somebody, and turned around to face her. I soon realised it was me she wanted to talk to. She complimented me on my jacket, and I thanked her, smiling. She then went on to say how beautiful my smile was, and I thanked her again, genuinely touched. Then she started saying that I always did have a beautiful smile, and how I had my fathers eyes and if I knew when he was coming. It was heartbreaking to hear, and I honestly wasn’t sure what to say. In the end I gave a fairly vague response and we spoke for a few minutes before the nurse came to take us through into the lounge area.

I couldn’t help but feel as though our presence was unexpected here. Our names may have been on the list, but I couldn’t see any other volunteers around, and as the nurse introduced us to people around the room we learned that there were a lot of people who it wouldn’t be possible to sit with, because their dementia was too severe.

We sat with a lady called Pam, and were told that she would love the company, and to “mind the mamas”. I had no idea what that meant, but noticed that Pam had a few books on a table next to her. I began to read the poetry and her eyes lit up. I felt genuinely touched, and as I continued to read I showed her the accompanying illustrations. She seemed incredibly content and I smiled up at her as I finished the poem.

Thinking I was onto something, I turned the page to read another to her. She swiftly slammed the book shut onto my hand and I took the hint that it was probably enough for one day. We tried talking to her, but it was extremely difficult to understand what she was saying. She was incredibly expressive but most of the words were “mama” (I now understood what the nurse had meant) so she was a little incoherent. She also kept trying to get up, and we were told by the nurses that she couldn’t, so it was tough having to kindly guide her back into her chair, especially when she seemed so obviously distressed.

We made sure to keep asking her if it was ok that we were there (I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time someone wanted me to bugger off), but she was smiling and holding my hand, and as long as she was happy it didn’t really matter that we weren’t talking loads or reading or doing activities.

All of a sudden, across the room we heard a moan and a struggle. We turned round to the sound of “Bernard, stop trying to take your trousers off, there are ladies present!”

Sure enough, we saw a man who I assumed was Bernard, exposing rather a lot of Y-front and making “WAHEY” sounds. I couldn’t help but let out a giggle, which prompted Pam to throw her head back and roar with laughter. Before we knew it the whole room was chuckling to themselves and Bernard was beaming, proud of himself.

This went on for quite some time, and whilst it was funny I could see it was a full time job for the nurse just to keep Bernard decent. After further countless attempts to undress himself, he eventually left to go to his room, and I think the nurse was a little relieved (and scarred).

We chatted with Pam a little more, and she laughed and smiled a lot through the “mamas”. After a while, I noticed a man across the room, completely silent and observing us. He beckoned me over and so I got up to see him. On my way over, I noticed he was quite heavily strapped into his chair. I glanced around for the nurse but she had left the room.

I approached the man with some caution, and eventually I reached his side and gave him a gentle smile. He smiled back, and I relaxed a little. Then without warning he grabbed my hand - he had a disconcertingly tight grip and I immediately tensed up. I tired to maintain my smile but I couldn’t help but let it falter as he clung onto my fingers. Then he smiled, and brought the back of my hand to his lips. Sly old dog. Although there was something a little unsettling about it, I laughed, retracted my hand and gave him a little wave goodbye as I made my way back over to Pam under his steely gaze.

We chatted a while longer, and soon a couple of the nurses brought in a birthday cake to a lady in a headscarf, who had had some visitors earlier on. They encouraged the room to sing, which they did with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Isabella and I sang loudly, smiling as we tried to inject some energy into the fairly uninspired version of ‘Happy Birthday’ echoing around the room. It was all going really well until we approached the third line of the song. Because of course we didn’t know her name, and we were bringing a noticeable force to the song. Isabella and I looked at each other with fear and dread in our eyes... and winced as we both mumbled a totally incoherent name, and hoping we’d covered it up by singing the last line especially loudly. Thankfully, nobody seemed to notice, and to be fair I’m not sure most people in that room knew their name, let alone hers.

After a while, a nurse came round with the Birthday cake for us all. I tried to decline a slice, but they insisted. I took a look at the cake with a heavy heart. Now I wasn’t on a diet (dieting is for January, by July it’s long given up on), but I did have a reason for not wanting the cake, and I fear this reason is going to make you think I’m a terrible terrible person.

I find it hard to eat around elderly people. There, I said it, I’m a terrible terrible person. I don’t know what it is - it just triggers my gag reflex. And it’s worse if they’re eating too. I love elderly people, I think they’re incredibly interesting and wonderful human beings and I can’t tell you the respect I have for them. But I’m just no good with them around food. And even my grandparents aren’t excluded - not even my sweet loving gorgeous nan who I absolutely adore. It is completely irrational and I feel horrible admitting it, but it’s the truth.

I stared at the cake in front of me from a few angles. Eventually I picked up the spoon, held my breath, and shoved the largest chunk of cake I could get on the spoon into my mouth. I chewed furiously with my eyes closed and my jaw tense, trying to ignore the over sweetened slick of strawberry jam in the centre. The cake was really dry, and I begged for it to go down, but it just kept rolling around my mouth as if it was made up of lots of tiny tumbleweed. I opened my eyes and looked around the room, I could feel my gag reflex starting up. I snatched at my glass of water and chugged the remainder down, swallowing the cake like one giant cloying pill.

I looked at the rest of the cake staring up at me in the plate, and carefully placed my spoon down. I know when I’m defeated.

After ‘cake gate’ I needed some light relief. And that came in the form of Fredericka. Unlike anybody we’d met so far, Fredericka was incredibly sharp in mind, and had a wicked sense of humour. She was from Venice, and met her husband whilst he was holidaying there. She talked so fondly of the Italian city, and still had a wonderfully thick accent. She was absolutely terrific, and had no qualms about showing how much she despised England, and yet it was clear why she moved - she had obviously loved her husband very very much.

As we talked about her family and the places in London she has lived, it was quite obvious that her children lived nearby, and yet when I asked her if she saw them often she said she hardly saw them at all. She said it was lovely to have visitors and to have somebody to talk to. Isabella and I were incredibly moved, and also saddened at the thought of Fredericka sitting in this room each day with no real stimulating conversation.

She left around half an hour later to go and “get a change of scenery”, and shortly after that it seemed a natural time for us to go.

Like every time I visit my Nan, it’s hard to say whether you’ve actually made a difference. I think expectations can get the better of you sometimes, you imagine yourself listening to old war stories, laughing and joking and playing games, and people gathering round the exit to say goodbye to you. But of course that doesn’t happen.

Often when I see my Nan I’ll just sit there, being with her, longing to make it a memorable visit but knowing that for either of us it sadly won’t be. It’s difficult to make a huge difference in such a short amount of time, but if you can raise a few smiles and provide some company, then I’d say you’ve done a pretty good job.

If you’d like to volunteer, you can get more information at the following links:

http://www.ageuk.org.uk/get-involved/volunteer/

https://speedvolunteer.london.gov.uk          

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty Seven - Easy Peasy Flying Trapezy

When I was young we used to have a climbing frame in our back garden. It had all the things you’d expect: a swing, a rope swing, ladders, monkey bars, and a little trapeze. Once I reached the age of about seven, I realised I could hoist myself up onto the trapeze and sit on it like a swing. From there I could hang upside down and pretend I was in the circus. I was a bit timid as a child, but small achievements like this made me feel like I was actually quite brave.

My second trapeze experience came on the school PGL holiday in Powys (say it out loud and try not to sound like Jonathan Ross saying ‘Paris’), at a camp called Tan Troed. Tan Troed was the first real school trip with new classmates in year seven. It was sweaty, damp, muddy, and utterly marvellous. During the course of the week we fenced, rock climbed, abseiled and completed a gruelling obstacle course called the mud challenge (named as such because it was about 6 inches thick with caked on sludge). The mountaineering may have been a little anticlimactic, but the real daredevil stunt was the trapeze swing, and it did not disappoint.

It involved climbing a narrow little post, clambering up onto a letterbox sized platform, and jumping out to catch a trapeze placed about two metres away (I think - my concept of distance isn’t great, and was probably worse at the age of eleven). It was only for the brave, and a lot of people wussed out before even attempting it. I thought I would be one of those children as I waited agonisingly in line for a turn.

Finally the time came, I put my game face on and let the words of encouragement from the camp leaders and my new school friends guide me up the post. I placed two feet on the platform with a sense of euphoria, before realising I was stuck. My hands were still desperately clinging onto the platform, and I realised I had no idea how I was going to stand up. I sat there for a while in a crouched position, wondering whether I’d have to suffer the embarrassment of an instructor climbing up to get me. But after what seemed like a considerable length of time, I finally managed to prise my fingers off the edges and unsteadily came to a standing position. I looked at the trapeze swaying gracefully in the windy Welsh weather and on the count of three I leapt out towards it.

The funny thing is I don’t actually remember whether or not I caught the trapeze. The only thing I remember is the leap of faith, and how it felt to just let go and believe that everything would work out. It’s possibly the most freeing feeling in the world, and it’s that feeling that would later spur me on to leap out of a cable wire suspended cabin, attached to a bungy cord, and to jump out of a plane, attached to a parachute (and a qualified instructor of course).

But it doesn’t matter how many times you experience that feeling, there’s always a tinge of fear somewhere in there, because you’re trusting a lot of things. Not only are you trusting equipment, you’re also trusting people. Now if I miss something in a final check at work before it goes out to the client, they’ll spot it, we’ll change it, and no harm done (at worst they’ll be a bit angry and you’ll have to grovel a bit whilst feeling a fool). If someone working for A.J.Hackett misses something in a final check, then someone could die. Which sort of puts things into perspective - I must remember that next time I’m freaking out with a tight deadline.

When I read about a temporary trapeze rig set in the middle of Kensington Gardens, I couldn’t be totally sure of its credibility, but it seemed legit enough. I booked onto a two hour taster session and awaited my next challenge.

As I approached the trapeze I realised it was a lot higher than I expected. I wouldn’t describe myself as having a real fear of heights, but there’s definitely some squirming going on on the inside when I’m faced with them. I swallowed my nerves and beamed a smile as I introduced myself.

We were a group of total beginners, and I was relieved to see I was one of the least nervous there. First, we had a little practice on a static trapeze, suspended about nine feet off the ground. We had to thread our legs through, let go, and hang upside down. I didn’t find this too much of a struggle, thanks to my seven year old self being such a badass on that climbing frame.

They told us we’d be doing that up on the proper trapeze, and then we’d be doing a backflip to finish. On our first turn. We all laughed nervously and it took me a while to realise they weren’t joking. We’d literally just be going all in first time hanging upside down and attempting backflips - these people were bloody crazy (and clearly woefully naive when it came to our trapezing ability).

We formed a queue in order of a list on the board, when when I came to look at it I realised I wasn’t actually on it. I told one of the instructors and he produced a worn down marker pen. He attempted to add my name, and if you really squinted you could just about make out ‘Faye’ at the bottom. You could see clearly in the list where the pen had gone downhill, to create a nice ombre effect. I inwardly hoped that the equipment hadn’t suffered a similar fate. I watched people attempt the trick with varying degrees of success. One girl in particular totally smashed it out first time, and I so desperately wanted to be like her. (Generally I am a nice person, but I do have a rather nasty and unexpected competitive streak. I’ve worked really hard to control it over the years, mainly because nobody wanted to play Monopoly with me anymore. So far the only fool proof solution I’ve come up with is to not play Monopoly anymore).

Eventually, it was my turn to ascend the rickety ladder up to the platform. Obviously I was attached to a rope with a sturdy harness, but it had begun to drizzle slightly and the ladder was becoming a little slippy. The higher I got the more fearful I became, and by the time I reached the instructor I felt incredibly nervous. I was told to reach out for the trapeze, as she held onto my harness. Then once I had a steady hold, I was to entrust her to hold my full body weight and on her call, take a little jump off the edge to swing out. From there I just had to follow the instructions being called out and I’d be able to do the full shebang (apparently).

As soon as I let the instructor take my weight, my nerves immediately disappeared and I was told to hop off the platform. I swung out and felt a huge rush of adrenaline and excitement from taking that first leap. 

The instructor told me the put my legs up on the bar. And I tried, I really did try. But for some reason my abdominal muscles had deserted me, and I inwardly cursed myself for not doing more sit-ups or at least attempting a token plank once in a while. I tried a couple more times, but with no joy. I felt like a gangly idiot, legs flailing all over the place and the trapeze swiftly losing momentum. I was then told I could at least still attempt the back flip. Again, I followed instructions, and again I failed. It was like being the fat kid who can’t touch their toes in P.E. In my head I literally did everything they asked me to exactly when they asked me to do it, so why didn’t my body bloody back flip like that other girls had?! 

Flailing legs and a big toe with a mind of it’s own. It was never going to happen.

Feeling incredibly deflated, I descended from the net to a round of applause. Very kind of people to pity clap, but I felt like a bit of an idiot. The instructor told me I did a great job, and I smiled a weak thanks in his direction. Bloody patronising liar. 

I waited in line for my next turn, speaking to some of my new friends Riyadh and Sabina, a brother and sister who’d booked on to the course (well Riyadh had booked them on, Sabina hadn’t found out until that morning and didn’t seem too happy about it). We chatted away our remaining nerves, but couldn’t help but notice how persistent the rain was being. It wasn’t showing many signs of letting up, and although it wasn't torrential the instructors faces said it all - we might get rained off. Keen for us all to get at least one more go, the instructors pushed us through quickly, and most people were able to complete at least half the trick, if not all of it. I did wonder to myself what would happen if someone managed to get upside down but couldn’t get back up to the trapeze and the soft ache starting in my abdominals made me fearful that could be me. It was halfway through this thought that I was called up. The rain was beating down a lot more now, and I knew this would be my last attempt. 

#unexpectedunintentionalfilter

I carefully clambered onto the ladder, going as fast as I dared before they changed their minds and decided it was too dangerous. About half way up I felt my foot slide neatly off the rung of the ladder, managing to catch myself just in time. Heart hammering in my chest I finally reached the instructor. I dusted chalk over my hands and suddenly became that eleven year old girl at the top of the platform again. My game face was strong, and I was determined to crack it this time. I reached out for the trapeze and dropped my weight over the edge, waiting for instruction. I took a deep breath and gently stepped off. 

It may be blurry, but it’s definitely a game face

I felt different this time, I was confident, I was enjoying the wind in my ears and the rain on my face. I was told to thread my legs through, and without really thinking my abdominals decided to get their shit together and I was actually doing it. I was told to hang upside down, and so I did, being mindful to arch my back (because even when you’re kicking the shit out of a trick you should remain professional and graceful). Then I came back up, righted myself and prepared for the back flip. Again, I did everything they asked. I did three weird little kicks like a mermaid and let go of the trapeze... But this time was different... This time I was turning.. I landed to genuine applause and cheers. (Ok, there may not have been cheers - but there should have been because I BLOODY DID IT)!

Admittedly the photographic evidence could be stronger. But I did it, I swear.

I felt amazing, and even the increasing downpour couldn't dampen my spirits. I spent the next ten minutes or so in an elated haze, with a stupid smug grin plastered over my face, as we waited for the rain to subside so we could continue with the second half of the class. 

Unfortunately, but unsurprisingly, the rest of the class was eventually cancelled. I had mixed feelings about this - on one hand I was desperate to get up there again, on the other hand I’d managed to do the trick already, we were getting half our money back, and I didn’t have to brave the horrible slippy ladder anymore. 

I urge EVERYONE to give this a go. It is so much fun and genuinely requires very little skill and fitness (which I’ve clearly proved by doing it myself).

Here’s the link for anyone who wants to try: http://www.gorillacircus.com/flyingtrapezeschool/

Happy trapezing! 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty Six - Wax On, Wax Off

We’re twenty six weeks in, half way through(!), and you should know by now that I find spa and beauty treatments as awkward as they are enjoyable. In fact, if I cared about my appearance less, and if it were socially acceptable, I’d probably be walking around looking like an unkempt ferrel creature, with mousy hair growing from my scalp down to my ankles, armpit hair finishing somewhere around my waist, and Guinness world record worthy nails protruding from my toes and fingers, ending in ghastly yellowing curls. 

Thankfully for everybody else, I do care about my appearance, and adhere to general grooming and hygiene standards. There are, however, certain treatments that I consider unnecessary - fads, if you will. One of those, of course, is the bird poo facial. But you already know my thoughts on that from week six? Another treatment I’ve seen around a lot recently is ear candling, which, though an ancient practice, does seems a little absurd. 

If you asked me without any prior research what ear candling was, I’d say someone sticks a wick in your ear wax and burns it down until there’s nothing left. I can see the benefits, no one likes a waxy ear, but in what world would anybody find that appealing? 

Of course, ear candling isn’t actually somebody sticking a wick into your ear wax. With some extensive research (reading the wikipedia page), I discovered that it involves sticking a hollow candle into your ear and lighting it, which to be fair, isn’t a million miles away from my initial train of thought. It is supposed to be extremely relaxing, and improve general health and well-being, as well as helping with migraines and wax build up.  

I was a little unconvinced and a tad sceptical. It’s not something I would have chosen to do, and for some reason the idea really pushed me out of my comfort zone. And so this week’s challenge was decided. 

I trawled through various voucher sites (the 52-fold challenge is all well and good, but it is not purse friendly), until I found a therapist nearby with good availability. I booked in, paying a modest £25 for a 40 minute session, and began to contemplate what I would be letting myself in for. 

At best, it would be a relaxing experience and I might even manage to grab a bit of sleep. At worst, it would be horribly uncomfortable and I’d wish every one of those 40 minutes of my life away. 

On the day of my treatment, I stole another glance at the Wikipedia page. And it didn’t exactly fulfil me with confidence. Here’s one of the sentences I read: 

“Medical research has shown that the practice is both dangerous and ineffective and does not help remove earwax or toxicants. The claim by one manufacturer that ear candles originated with the Hopi tribe is also false.”

Excellent.

I then went on a hunt to seek a counter argument, and it was easy to find one. I settled for a lovely article in the Telegraph written by a woman who said it totally freed up her sinuses and opened her ears. Her hearing was basically supersonic after that. Or just normal I guess, depending on how bad her ears were before. Either way, I felt calmer and more reassured, and made the executive decision to steer clear from the internet for the rest of the day. 

After work, I headed to the beauticians, and when I got to the address I stood outside totally perplexed. It was a tanning shop - I had somehow made a terrible mistake. But after triple checking my booking on my emails, I admitted defeat, pushed open the door and strolled up to the reception desk (as speedily as I could - I didn’t want people outside judging me for getting a sunbed when I wasn’t even getting one). 

When I told the receptionist I was there for the ear candling, she asked me to repeat myself about five times. She had no idea what I was talking about, which did not bode well. As I stood there in an awkward exchange of glances and grimaces with her I began to wonder if I had been scammed, cursing myself for being such a cheap skate. But then after a while she had a lightbulb moment and told me to to the the back and down the stairs. 

I followed her instructions, and made my way down the dingy corridor whilst terrible chart remixes pumped out from above. This was not what I had in mind. I scuttled around for a bit, looking distinctly like someone who didn’t fit in (for starters, I was far too pasty, but I’m pretty sure it was the stench of absolute discomfort that gave me away). 

Eventually I found an even dingier staircase, which to my relief took me a million miles away from the fluorescent lights and burning flesh of the tanning shop above, and instead into a peaceful retreat, complete with comfy sofas and trickling water feature. 

I met with a lovely lady, who thankfully did know what ear candling was, and after some form filling I was shown to a lovely candle lit room. 

As I took my shoes and bag off, I smiled inwardly, safe in the knowledge that I could keep my clothes on for this one and ignore any awkward underwear/tights on or off situations. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please refer to week six and week twenty-one). 

But then she told me to get comfortable and cover myself with a towel, before handing me a pregnancy pillow and leaving the room entirely. I was in another clothes on/clothes off dilemma, and had absolutely no idea what the pregnancy pillow was for. What did she mean?! Why couldn’t she be more specific?! 

I made the decision to keep my clothes on, ignore the towel, lie down on my side and straddle the pillow, which seemed like a good compromise. When she came back in I was glad I hadn’t taken the clothes off, it definitely would’ve been weird if I had. 

She covered me with the towel anyway, and rested my head on another pillow. She then lit more candles and told me to relax, which I found quite difficult considering she was about to ram a foreign object into my ear. 

Eventually, she lit the hopi candle and began to gently tease it into my ear canal. It was a strange sensation, but not unpleasant, and certainly not in any way painful. The candle made fizzing and popping sounds which were actually more relaxing than they sound. 

I just had one problem: I was petrified she was going to burst my eardrum. Before I was born, my Grandad had gone to an ear specialist, and I’m not sure what that specialist did to him, but it resulted in perforated eardrums. He always told us to be incredibly careful with our ears, and here I was going against his warning for the first time in my life like a reckless fool.

Every time she went a little further in, my muscles froze and my jaw set. My eyes were wide open and I could feel the tension in my shoulders. The therapist kept asking me to relax and close my eyes, and I really did try, but I couldn’t stop the visions of hearing aids and my Grandad telling me what a silly girl I was. I didn’t want perforated ear drums. I thought of all the times I’ve said something to my Grandad and he hasn’t been able to hear me, and I felt guilty and paranoid that the same thing might happen to me. (I just realised that we were SUCH good kids, we literally never took advantage of the fact he couldn’t hear us. I’ve also realised that he probably DID take advantage of it on occasion.) 

I cleared my throat uncomfortably several times, but otherwise stayed silent on the subject of my ongoing emotional turmoil. 

After what felt like an age, I finally began to trust her a little. She was no longer reaching new depths, and I found that I got used to having the candle in place. Of course about five minutes after this happened, the treatment was over and I was asked to take my time and vacate the room at my leisure (another internal battle because you don’t want to leap off the bed right that minute and be rude, but you definitely can’t stay too long and chance falling asleep). 

Once I’d waited what I deemed to be an appropriate amount of time, I left the room and was greeted by my candles on a piece of kitchen towel in front of me. The therapist asked if I’d like to see what was inside, and I also-bloody-lutely did. There was a lot of weird white stuff in there which, to my relief, had been produced by the candle rather than my ear. But nestling underneath that were dirty great slugs of wax. No wonder my head felt so much lighter. 

I took a quick picture and made my thanks and goodbyes, braving the gauntlet of neon lighting and smells of charred skin cells on my way out. But it wasn’t until I came out into the open that I really noticed the difference. The street was loud and bustling and vibrant, like someone had just turned a mammoth sound bar on in the vicinity. I couldn’t believe how real everything sounded, and I felt a bit bad for my former self, having to walk around with such shoddy hearing.

I rounded off the experience on my entire journey home, by relishing in a few daydreams in which I was a super hero who could hear all around her within a 20 mile radius (only one of many many powers I imagined to possess). 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty Five - Crema Catastrophe

Another summers day in London, another torrential downpour to put even the golfiest of umbrellas to the test. I’d finished work a little late, forgotten to bring my umbrella, and the delightful British sky was treating us all to a thorough hose down. I was doing my best fast walk to St. Pancras, and longed to get on that train to Harpenden so I could treat myself to a nice hot bath and a fluffy dressing gown (with bear ears of course - is there any other kind worth owning?) 

Sadly for me I had a challenge booked, and reluctantly boarded a train in the opposite direction to the Department of Coffee and Social Affairs (which sounds extremely official, but actually I was just going to learn to make delicious and pretty lattes). 

I arrived slightly late, absolutely drenched, and immensely flushed from all the rushing around, and the first thing I had to do was introduce myself to a group of strangers and tell them why I was here. This was a wonderful opportunity to awkwardly admit that I don't actually drink coffee. It's not that I don't like coffee, I love coffee, coffee is delicious. From espressos to frappes with so much syrup in them you can barely call it a coffee, I dig them all.

The only problem is, all it takes is half a shot and I am buzzing around like a toddler on narcotics.

We went round the rest of the group, who were all flat white drinking big time coffee lovers. One guy even had his own grinder and several types of bean. They were all very polite, but I sensed they all thought I was an idiot for even being there, and I have to admit I agreed with them. 

So it turns coffee isn't just about making pretty pictures. Apparently taste matters. A perfectly crafted espresso shot was placed down in front of me and I realised that, despite my best efforts, I was going to have to oblige and intake at least a little of it. I allowed myself two tiny sips in order to gauge what I was aiming for. When asked what I could taste, I confidently replied berries, vanilla, chocolate, and smoke. Say what you want about my poor tolerance for caffeine, but my palette is bloody excellent. Even the grinder guy was impressed. 

Next we were onto making our own shots. Which you'd think would be pretty straight forward, but actually it was painfully precise. Every shot they make is exactly 20.4g of coffee, which gets passed for 30 seconds through the machine, and afterwards you are aiming for a 30g weight with a killer creme (which is the little beige bit that sits on top). And they weigh it out literally every single time, because apparently grinders never grind exactly the same amount out each time and that is important to a perfect cup of coffee. Very stressful, but it certainly works for them (apparently they can serve over 600 cups of coffee in a day).

I waited my turn and eventually weighed my shot out. It was a little under, so I made to push the button to spray a few more grounds out, and for some reason my brain told me to push the single shot button instead and coffee starting spouting out EVERYWHERE. So I panicked and pressed again. And then more came out, until I was stood there apologetically with a 4 shot mound of coffee protruding from my basket (which is what they call the thing that goes inside the thing that clicks into the machine).

After rectifying my mistake and deciding that 20.34g was close enough, I slotted that bad boy into the machine and made a 35.3g shot (not bad for a first attempt apparently).

Next we were onto the good stuff. Milk steaming, and the wonders of latte art. We still had one and a half hours left, so who knew what we'd be making by the end of it (I had hopes of one of those cats that span across two cups but didn't want to get too ahead of myself).

We steamed away under a LOT of guidance, and Andy the barista poured out what we were aiming for. We huddled around him and watched as he artfully whirled the milk around the cup, bringing the milk jug right down the the surface at the last minute to create.... A cashew nut. Pretty underwhelming, but they were the professionals, and I couldn't expect to be bashing out rosettes on my first attempt (whether or not I'd been day dreaming about that happening).

He then showed us a heart, telling us that's what we would work up to, and in collective silence we all decided that we'd pass on the cashew and go all in for the heart first time.

I watched a few people as they made their first attempts, and I have to say they were pretty good overall. Once it was my turn, the pressure had mounted. Nobody had created a monumental screw up so far, and I didn't want to be the first.

I observed as the milk whirled around in the metal jug, taking it to the right temperature before turning off the steam and setting it down. Next it was time to pour, and I realised it was easier than I thought. I artfully swirled the milk into the cup, keeping the lip of the jug as close to the surface as a could. Then with a quick flick of the wrist I stood back to admire my handy work. I was pleasantly surprised to see a wonky foam heart staring up at me from inside the creme.

What happened after that however, was a bit of a disaster. I was incredibly hungry, and the artificial buzz of those two tentative sips of coffee was wearing off with strange results. I was getting a little shaky and felt as though my head had boarded a rickety boat and left my body behind. 

Now this was by no means the sole cause of the terrible coffee I produced, but I’m going to be kind to myself and admit that it was probably a factor.

You know when it's a sunny day, and you're just lying in the park looking up at the sky as if you're in a Winnie the Pooh story? You'll spot shapes and figures and objects in the clouds, and eagerly share your findings with those around you, and you'll feel elated when they see your cloud shape too? Well my latte art was so terrible for the remainder of the class that we had to play that game with it. So if you have a vivid imagination, you could argue that I managed to create a cartoon glowworm, a butterfly, and a millipede (nature themed late art is the next big think dontcha know). 

So all in all a thoroughly enjoyable, if a little disappointing, experience. However, I did get a special cup to take away with me as a consolation prize. Sadly this only crushed my spirits further, reminding me I’d never be able to watch Breaking Bad for the first time ever again (SOB). 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty Four - Strange but (hopefully not) True

Like most people I have a few fears, but paranormal activity is probably my biggest NOPE. I've felt this way ever since I was young; you want to be brave but as soon as the ghost stories come out at your first few sleepovers you know you fall into the massive wussy pants category. Your outer self may be able to pass your yelps off as shrieks of delight, but on the inside you're in a state of irreparable traumatisation resulting in weeks of sharing a bed with your parents.

Once in a while you might get a little curious and cocky, and convince yourself it's a good idea to watch that episode of ‘Strange but True’ with your Mum; I remember one particularly harrowing episode I watched at the age of ten, about a poltergeist levitating children and being caught speaking on tape at some obnoxious frequency. Before the ad break they teased you with a snippet of the slowed-down recording, asking "is this the voice of a dead man?" and I think I speak for most people when I say let's hope to god it wasn't or we're all doomed.

Eventually you'll discover that even the downright implausible will keep you awake at night - I'm looking at you, 'The Ring', you cruel sleep snatching butthole of a film. Nobody ever called me with a whisper of "seven days" on the other end of the line, but that didn't stop the crippling fear I felt whenever alone in the room with a television, convinced white noise would soon commence to warn me of my impending death.

People will scorn, saying it's just a film. And of course they're right, and sometimes I'll wish for a narrower imagination, but unfortunately it's not always just a switch you can flick. Our minds are absolutely wonderful creations, but they can also be total bellends to us. 

People will also assure you that ghosts aren't real and there's nothing to be scared of, but whenever I try and tell myself that, I also add a silent prayer addressed to all ghosts confirming that if they are real now isn't the time to come to me and prove it. Sometimes I'll throw in an apology for doubting them for good measure, and follow it up with a solid hour of pondering death and wondering whether any sort of afterlife is physically possible.

Unsurprisingly, I decided this week that I should make peace with this particular fear. Now before you get carried away, I'm not talking ouija boards or ghost hunts, I'm not a total lunatic. This week I dipped my toe in the pool of the supernatural, and booked an appointment with a medium.

My cousin and I booked an hour session each, and the lady came to my aunty's house. I arrived just as Charlotte's reading was finishing up, and eventually I heard her footsteps coming down the stairs. Her eyes were red and watery, and I asked what on earth had happened up there, thinking she'd had some deeply upsetting but totally life changing experience. I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when she told me it was just a bout of bad hayfever.

Upstairs in the spare room were two chairs, one with a lovely calm lady sitting in it. She greeted me as I shut the door and we exchanged some pleasantries before getting down to the ghosty stuff.

She closed her eyes and said she could see a few people almost queued up to speak to me. The first was an old lady. She gave a generic grandma description and I was a bit confused as to who it was. She said she was from my Mum's side, and it's true that my Mum's Mum had passed, but she was very young when she died and I never met her (and I'm pretty sure she didn't fit the granny description whilst in her thirties).

Despite being unclear on who was actually speaking to me, I listened intently to what they had to say anyway. There were a few things that rang very true, some generic like where I am in my life and what I should do next, and other more specific things about friendships and my working environment. She also gave me some complete bum steers about a large chimney, a red car I don't drive, and a refurbishment in a house I don't own. I gave her my best blank stare and was told to bear these in mind for the future as they might realise themselves eventually. I was very sceptical, red is probably the last colour I’d choose for a car, so the only way that will come true is if all the other cars died or there was a zombie apocalypse and I needed a getaway vehicle. 

The last message the lady who I couldn't place had for me was about a flat with a blue front door. Apparently it was a flat I was going to be very happy in. She also told me the number, but I didn't write it down and my attention span was wandering at this point. Then again, previous flats I’ve lived in have had rat infestations and severe damp problems, yet haven’t always had heating, so it can’t hurt to look out for a few blue doors when making rental choices in the future.

I waited whilst she ‘summoned’ somebody else. After a while, she asked me if I’d ever lost a child, because there was a little girl waiting to talk to me. Now firstly, why did there have to be a little girl at all? Everyone knows they are the creepiest kind of ghosts. And secondly, I’ve never even been close to wanting to try for a baby, and thankfully I haven’t had any ‘happy accidents’ to date (not least because right now they’d be less ‘happy’ and more ‘emotionally and financially crippling’). So who was she? 

The woman closed her eyes for a bit and then told me she was my sister. She then asked if my parents had suffered any miscarriages, because it didn’t seem like this little girl and I had ever met. I knew my parents had lost children whilst they were trying for a family, and my brother and I always joked that they were obviously just waiting for perfection - pretty dark, I know, but to be fair I never thought I’d ever be speaking to any of them beyond the grave. And now this little girl was supposedly trying to talk to me and it was strange to think of those babies as actual living, breathing children. I was here because she couldn’t be, and for that I felt saddened but also weirdly grateful. 

Channelling the little girl, the medium said that she was very playful, and she often moved my things around to tease me. (I bloody KNEW it, I wasn’t misplacing things, it was just my dead baby sister screwing with me). Apparently she’s around me pretty much all the time, skipping and playing. It was weird, but I didn’t feel scared, mainly because I wasn’t sure how much of this I actually believed, but also because I was surprised that anybody would ever idolise me enough to follow me around all the time. Even if she was dead and possibly not real (I’ll take what I can get).

Before she skipped away, my darling sisters parting words were that she loves to play with her ball on the stairs, so if I hear any thudding sounds in the house, that’s what it is. Thanks sis, now I’ll have no trouble getting off to sleep at night.

My last ‘visitor’ was an elderly man. He didn’t fit any description I’m aware of, but I guess he could have perhaps been my great grandad at a push. He gave me some advice on a legal document I shouldn’t sign. Now although I am technically an adult, I am sadly no where near responsible enough to be signing any legal documents, so this was another tip I’d have to hold onto for later. So thanks to him I will probably never get married, buy a house, or partake in serious commitment of any kind. 

We finished up with some tarot card reading which concluded that the angels were looking down on me, which was nice and comforting (although I do wonder whether the angels would be up for looking down on me whilst I win the lottery? I must ask them). And then the hour was up. And I have to say, I felt quite a nice warm glow afterwards - a bit like that chilled out vibe you get in the middle of having your hair cut. Or even when you’re babysitting and the kid asks if they can play with your hair - they’re having fun, you’re sleeping with your eyes open, it’s win win (until they try and tug the hairbrush through a sizeable knot and it feels like Lucifer has taken a bite out of your scalp).

So there you have it. I can’t say whether my crazy ghost fear has gone, but perhaps next time I’m feeling wary of poltergeists I can just ask my unborn sister to throw her ball at their heads. 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty Three - Stuff it

When I was younger I was fortunate to live round the corner from my Nan and Grandad’s house. My brother and I would go there for a few hours most weekends. My Nan is a superb woman, she'd bake with us and make us the most incredible home made sausages, play games with us, help us make dens, and teach us how to use Spirograph, whilst my Dad helped my Grandad with work around the house or on various cars. (Also my Mum worked on Saturdays and I think he needed the reprise).

Billy and I loved spending time in that house, and we'd go round for sleepovers when my parents needed to go out for the evening and have a social life (LADS). My Nan would make us the best home cooked food, and our favourite was 'roundels', potatoes cut into thin disks and fried until crispy. On one joyous occasion she got the cookie cutters out and made them farm animal shaped, what a day.

She'd serve up dinner on special trays with Disney characters emblazoned on them and we'd watch gladiators and blind date, and she'd always let us stay up well past our bed time.

Often my cousin Charlotte would stay too, and on one particular night we shared a bed in my Grandad’s room, who was away for the weekend. We turned the light out to go to sleep, leaving the door open a crack to let the light in from the hall. And as soon as my eyes adjusted I saw it. It petrified me. I told Charlotte and she admitted that she was scared too. We both sat up tentatively with the covers pulled right up to our chins and glanced at the offending object: a stuffed baby alligator with huge marble eyes and a perfectly sharp set of teeth.

That was my first and only real experience with Taxidermy, so we haven’t exactly got off to the best start. I get it, it's pretty cool, and some stuffed animals are incredibly impressive to look at, and there are people who are famous for it and put birds in jars and charge thousands of pounds, but really that’s all I know about it. Apart from crap taxidermy, which is literally the beginning and end of all nightmares.

Genuinely the least creepy crap taxidermy photo I could find

Despite starting this post on a huge tangent, I imagine you’ve gathered by now that this weeks challenge involves taxidermy. More specifically, I was partaking in a day course where I’d have the pleasure of stuffing a dead mouse in the basement of the Charles Dickens museum. And don’t worry, I made sure to pick a course that “ethically sourced” their mice, whatever that means. 

I arrived in the basement last, with the obligatory fringe sweat due to rushing around and dressing in jeans despite it being one of those unprecedented hot days. I took my seat, acknowledging the scalpel, gloves and defrosted white mouse in front of me, and waited for instructions. 

The lady leading the course told us to make an incision right down the belly of the mouse, being careful not to slice through the sack beneath (I could only imagine what happened when you sliced the ‘sack’, and I made damn sure my scalpel did no more than gently kiss the surface). 

I understand that some of you reading this may be of weak disposition. So I’ll skim through this bit and pre-warn you of any images you may find potentially harrowing. 

After the initial cut, we gently prised the skin away from the rest of the mouse until we could fit our finger all the way through. We then pulled the skin over the knees and elbows (a bit like taking trousers and a jumper off), and cut through the ankle and wrist joints to leave the paws. Next, we carefully teased the skin over the head, cutting through half the skull, and finally rid our mouse skin of any remaining fleshy bits before giving it a rather potent alcohol bath. The fumes provided a welcome high whilst we contemplated what we’d just done, and there were a lot of people exclaiming in shrill voices that they’d never look at a mouse in the same way again. 

*DO A QUICK SCROLL NOW IF YOU DON’T THINK YOU CAN HANDLE A PICTURE OF ME WEARING A DEAD MOUSE LIKE IT’S THE LATEST A/W ACCESSORY*

After a three-to-five minute soak, we were able to lay our mice out to dry on the newspaper and take a toilet break. I took this as an opportunity to scrub my hands until they were red raw with a PH to push the litmus scale to its limits. 

Once we returned, it was on with fresh gloves (optional, but I still considered them necessary) and it was time to give our mice wire skeletons and some serious padding. Sticking the wire through the paws was trickier than you’d think, and several people lost limbs (from the mice bodies, not their own). Once we had the extremities skewered, we were able to wrap our wires around large lumps of cotton wool and add extra stuffing where necessary. Mine looked like a bit of a car crash, and it took me a good while longer than some of the other people to get the insides resembling anything close to what they should have. 

*DO ANOTHER QUICK SCROLL IF COTTON WOOL AND WIRES GIVE YOU THE HEEBIE JEEBIES*

My mouse casually practising for its upcoming role in Saturday Night Fever

Eventually, I was able to start sewing up the belly. My sewing skills are pretty non-existent, so I took it slow and steady. Sadly this didn’t stop my mouse from looking like it had sold all its internal organs on the black market. 

When I had finished, I looked around me and saw that everyone was ‘dressing’ their mouse. People had bought fabrics, threads, beads and props. One girl had even bought a Sylvanian Families armchair for her mouse to sit in, and the lady next to me was turning hers into a synchronised swimmer, complete with swim hat and nose clip! 

Feeling utterly ill prepared, I looked sadly at my poor little naked mouse, although I had managed to stand him up on this hind legs and cram some beads into his eye sockets (a lot more difficult and frustrating than you’d think - I’m surprised I didn’t crush what was left of his tiny skull). 

I then noticed a couple of bags of accessories at the front for us to use. Just cheap plastic bits and pieces, but they were better than nothing! I proudly glued a top hat to my mouse, gifting him with instant charisma and prompting me to call him Marvin (because alliteration is of utmost importance when naming animal characters). 

I thanked the lady one last time and waved goodbye to my fellow taxidermists as I wrapped Marvin carefully in newspaper and headed out the door. 

Once home, people didn’t seem overly keen to meet Marvin. I could understand why, but I couldn’t help but feel attached to the little guy. However, I knew we couldn’t keep him forever; if not done perfectly, dust mites and all sorts get into taxidermy animals, and lord knows Marvin had not been crafted by a professional. 

I decided to give him one final hurrah, in the form of a photo shoot in the garden, before wrapping him up in the newspaper one last time. Matt wouldn’t allow him in our room, which is fair enough, so he stayed wrapped in his newspaper on the side downstairs until one day I came down and he wasn’t there any more. 

His fate is unconfirmed due to my beliefs on ignorance being bliss, but I like to think he’s become the Fagan of a mouse gang and is wreaking havoc in a landfill site somewhere. May his memory live on...

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty Two - Exercycling

Motivating yourself to exercise is hard. It really is half the battle. But generally once I’m there, I don’t actually find it that bad. In fact, I don't mind admitting that I actually really quite enjoy exercise, but the willpower is certainly where I struggle. 

Conveniently, I'm unable to run due to a knee operation I had in my teens, but thankfully there are loads of other ways to keep fit. And I've taken part in a lot of them: gym sessions, Zumba, yoga, Bikram yoga, HIIT, circuit, swimming, and of course good old Jazzercise. This may sound impressive, but I should confess that any form of yoga makes me feel like a decrepit old bat (especially when I’m going through a ‘can’t even touch my toes phase’, which is often), and circuit makes my lungs burn all the way up to my throat. 

But over years of desperately trying to be my better looking self there is one thing that I have NEVER had a desire to do. And that's spinning. In my opinion, spinning is up there with the most hardcore fitness regimes. Have you ever walked past a spin class? Everyone looks like they're hating life, slowly nearing the end of their tether with grimacing, desperate faces. I applaud anyone who puts themselves through that on a weekly basis. If the physical challenges weren't enough to put you off, I’m almost certain that all the sweating is. I'm sure people have cried from the pain and I know for a fact that people have thrown up whilst spinning because one of those people is Matt. 

So, surely a worthy challenge? I thought so, and miraculously I managed to persuade Matt to accompany me (and hoped there was a bin in the room just in case). When we got there it was quickly apparent that the class had a lot of regulars, and we had to dash to get bikes next to each other (I desperately needed the moral support). Once we had adjusted our bikes and were seated (I will never know if mine was even set up properly - or how you even check) the instructor introduced the class by pumping out the terrible remixed tunes I've grown to expect from any form of exercise class or gym (‘special’ club mixes of Neyo combined with Jason Derulo and Nikki Minaj, all sampling tracks from the 80's, as if the exercise itself wasn't punishment enough). 

We began steadily peddling, and she told us to put the resistance up one full turn. So we did. And then we did it again, and again, and again. And AGAIN. And then we were standing up peddling to the same steady rhythm, except now my legs and lungs were on fire. I glanced over my shoulder at the clock. We were five minutes in. I was going to die. 

Mercifully, we were allowed to turn the resistance down a rotation and sit on the seat once more, and I inwardly thanked her. But next came the bit I'd been dreading - the sprint. I peddled furiously, glancing at my red sweaty face as she told us to go faster and push harder. I thought I was doing a pretty good job, until I glanced to my right and saw the girl beside me peddling easily twice as fast whilst barely breaking a sweat. Thankfully, Matt found it equally as exhausting as I did, and we found ourselves regularly exchanging pained expressions in a bid to comfort each other.

The next half hour or so went past in a total blur of sitting, standing, gently 'jogging', turning the resistance up and up, turning it down, sprinting furiously, all the while keeping the pedals turning and turning. I sweated more and more, my top and hair becoming embarrassingly drenched with every rotation. My face was so red it was almost unrecognisable and my lungs were on fire. 

She asked us to turn up the resistance a further three times. This woman was crazy, I wasn’t even sure my bike had that much left to turn, and if it did I knew I couldn’t cope. So I cheated. I only turned mine once, pretending to twist the gear another two times (I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who did this, in fact maybe it explained why the girl next to me looked so pristine whilst I looked like I’d just spent several hours star jumping in a sauna). 

I managed to keep a good pace for another bout of gentle jogging, and every time she told us to turn it up I simply pretended to do it. I was a bloody genius. In my defence, she said the idea was to get to a point where it was so physically exhausting we could barely turn the pedals, so technically I wasn't cheating - I'd been feeling like that for quite some time. 

Still feeling smug under my utterly exhausted exterior, I continued breathlessly. I looked up through my dripping fringe, thankful that at least the smell of Aussie conditioner masked any type of body odour, and mistakenly locked eyes with the instructor, giving her a small smile. The smile was a mistake, and my cover was blown. With that one look she’d seen straight into my cheating soul, and promptly marched over to give the resistance a good few turns. I wept inside as my quads seared with pain. 

She then proceeded to tell us that the next bit would be the hardest. Because apparently we hadn't suffered enough yet. Now we were going to do a 'hill sprint'. Excellent. The 5-10 minutes that followed are a blur, but it was basically what we'd already been doing on steroids. Like the biggest beefcake you can imagine, but in exercise class form. I may have even had an outer body experience. Either way, it was bloody hard, and when the final cool down track came I was so relieved I could've cried. 

Matt and I dismounted our bikes with unsteady jelly legs, and the instructor told us we'd done really well for our first class. Our appearances said otherwise, but I couldn’t help the swell of pride from spreading (I’m not sure I’d say the endorphins were worth it, but they’re certainly something aren’t they?) As we observed ourselves and each other in the vast mirrored wall, I noted that Matt's shirt had soaked almost entirely to a charcoal colour, and mine to a deep rich blue; both of which had been a pastel hue a mere 45 minutes before. 

The rush of cool fresh air as we departed the gym was bliss, and those lovely endorphins had certainly kicked in. We walked home with that radiating pride that only comes from achieving something you worked really hard for, and we only bumped into one person that we knew whilst looking disgusting. 

Me looking bewildered and disgusting

So now I’ve finally done it. I’ve conquered the almighty exercycle. And it was every bit as horrible as I imagined it would be. I’m sure one day I’ll convince myself to spin again, once the physical agony and inward scarring fades into a distant memory... But until then I’ll keep my bike rides strictly outdoors with a picnic devouring ceremony in the middle, thanks very much. 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty One - Stick a Pin in it

Alternative therapies are becoming increasingly common and more widely accepted. Sometimes they are seen as beauty treatments, as ways to unwind and treat yourself. And sometimes they involve sticking needles into your skin. Now I’m absolutely not questioning the credibility of beauty training, but given the choice I’d prefer to have this particular treatment administered by a medical professional. Thankfully, there’s a Chinese medical clinic just up the road from my office.

In order for any type of treatment to ever work, you need to believe in the possibility that it will. And so when I booked an acupuncture session for this week's challenge, I did so with an open mind (and with £65 in my pocket).

When I arrived, I had a delightful conversation with the lady at reception about my commute, and then I was beckoned in by a lovely and welcoming Chinese Doctor. She asked me some basic questions, and more importantly she listened to my answers. So far so good.

She asked why I'd come. The truth was that I'd been experiencing some freak abdominal pain the week before. Crippling can't get out of bed pain that no doctor seemed to be able to explain. I had several tests and a ton of painkillers, and eventually it began to get better all on it's own, and then nobody cared why it had been there in the first place (including me to be fair). So I told her about that. I still had a lot of tension and tenderness there, and since acupuncture was already on my list of challenges, I figured I might as well take advantage of my predicament (plus did I mention the price? At least sort of having something wrong with me helped to justify it).

She asked some more questions, and then she left the room and asked me to undress to my underwear. Absolutely fine, we’re all adults here. Except was it fine? Or was there a massive mound of laundry sitting happily in the basket back home, totally untouched and utterly unwearable?

For most people, laundry day means wearing the skankiest knickers and bra you own. And usually, I’d fall into that category just like anybody else. But unluckily I'd done a bit of an underwear cull a few weeks before, so my laundry day choices were pretty much non-existent. In complete desperation, I’d been forced to the other end of the spectrum for the past few days, with no choice but to visit the ‘special box’. You know what I mean ladies, the box/drawer containing what I'm going to call your 'occasion underwear'.

I left this very box at home for a while once, which was a terrible idea because my Mum is incredibly nosey. Naturally, she had a look inside, and instead of doing the decent British thing and never mentioning it ever happening, she decided to bring it up in a terrible attempt at nonchalance, even suggesting there were a few things in there that Matt would probably like to live round his house. Totally normal mother-daughter conversation, and not at all embarrassing.

Anyway, here I was in a blind panic, longing for my old pair of knickers with the threads of elastic hanging out of them, and trying to 'get comfortable' in the least seductive position I could find. When my doctor finally knocked on the door I said she could come in, in a strangled voice, and laid there on my back, as rigid and tense as is physically possible with my arms glued to my side and my left eyelid twitching (like someone had just cast petrificus totalus in my direction). I then apologised for my inappropriate attire in a voice that sounded a good few octaves higher and a great deal posher than the voice I'm accustomed to using (imagine the Queen just inhaled half a balloon filled with helium and you're just about there).

Mercifully, she laughed and gave me a blanket to cover my lower half (I did think about asking for a boob towel too but I thought it might be a bit much), before expertly releasing tiny needles from their sterile packets and gently inserting them into my skin. With each needle, she'd push into the surface delicately before giving it a little flick. I wasn't too keen on the flick. It's not that it hurt, but it did feel like she was gently tapping my nervous system each time, and my hair would stand up on end for a millisecond and my body would resist the temptation to jolt up in reaction.

Once all the needles were in place, she told me to relax, think about my breathing, and concentrate on my belly button. Then she dimmed the lights and made to leave the room, whispering in soft tones that I should give into sleep if it comes. Unlikely, but ok.

I think the best way to relay my experience to you, is to once again allow you to enter my totally irrational thoughts throughout the process. I’m sure a psychological professional would say I have anxiety issues, but I think if we’re honest with ourselves, we’re all a little weird inside our own heads. So here’s a glimpse inside mine:

Ok, close your eyes. Relax. I wonder how much of my lunch break is left? I really don't want to take the piss. Too late now I suppose. You’re lying on a bench in your underwear with needles sticking into you, you are literally going nowhere until she comes back.

What if she forgets about me and I'm here all day?

I’m not so keen on the needles. They feel weird and tingly and I can’t work out if it’s good tingly or bad tingly. No, stop, it's a challenge. Make the most of it. Channel your energy. Concentrate on your belly button like she said, just ignore the swarming mass of needles surrounding it.

Maybe she placed the one in my foot wrong, it feels a bit funny. I can't see it to check. Better not move for a better look incase I dislodge something. I wonder what they look like in there, all sticking out of my skin. I can hear footsteps. Maybe she’s coming back to take them out. Ok they’re going past the door, it’s not her. I wonder how long I have left.

I actually think I'm ok with this. I've got my head in check. It's quite nice actually, I'm feeling good. Very zen. Maybe I'm asleep. Except I'm definitely not asleep. Maybe I'm lucid dreaming? Do a back flip. Ok I'm not lucid dreaming. But I imagine lucid dreaming is a bit like this, just with more backflips.

I wonder how long it's been. I feel like time is escaping, I haven't been sleeping but my mouth tastes like I have been. I hope my breath isn't horrid, I'll have to speak softly when she's back. I wonder when that will be. Have I used my lunch hour? There should be a place that people can come to in their lunch break and just have a nap in a room. Without it costing £65 a go. You'd probably have to sacrifice the needles, but I think I'd be ok with that.

Wish I hadn't thought of the needles again. It's making my body feel like jelly, like when you've just woken up and you can't clench your fist properly. Although maybe it’s quite nice, I feel content. It might actually be quite nice if she forgot about me. More footsteps. The door’s opening. Surely it’s not over already?

But it was. She returned to the room and asked me if I’d been sleeping, and I wasn’t really sure how to answer, since I’d been asking myself the same question almost the entire time. I certainly felt a lot more relaxed and revived.

She told me I'd sleep much better tonight, and that it would make me generally feel calm and relaxed. And you know what? It did. So I booked another session the week after, and when she offered me a weeks supply of Chinese herbs I accepted. After all, they’re just a few little herbs, they weren’t going to hurt anybody. And then I went to pay and my insides recoiled in horror at the £85 price tag I was woefully unprepared for. Naturally, my outer self took control and I calmly plastered a smile on my face whilst replacing my debit card and whipping out my credit card in one seamless motion, laughing and thanking everyone perhaps a little too much as I cradled my tiny pots of ground up leaves and roots like they were jars of liquid gold.

Regrettably, the herbs worked a treat, as I suspected they probably would. I slept more, and felt a lot more peaceful in the day. And although eight capsules a night seemed a bit excessive, I can’t deny it was probably worth it. 

Once the pots were empty I walked up the highstreet to the clinic in my lunch break in turmoil. The herbs were good, perhaps I should get some more, surely good sleep is priceless? And then I picked up the pace and practically jogged right past, remembering I'm not bloody made of money*.

*Although just to clarify, if I were made of money, I would snap those ‘erbs up all day long.

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Twenty - Go Lomo

About eight months ago, I was perusing the Urban Outfitters website and came across a Lomography camera at £30. I had no idea what it entailed, but it was a nice mint green colour and the photos looked pretty hipster. Plus it was reduced quite heavily, so I convinced myself it would be a bargain. And it was, apart from the fact that I haven’t used it since.

So what better place to crack out the Diana F+ than in than Malaysia, to complete the second Malaysian edition challenge.

With some rare forward thinking, I ordered some 120mm film from Amazon before I left (£14.99 for three roles, which is a lot cheaper than I expected to pay), and when we finally reached Penang - after a missed flight from Kuala Lumpur due to a delayed flight from Borneo #firstworldproblems - I took one look at the incredible colonial architecture and realised it would be a crying shame not to take advantage. Its rich cultural heritage is every beard-sporting topknot-rocking denim-jacket-lover’s dream.

The buildings are influenced by 171 years of British presence, alongside local, Chinese, Indian and Islamic elements (to name a few), and together they create something unique and incredible to see. Everywhere you turn is another piece of infamous street art, or a beautifully aged brightly shuttered building in a state of almost disrepair.

Another great thing about Penang is the food. It’s everywhere, and it’s delicious. From traditional laksa to the Indian influenced roti canai, you will not be disappointed with anything you order from the street stalls and food courts (unless there’s something fundamentally wrong with you). So, in short, I love Penang and I hoped I’ve convinced you all to visit it at least once. Excellent.

Now back to the Lomography. With our time in Penang cut short by a day (thanks Air Asia, you scoundrels), we had just one day and night to explore this incredible city. So naturally, we spent the first hour of it in our room as I googled the Diana F+ manual and tried to work out how to load the film.

It was tricky. I didn’t know what I was doing and there was a huge bit at the beginning that didn’t do anything. It didn’t seem to make any sense, and it tapered off at the end. Nothing about it looked right, so I made the executive decision to cut it off. Then I tried threading it on to the spindle to feed it through and realised it was now too wide (guess that’s what the tapered bit was for then).

I binned the first roll (sorry photographers, I know not what I do), and started afresh. I needed more substantial advice, and so I resorted to a handy youtube tutorial (thank you hostel wifi). Once I’d watched the idiot proof guide and successfully loaded my film, I was ready to go, and already confident that I might be able to save at least some of the film from the last pack (which was obviously entirely forgotten about five minutes later).

After I’d finished with my faffing, we stepped out into the unbearably hot streets with two cameras and a shed load of water. I entrusted Matt with my mirrorless camera as I took charge of the Lomo. I must admit, there was something unnerving about handing over my £300 baby so I could carry round a piece of plastic, but he’d survived over three months traveling alone so I had new found confidence in him operating expensive machinery.

The advantage of physical film rather than the digital wonders we are used to these days is that you can fumble around with different settings, looking like a total pro, without the crushing reality of being able to see just how terrible your photos are. I clicked away happily and confidently, thankful for the extremely easy to use dials at the front (honestly, they are so simple - they have pictures of the weather so all you need to do is decide whether it’s blazing hot sunshine, cloudy, or night). I caught a glimpse of myself in a window and realised I was pretty good at this whole fake photographer thing. A bit like when you decide to go for a run for the first time in forever and you pass a fellow runner and they give you the nod, totally convinced that you’re one of them (heh heh heh suckers, little do they know I’ve only been running for 5 minutes and it’s probably only another 5 minutes until I’ll walk home and eat Doritos in front of Netflix).

The day went swimmingly, taking us from beautiful architecture to vibrant and mouthwatering night markets, and I captured as much as I could whilst being mindful of the 12 photo limit to the film. 

Below I have included each photo I took (some are better than others). You’ll notice I’ve thought long and hard to give each photo the most cringe worthy title I can think of, and captioned them with anecdotes, honest critiques, and a few self-deprecating comments. You’ll also notice that there was some film overlap between Penang and the Perhentians, and then you might put two and two together and discover that I wrote the previous two posts out of sync. (But hopefully you won’t - shhh). Enjoy! 

1. Do you speak Hokkien?

A piece of famous street art in Penang. There are a lot of similar artworks around the area. This one is a young boy offering to teach Hokkien. There are different types of the Hokkien language around Taiwan, China, Indonesia to name a few countries. What’s interesting about Penang Hokkien is that it is noticeably different from the Hokkien spoken in Southern Malaysia, and it’s a little hard to grasp. Bet you didn’t think you were going to learn anything when you clicked on this post. 

2. Blossom, Bubbles and Buttercup

I’m actually pretty pleased with this one, although the vignette (black bits in the corners) certainly helps things along. 

FYI - I had to google the names of the Powerpuff Girls. Its important you know that my everyday knowledge doesn’t span quite to that depth. 

3. House and Trees

I took this on a bit of a whim, but it actually looks pretty good. I’m beginning to feel like a bit of a fraud, my tools are making me look better than I am. 

4. Boardwalk Boating

This photo, although nothing extraordinary, does come with quite a funny story. After I’d taken this, the rubber lens cap for the camera fell out of my hand, rolled across the boardwalk and slipped perfectly in-between two planks, falling into the water. We waited patiently for it to appear, like a tense game of pooh sticks, and Matt ran into a nearby kiosk to ask for a pole or a net. The people in the kiosk all rushed out to help, trying to find something to fish it out of the water. We watched as the cap drifted further out, and I was willing to accept I’d lost it forever. And then, a man carrying a plastic netted basket leapt across two boats and expertly retrieved it from the water. Everybody clapped and cheered as he held it in the air - a genuinely touching moment. 

5. Satay Street

This is my favourite photo of the lot and happened totally by accident. It is a mixture of a photo I took on the street in the day time, and a man cooking satay at a night market. I couldn’t remember whether I’d rolled the film on after the last photo (clearly I hadn’t) and I took the photo of the guy anyway. But it seems to have worked in my favour as it’s turned what would have been two undeniably shit photos into something that actually looks pretty good. Don’t you just love it when carelessness pays off. 

6. Rocky Boat Picture Show

Note to self, you are not ready to use your lomo camera on a boat moving at speed...

7. Wrong Shutter Speed Island

...Or in intense sunlight whilst standing... 

8. A Mutilated Matt

...Or in moderate sunlight sitting in a hammock. 

The boats actually look ok. Matt, however, does not. 

9. Sea-ing Stars

This photo is fairly unmentionable, but I do like the blurred streaks of light that are probably only there because I did something wrong. (I’m assuming it has something to do with the sun reflecting off the water, but that is a horribly uneducated and almost certainly inaccurate guess).  

10. Photo Pilfery

I can’t take the credit for this, firstly because I wouldn’t want to, and secondly because, as the title suggests, my camera was in the hands of somebody else. Matt actually took this shot of his cousin LoLi. 

Even though it’s incredibly dark and you can only just make her out, I still think there’s a certain charm to it. 

11. Unknown

Presumably so terrible it wasn’t even worth developing. 

12. Unknown II

Ditto. 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Nineteen - Kayak-aze

Let me set the scene for the second ‘Malaysian Edition’ challenge. Matt and I were on a beach on the larger Perhentian island, just off the north east coast of Malaysia. It was low season, so we pretty much had the beach to ourselves. We lounged in homemade hammocks pitched up in the shady parts of the shore line, staring out onto beautiful turquoise sea with sand so fine you could mistake it for flour coating your bare feet. The previous day we’d been on a five hour snorkelling trip, where we were lucky enough to see almost the entire cast of Finding Nemo. We swam amongst reef sharks, clown fish and turtles before heading back to barbecued fresh squid and prawns the size of your head. As far as holidays go, it wasn’t too shabby. 

Until we factored in my second challenge. 

We woke up at 7am, and had the biggest breakfast feast we could stomach (two types of pancakes, roti canai, and eggs and beans on toast). We armed ourselves with water and suncream, and some serious mental strength. We’d both covered up by wearing a selection of Matt’s shorts and T-Shirts - both drawing the short straw with me sporting Matt’s Beer Lao T-shirt with bright red ink splattered all over it, and Matt wearing a tight black sports top which smelt slightly cheesy after we’d unsuccessfully attempted a travel wash load in a bucket the night before. We headed down the beach and approached a friendly man with a small row of kayaks on display in the sand. We asked if it was possible to kayak round the island. He said it probably was, but not many people choose to do it. And then he laughed, as he took our money and our optimism, handing us an oar each. 

I should point out now that it’s been about 6 years since I’ve kayaked, and my upper body strength is terrible. Matt’s is better, but he isn’t exactly a keen kayaker either. By our estimations, the island was roughly around 12K in circumference (if you cut across the bays - which was an obvious necessity.) The temperature had been reaching mid to high thirties in the heat of the day. This was going to be an extremely tough challenge. Plus there was always the chance that one of us would end up killing the other. 

We clambered in to the kayak, and with a big push from our friend we were off. The weather was mercifully cloudy and mild, and we rowed confidently towards the big blue ocean. Having lazed on a beach for a few days, it felt great to actually be achieving something, and with every stroke I felt more and more elated.

But the elation was short lived. It was about 10 minutes in before I had a small confession to make. My forearms were already beginning to burn, and we weren’t even out of our little cove yet. I reluctantly relayed this information to Matt who, to my dismay, echoed my feelings of inadequacy. We looked behind us and realised we were probably about half way out the bay. But if either of us felt entirely dejected and hopeless (I know I did) we certainly didn’t show it. Instead we ploughed on through until we reached open water and began to follow the island’s coast line. 

After another half an hour or so of gruelling strokes, we decided a motivational sing-along might be in order. We belted out several big tunes, starting with the ever popular Up-Town Funk, riding a musical journey all the way to Montel Jordan’s classic ‘This is how we do it’, and finishing on a fairly screechy rendition of ‘Angels’. I’m sure Robbie Williams would have been extremely touched. As we harmonised our way through the last notes, the sun started to break through the clouds, which was a glorious confidence boost. Even if nobody else got to hear them, at least nature approved of our slightly dodgy covers - or at least that’s what we told ourselves.

Good spirits, awful attire

Despite the cheery singing, we were very much struggling against the current, wishing we’d at least brought a map with us as we attempted to predict how far round we were. Matt began to flag, and I noticed that I seemed to be rowing solo more and more frequently as we continued. I felt a little annoyed with his efforts at this point, here I was giving it my all and he was slacking off and taking breaks. 

I downed tools and asked if he was ok. He looked exhausted, frustrated, and incredibly overheated. And then he admitted something to me. His t-shirt, although great for wearing in water, wasn’t in fact a rash vest. It was actually a thermal sports shirt, something which had only just occurred to him. Unable to contain myself, I snorted with laughter at his misfortune. And thankfully he joined me until we both had tears rolling down our cheeks. Matt removed the offending shirt and put on his life jacket to save his shoulders from the increasingly relentless sun. 

My annoyance had faded, and I began to feel guilty about dragging him into this with me. He didn’t have to be here, and yet he was. So I bellowed words of encouragement and we began rowing in tandem once more, thanks largely to our very own jody call we made up. There were quite a few variations, but here’s the one I remember clearly: 

“I don’t know but I’ve been told,

 I don’t know but I’ve been told, 

 Kayaking makes me feel old,

 Kayaking makes me feel old. 

 I don’t know but it’s been said, 

 I don’t know but it’s been said, 

 It’s enough to make you wish you were dead, 

 It’s enough to make you wish you were dead.”

You could argue that it wasn’t so much motivational as it was self-pitying, and our unimaginative rhyming abilities began to reflect our building feelings of bleak desperation. From here, we powered through wordlessly, our silence speaking volumes. We were becoming exhausted, and the sweltering temperatures were beginning to play their part in our slow decline. 

After a huge push, and what felt like at least an hour of rowing, we rounded another peak tentatively, eager to see what would be waiting for us, but frightened we’d be sorely disappointed. But we weren’t! As we peered round we saw the other island - we were half way through! Feeling like absolute kings we wooped and cheered and glugged down water and lathered on sunscreen like the unstoppable dons that we were. Grinning from ear to ear we rejoiced, and for a moment I misplaced my sanity, suggesting we contemplate kayaking round both islands. Thankfully Matt made me see sense. 

Unfortunately for us, our celebrations were short-lived. In all the excitement, Matt had let go of his oar, and it was now drifting rapidly away from us. He found this hilarious. I found it less so. I splashed towards it angrily, generously coating him with water as I repeatedly called him an idiot (looking back, it was actually pretty funny, but at the time I couldn’t be told). It was at this point that a speed boat carrying a load of eager snorkelers drove past, laughing at our bright red faces as we huffed and puffed trying to snatch the rogue oar. Smug bastards. 

Finally, and with no thanks to them, we retrieved the oar, and luckily hadn’t gone too far off course with all the commotion. We drew a line under the incident and decided to be friends again. 

The sun was beating down ferociously, and we knew that we were approaching the heat of the day, which meant we’d been at it for about two hours. With the current on our side, we began to row vigorously, cashing in on the extra little push, and before long we’d managed an impressive stretch. 

It was then that I noticed the rowing going on behind me was perhaps a little too vigorous. And then it stopped altogether. Next it was replaced by huge splashes and a good measure of swearing. Matt was having what could only be described as a rather extraordinary hissy fit. 

I mananged to compose myself and maintain a straight face as I turned round to ask him if he was ok. Apparently he was not. The sun was in his eyes (he hadn’t brought sunglasses because it was overcast when we left), and his back was hurting (no matter how much sympathy I threw his way, I couldn’t possibly understand this because I’m not as tall as him). I was understandably in the firing line, after all we were only doing this because of me. I felt bad for him, it was tough work and he had a banging headache from all the squinting. So I did what any other British person in my situation would do… significantly increased my own discomfort in order to ease his. I donated my sunglasses (trying not to think of the L’Oréal advert about early onset wrinkles) and offered up my lifejacket as extra padding behind his back. 

Matt in happier, but no less squinty, times

With the crisis averted, Matt returned to good spirits as we struggled through the rest of the west coast. This side was the most built up, and we bitched happily about all the people on their sun loungers in the posh bits. What idiots, we laughed; they were throwing money at a tiny patch of sand crowded with sun loungers, whilst we were paying a fraction of the price to have pretty much an entire beach to ourselves. 

As we rounded the fourth corner, we were both extremely exhausted. We could see snorkelling trips quite some way in the distance, and prayed it was shark point (a patch of reef known for baby sharks, located to the far right as you looked out of our little bay). As we swigged our last mouthfuls of water, and slathered on a little more suncream, we encountered some fellow kayakers. 

At first it was all friendly and waving. And then something in the air shifted slightly. This was a competition. Like when you’re strolling casually down the street and somebody slightly faster than you bristles past. You know you’re faster than them, and yet they think they can just waltz on through. So you do what any rational human being would - you get your power walk on and strut right past that person until you can’t see them anymore. It doesn’t matter if you’re breathing erratically, or if your calves are burning, you will show them who’s the boss of walking around here. (I’m certain I'm not the only person who does this). 

And it doesn’t matter whether you’re treading pavement or slaying the water, the principles are the same. In wordless communication, we tossed the suncream aside and reached for our oars. We then proceeded to row as fast as we could, with fake smiles plastered on our greedy little competitive faces. 

After some ruthless oar work, we chanced a glance behind us. We were significantly further ahead… It was safe to ease off and smugly bask in the glow of our success. 

And we rode that success all the way to the outskirts of familiar territory: Flora Bay, our home from home. And when I say familiar territory, I mean that there was a lot of uncertain squinting into the distance, a lengthly debate about whether it was actually our cove, and lots of asking random strangers in boats who knew just as little as we did. 

Once we were about 90% sure, we committed to rowing ashore. Utterly exhausted, we began to fall into an unsteady rhythm a short distance into the bay. It felt like we were totally out of sync in our bid to get back as quickly as possible. I voiced my concerns to Matt, who assured me he was sticking to the same strokes. But I wasn’t convinced. Tired and frustrated, I asked him if he was sure. He sarcastically replied that he was pretty sure, since he was the only one of the two of us who could actually see what was going on. It was a typical lovers tiff, and my turn to be stroppy.

My rowing got more frantic, and a lot more splashy. I was aware that I was probably dowsing him generously in water, and I didn’t care. I got away with it for a while, letting my frustrations out on the water whilst sporting a face of thunder, until Matt eventually asked what was wrong. Thankfully, after a few frustrated tears (from me), we diffused the situation amicably, and soon enough we were triumphantly taking our last strokes in shallow waters. 

We waited for the satisfying ‘thump’ of kayak on sand, and steadily eased ourselves out of the kayak. With jelly legs, we stumbled around feeling much like Ariel in the Little Mermaid (more specifically, the part where she substitutes her fishtail for a pair of pins and clumsily falls about the place wearing a sheet). Once we’d acclimatised to land again, we stripped off and ran into the sea before posing, victorious, with our oars, like the total chumps we were.

Who the hell are these low lit idiots? 

We walked steadily back to our hut, glugged as much water as we could and ordered more food than is physically possible for any two human beings to consume in one sitting. We glanced up at the clock and worked out that we’d completed the expedition in around four and a half hours. Not bad going for a couple of moderately unfit, roti canai loving novices.

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Eighteen - The Vile Tasting Trial (Malaysian Edition)

There’s nothing quite like a trip to the supermarket when you’re in another country. It is inexplicably exciting to trawl the aisles looking at all the stuff you don’t get back at home... The fruit is bigger and juicier (and authentically misshapen), the meat is never quite what you expect, and the bread always seems to be warm out the oven. But where foreign supermarkets really come into their own is the snack aisle. Shelves and shelves of delicious savoury snacks, biscuits and chocolate flavours you can’t wait to try (hello Milka white chocolate and green tea, you sound weird but I want you). And finally, all the different types of Oreo you never even knew existed (venture out of that double stuffed bubble and get your head into the coconut delight game, you won’t regret it).

Matt and I had been staying with his Aunty and Uncle, Mia and Sean, and their totally bonkers but utterly gorgeous daughter, LoLi. They live in southern Malaysia, have a beautiful waterside apartment, and are only ever a short drive away from the most incredible food, which doesn’t make me at all sad that I live in drizzly England with different variations of inauthentic Asian cuisines.

But today I wouldn’t be having any of the aforementioned incredible food. Today Mia and I were hitting up the snack aisle to buy the most disgusting things we could find, so that I could eat them. And that’s this week’s challenge.

As we returned with our haul, I began to feel nervous. The heady heights of the Singapore supermarket were a distant memory, and I regretted some of the purchases we’d carelessly tossed into the trolley, in fits of laughter. There seemed to be a lot of fish products, and although I love most food, fish is absolutely not my bag at all.

The face of fear and remorse.

After a particularly competitive game of Chinese checkers (and utter procrastination), it was time to open the bags and get started. We agreed that whoever came second had to join me by facing one snack of their choosing, and whoever came third had to join me twice to face two (I was unquestionably going to come last at this point, and had no choice but to eat them all anyway).

Although I appreciated the support from Matt and LoLi, the runners up, I couldn’t help but treat myself to a stomach churn as we emptied the contents of the bags, creating little taster bowls of doom.

Fish balls, chilli cuttlefish, sugar cuttlefish, tapioca fish skin and peanuts, and freeze dried durian. A feast for a king (of hell).

With a glass of water and an all-important sick bowl by my side, I was ready to begin. 

Please read on to find a carefully crafted critique of each snack (with a few disgusting pictures thrown in for good measure). 

Me, my sick bowl, and a slightly blurry LoLi. 

Let’s begin. 

#1 - Fish ball crackers

Ok, so not actual fish testes moulded into crackers. The name obviously comes from the spherical shape, alongside its punch-packing fishy flavour. When you open the packet it smells like somebody scraped the bottom of a rock pool and left it all out in the sun for too long. And if for some reason you think that sounds appealing, you're wrong. 

According to the packaging, these are an ‘essential’... I imagine this is much in the same way that Waitrose deems it fitting for Scottish smoked salmon and reduced fat ardennes pâté to be part of their essential range. Translation: completely unessential. 

What it tastes like: Like a decomposing fish has leapt into your mouth and sucked it of all moisture, leaving you to choke down its dry crumbly body whilst wishing your life were over.

Action shots: Matt and LoLi joined me on this one. LoLi is coping considerably better than us two, despite being only eight years old. 

  Vom-ometer: 3/5. An unpromising start to a suspicious line-up.

#2 Tapioca Fish skin and peanuts

The name says it all really. Chewy fish skin covered in tapioca flavouring, served with peanuts, because why not?

What it tastes like: The flavouring masks a lot of the fishy taste if you chew really really fast. A pleasant heat dances on your tongue and a welcoming crunch of peanut sets it all off nicely. The best of a bad bunch by quite some distance. Having said that, I'm not about to polish off the whole bag.

Action Shot:

Vom-ometer: 2/5. Spicy, salty, strange, and yet somehow sufferable if you use Jedi mind tricks, which is only what I can assume I was doing here.

#3 Chilli Cuttlefish

Sounds like a delicious starter you could pick up in Wagamama. In reality it's incredibly thinly sliced, dried cuttlefish that smells like someone stole the off-cuts of a fish restaurant, put them in a flower press, and somehow got away with selling them to the general public.

What it tastes like: Like a cuttlefish slept in a hamster cage soiling itself all night, and you just shovelled a spoonful of the sawdust in your mouth for breakfast. The chilli may as well be non-existent.

Action shots: Mia very kindly volunteered to try this first and assured me it wasn’t so bad. As you can see, our tastebuds are slightly out of sync. 

    Vom-ometer: 5/5. If you want to know all my secrets, just force feed me this. I'll tell you literally everything.  

#4 Sugar-coated cuttlefish

Much like the previous snack, but switch the chilli with a generously tempting douse of granulated sugar. Because every good main needs an equally exquisite dessert. 

What it tastes like: Same as its chilli flavoured friend, with the added bonus of more diabetes.

Action Shots:

   Vom-ometer: 4.5/5 - somehow the sugar makes it taste less gross. I still can’t work out how. 

#5 Freeze-dried durian

This popular fruit of Malaysia has a bad reputation. It's banned on public transport due to it's unpleasant sewage smell, and that's before you cut it open. Somebody has decided to freeze dry it and sell it in a packet, for the masochist on the go.

What it tastes like: Like a carbon laced fart just happened in your mouth. The freeze dried texture means it clings mercilessly to your teeth; you may have to brush them several times to feel like a human being again. Matt offered to lend moral support on this one. I was less grateful for this once he started vomiting. 

Action Shots:

      Vom-ometer: 4/5 (I guess 5/5 if you’ve a similar gag reflex to Matt). I'm left wondering how fruit can taste so bad? And yet it does. Oh, it does.

Overall verdict: There were tears, there was gagging, there was a whole lot of aggressive teeth brushing, and unforgettable trauma. If you want my advice, steer clear of the dried fish and stick to the dried mango - seriously. It’s blended with sugar cane and it is phenomenal (and probably not actually healthy in any way). 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Seventeen - Macaroon Mastery

So we've come full circle, and this week I decided to do another baking related challenge. It had to be something more difficult than choux (because obviously that was a total breeze - ha), something that makes the Masterchef contestants quake in their chef whites. I finally settled on the art of the macaroon. Its vibrant crisp outer shell coupled with its chewy meringue texture make it one of the toughest pastry dishes to conquer. Plus have you seen how much they cost? I once paid €2 for a mini one in France (Matt and I could literally only afford one each at the time, crowning us the pathetic losers of Paris), and a box of 12 minis sets you back well over a fiver in M&S. So after that extensive research, I concluded that they must be difficult.

The first hurdle was finding a good recipe. I poured over all the baking books I could find at Matt's house (a lot), before settling on John Waite's recipe for lemon macaroons (that bloke who one the Great British Bake Off that year). Obviously I decided to go off piste for the filling and colour, because it's important to see what options are in the supermarket before you fully commit to flavouring.

And what choice there was! The baking aisle in Waitrose was total cake porn. Similar to venturing in to paperchase for a Birthday card. I always have a strict plan for that place: Enter. Avoid eye contact with provocative diaries, notebooks and novelty pens. Head to relevant section. Pick up desired item. Run to till before the wall of delicious wrapping paper sucks you in (unless you need wrapping paper, in which case God help you.) Resist the urge to throw all your money at irrelevant but beautiful stationary like an old, sweaty, and borderline obese gentleman in a strip club. Fail miserably. Get home. Unpack irrelevant but beautiful stationary. Never use irrelevant but beautiful stationary. Forget about purchase. Receive bank statement. Weep uncontrollably. Repeat until you're selling your body on the streets to pay for your uncontrollable pen addiction (this hasn't happened yet, but I'm only 26, so let's not rule anything out.)

What I'm trying to say is, the baking aisle is a bit like that. There are so many things to choose from. They are all so pretty. And EDIBLE. Which makes them all the more alluring.

The decision making on this was particularly tough, and after a couple of minutes had passed I'd already grabbed fistfuls of ingredients and decorations. A compromise would have to be made. Settling for freeze dried raspberries, popping candy, and a shimmery gold dust (which was £4. I get sucked in easily), I ran full speed to the checkout grabbing powdered almond, lemons, food colouring, and a bottle of coke (for hangover purposes) along the way.

Good haul

The idea was to make three flavours: vanilla (with the shimmery dust to decorate), lemon (with popping candy centre), and freeze dried raspberry. Looking down the recipe and feeling my energy rapidly depleting, I realised I was being far too ambitious. Plus if these went the same way as the choux buns I'd have three flavours of despair stuck to the silicone mould. And one type of despair is bad enough.

Once I'd managed to construct the food processor (after about 20 minutes of failure and Jo having to step in to rescue me), I whizzed up the already powdered almonds with absolutely no clue why, other than it saying to in the recipe. I took them out and the only difference I could see was that I'd now unnecessarily dirtied the food processor. I measured and whisked eggs into soft peaks (stiff but not too stiff said the recipe, which gave me no clarity whatsoever), combining them with the almonds and icing sugar, and before long I was ready for the most exciting part: the food colouring.

The recipe called for gel rather than the usual liquid colouring you're used to as a child. Apparently they give a more 'vibrant' colour. I chucked a ton of both in just to make sure, and I quickly had a sugary pink mixture ready for the piping bag.

I honestly don't know how anybody fills and pipes alone. In my opinion (and level of baking skill) it is at least a two person job, and even then it's a total shit fight to get it in the bag without it dribbling over everyone's hands.

In enlisted Jo's help (of course), and we both bumbled along getting pink gloopy mixture everywhere and dirtying several spatulas and wooden spoons in the process. When we were satisfied that enough had made it into the bag, I banished Jo and began piping (ignoring the trail of sugary pink goo that was slowly making it's way down my arm). You might think it's mean of me to ban Jo, but if I hadn't then the macaroons would no longer have qualified as my own. She's a fantastic cook, but by her own admission, she can't stay in the kitchen for longer than 5 minutes without taking over. And although - with my hangover severity increasing - it would have been tempting to hand it all over, I felt like I would only be cheating myself (thanks alcohol guilt).

After piping out some (almost) evenly sized blobs of mixture (a few runts and giants here and there), I left my macaroons for an hour to develop a crust (unfortunate technical term) before shoving them in the oven and praying profusely to the baking gods.

The recipe said to quickly open and close the oven a few times throughout the process. I'd started whisking up my buttercream filling by then and missed the timer buzzing every single time I was supposed to open it, but I'm sure it roughly worked out the same.

Whether I'd screwed it up a bit or not, it seemed the baking gods were on my side, and to my utter delight my macaroons were looking very macaroony. I added the freeze dried raspberries and popping candy to the filling, and began slathering it into the biscuits (once they'd cooled, I'm not a total idiot).

I then got a bit artsy - a light sprinkling of the raspberries and a gentle dusting of the gold edible shimmer (worth the £4 FYI) and I was done.

I arranged them on a pretty cake stand and took them into the lounge triumphantly (after a short photoshoot which mercifully doesn't show that my jeans are actually totally undone to compensate for the amount of cheddar cheese bagels I was scoffing throughout the process).

I forced a taste test upon everyone and watched them eagerly as they made appreciative noises. I narrowed my eyes and waited just in case they were humouring me, but everyone seemed to enjoy them (everyone being Jo and Abby). I took a tentative bite, and I have to admit they weren't bad for a first attempt. If I'm being honest, they were a way off the ones I'd sampled in Paris, but we still managed to eat ourselves sick on them regardless.

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Sixteen - Don’t Forget to Flush

It was Wednesday lunchtime and I was standing in the supermarket queue with two large bottles of pressed apple juice and two bags of organic apples. Now I like apples, they are delicious. I'll take anything from a pink lady right up to a cooking apple - not joking, I have a serious taste for sour foods... Remember those sweets that came in mini wheely bins with a skull and cross bones emblazoned upon it? Well I'd eat that shit for breakfast (not literally obviously, my parents would never have allowed it).

Anyway, back to apples. I like them. But I don't love them enough to buy quite so many. Which brings me to this weeks challenge. The liver flush.

Basic overview: take up a healthy diet and add as many apples to it as you can stomach for 3-5 days. Organic apples and pressed apple juice if you can, get it down you. This opens up some tubes from your liver and gall bladder so you can pass the stones more easily apparently (more on that later). In short, this prepares you for the flush.

The next part is best to do on days when you aren't working. When you read what it is you'll need no explanation.

First day of the flush: Eat a healthy breakfast and lunch. Stop eating at 2pm. Fast for the rest of the day (sob). At 6pm, down a glass of Epsom salts dissolved in water. At 8pm, do it again. At 9:30pm you may prepare your final drink of the evening. Simply juice a whole grapefruit and shake it up with half a cup of olive oil until it emulsifies. Get ready for bed. At 10pm, take the concoction upstairs, stand by your bed, down it (lads lads lads), get straight into bed, lie flat, try not to vom, go to sleep. Don't pass go, don't collect £200.

The next morning, wake up, drink some more Epsom salts. Two hours later you may have some more (you lucky lucky thing). Once you’ve endured that lot, you can start eating as normal (just as soon as you alight from the toilet presumably).

Anyway, now you have an explanation for my excessive apple purchasing. And also an explanation for the jumbo tub of Epsom salts and single grapefruit transaction I completed the following weekend. It's times like those when I'm eternally grateful for self service checkouts. I used to work at Sainsbury's at the weekend whilst I was in sixth form, and I can confirm that self checkout saves embarrassment for staff just as must as the customers. One man in particular springs to mind.

It was valentines day, and of course I had nothing better to do than work. He was in his late thirties/early forties (at least I think he was. I am terrible at age estimations, so he could have well been pushing 60 for all we know). He was a little smarmy looking, his cheap aftershave proceeded him by several steps and his hair was slicked back like Danny Zucko (he tragically had the pleather jacket to match). But he came bearing roses, chocolates and wine and, as one of those incessantly chatty checkout girls (I'd coax a conversation out of you whether you liked it or not), I asked him nicely if he had a special date for the evening. He grinned ear to ear and said he did and that he was going to her place for dinner. What a sweetheart.

I scanned through the Guylians, assuring him he'd made an excellent choice, and then the bottle of wine, all the while chatting happily about his lovely lady. And as I was telling him how lovely the roses were, I uncovered a jumbo pack of Durex. He looked totally unfazed as I blushed a similar shade to the petals and hurriedly scanned them through and flung them into the bag as if they were contaminated. Totally mortified, I then became grossed out and a little indignant on his date's behalf (he obviously fancied his chances). Then again, who was I to judge? After all, he was a modern man and at least he was practising safe sex. And nothing says I love you like extra ribbed latex.

The next three days were easy. A healthy balanced diet coupled with a metric fuck ton of apples. I chugged on pressed apple juice cartons and peed so much that I’m pretty sure everyone in the office thought I nada urine infection. Apple juice is surprisingly filling when drunk by the litre, and each afternoon I was buzzing my face off on natural sugars, which was good because I didn’t have to leave the office to go on a 4 o’clock chocolate raid.

But it wasn’t all plain sailing. What little pleasure there was to be had in overindulging on apples, was swiftly eradicated by the following two days.

On Saturday morning, I ate breakfast and squeezed in a quick lunch before 2 o’ clock. I then headed home to hang out with my family, who promptly offered me an array of snacks and drinks. It’s funny, no matter how old you get, your parents still want to nurture you, and since cradling you in their arms is a bit weird when you’re in your twenties, they turn to food and hot beverages. I could easily go round there for 30 minutes and drink four cups of tea without having to lift a finger (in regards to the making, not the actual drinking. My parents stopped bottle feeding me a good few years back). 

After a torturous few hours, it was time to start the epsom salt ritual. My Dad used to make us drink epsom salts if we had an upset stomach as children, I can’t say I have happy memories of it. Then again, I’m almost certain it contributed to my jagerbomb downing abilities in later life, so I do have to thank him for that important social skill. It at least got me used to people shouting “down in one! Don’t stop. There’s still a bit left... DRINK IT!” from the age of eight. 

With suppressed memories, I downed a glass of the stuff at 6pm, and another at 8pm. I then ‘prepped’ the olive oil and grapefruit concoction. I got out a jug and starting measuring a half cup of oil. It didn’t look too bad when I looked at the liney bits on the side, but as I kept pouring and pouring I realised it was a substantial amount (and I also felt guilty for drinking away Jo and Paul’s olive oil supplies. It ain’t cheap). I then squeezed the grapefruit, which produced a lot more juice than I hoped it would. I poured both into a pint glass and it filled about three quarters of it. I then began stirring aggressively with a spoon, before realising that it needed to ‘emulsify’. I chucked it into the Nutribullet (paid £100 for it, so may as well make use of it some time) and began blending it together. The final result was a bitter, oily, milky looking, bile coloured liquid. I wrinkled up my nose and put it in the fridge for later. 

When 10 o’clock came around, I got myself ready and stood by my bed, olive oil and grapefruit mixture in hand. I began to slowly chug down the drink. It tasted sour, greasy and acidic all at the same time, and I immediately wanted it to end. But like the epsom salts, or ripping off a plaster, I knew the quicker I did it the less painful it would be. 

Once I’d choked it all down, I immediately got into bed and laid perfectly flat. I tried to concentrate on not throwing up as my stomach did double backflips, and after an hour or so I miraculously managed to fall asleep. 

I woke up at 6am the next day and headed straight downstairs to drink my penultimate glass of salts. The Liver Flush guide I’d read online had mercifully given me permission to go back to bed for another two hours, and I ignored my stomach’s bubbling to successfully drift back off to sleep. I woke up an hour later with an overwhelming desire to go to the toilet. It had begun. After a looser than usual morning poo (let’s leave it there shall we), I waited until it was time for the final instalment. Once I’d seen the last epsom salt drink away (LAD), I braced myself for everything I’d read about. 

With the flush, you are supposed to rid your system of all the nasty toxic stones that build up over the years. Gall bladder and liver stones are typically bright green and can be quite large. In a weird sadistic way, I was looking forward to seeing it all come out my body. So I waited... And waited... And waited. And literally nothing happened. So a short while later, I decided to head to the shops with Jo. 

We arrived at St. Albans to find that we were so early the shops hadn’t opened yet. I thought this would never ever happen to me, and took it as a sign that I’m getting old. We headed to Pret, where I eased myself in to eating like a normal human being again with a green smoothie. 

After successfully killing the required amount of time, we headed to Marks & Spencers. A few steps into the shop I began to feel a bit strange. And then it all happened really fast. I needed the toilet so suddenly and so urgently that I thought I might just soil myself on the shop floor. Thank the lord for the M&S cafe and adjacent toilet facilities. I informed Jo where I was going with panic-stricken wide eyes and sprinted up the escalators. 

Now, I am not Gillian McKeith. I don’t care how much your poo says about you, it is made for flushing, not examining. However, on this occasion, I made an exception. And I could just about make out a few little green stones. Not as many as I was expecting, but at least it was something. 

I headed back down and joined Jo again. And then we shopped for a couple of hours with no drama. The rest of the day went on as normal, and I tried not to be disappointed that I’d gone to all that effort for a measly few stones. Seriously, thinking back to the horror show of olive oil and grapefruit makes me so angry. Plus I starved myself for half a day. And got next to nothing to show for it. 

Then again, our bodies are designed to naturally detox themselves, so you could argue that mine is doing a pretty good job. I’ve put my body through it’s paces over the years, and although it’s given me increasingly dreadful hangovers in return, I guess it ultimately has my back. Maybe I should just stop fucking around with it. 

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Fifteen - Shut Your Mouth

There are some challenges I have on my list that I can’t just go and do. Some require lots of preparation; hours of researching, planning, and booking (sometimes to no avail). Others are ready to go, and mostly, they are the challenges that have been suggested to me that I’m not so keen on. They are reserved exclusively for the weeks that creep up on me. When it gets to the weekend and I realise I’ve got nada. This was one of those weeks.

I was going against every mobile phone slogan ever created (apart from ‘Be More Dog’, but I think we’re all hoping that if we don’t give that enough attention it might go away) and I was becoming a mute for 24 hours. Who knows what I’d discover. Maybe O2 were lying to us before and we’re actually better disconnected.

Perhaps I’d achieve enlightenment, like the people who pay to go to those yoga retreats where you don’t speak or eat for a month. Not for me, I have to say… I’d be the person rocking and crying in corner, scooping stolen yoghurt into my mouth with my bare hands and talking to the voices inside my head. Not because I’m mentally unstable, I just enjoy communication and nourishment in my life. So perhaps not, on the enlightenment front.

At 4pm on Saturday, I took my vow of silence. For somebody who was robbing themselves of speech for 24 hours, I was feeling pretty smug (mainly because I am excellent at charades). I didn’t make a big deal out of it. I set an alarm (accidentally choosing the most horrifying noise the iPhone has to offer. The one that sounds like a bomb scare evacuation. I did well not to scream and break the silence within seconds) and continued watching crap on Netflix. I let the moment pass unremarkably, as the hideous “radar” tone erupted from my phone, and simply resumed watching crap on Netflix.

I stayed like that for about an hour. This was pretty easy. Maybe I’d just be a recluse the entire time (just kidding, I’m far too needy, who knows what permanent damage could be done with out lack of any real human contact). Then I heard a voice. Paul was shouting up the stairs, saying goodbye. I stayed silent. He called again. Maybe I should bang the lamp on the windowsill. Would that translate? It had worked for me once before when I was younger. I woke up feeling a little weird and when I tried to call out to my parents I found that my voice wouldn’t make any sound. Gripped by fear I started smashing my lamp onto my bedside table. My mum came running in and turned the light on just in time to see me roll over the bed and vomit onto the floor. Come to think of it, maybe the lamp trick should only be used in times of distress. I guess it does sort of radiate panic.

Thankfully, in the midst of my lamp bashing dilemma, Paul had clocked the time and realised that the challenge had started. He shouted up not to worry. Thank god. I literally cannot bear it if people think I’m rude (or mean). It can be exhausting, in fact I once spent my lunch break at school hunting down one of the dinner ladies because she thought I’d been rude about her hair (it was a horrible misunderstanding and I was so mortified I couldn’t finish my chips due to the magnitude of the knot my stomach was tying itself into). Don’t worry, we straightened it out in the end. And if Paul hadn’t realised, I was halfway through a heart felt text apology anyway.

After another hour or so of being a hermit, I decided to venture downstairs to test myself a little. And also because I was hungry.

In the kitchen, Jo was making a cup of tea. She asked if I wanted one and I gestured towards the peppermint and liquorice (I know what you’re thinking. I was skeptical too. But it is genuinely amazing. I don’t even like liquorice). Since we couldn’t sit and chat, we turned to the TV for entertainment, and I gave a thumbs up to watch The Island on catch up. A brief explanation if you don’t know - Bear Grylls puts a set of men and a set of women on two different islands with a basic survival kit and they have to fend for themselves. It’s very exciting. Plus I love Bear Grylls and refuse to hear any gossip surrounding the rumour that he may or may not stay in Travel Lodges. He slept inside that camel carcass and I won’t have anyone say otherwise.

I won’t spoil it, but loads of great shit happened. I was on the edge of my seat. I was using hand gestures in an extremely flamboyant manner to convey all my emotions and thoughts to Jo. And she was a pretty good interpreter. Either that, or she was just humouring me.

I spent the rest of the day in total torture, watching TV programmes, eating, and not being able to speak. At one point, I got really desperate and crafted a note to Jo, just the let her know how frustrated I was #firstworldproblems. Sadly I threw it in the bin in torment after, but it was words to the effect of, “this is SO hard. I hate it already.” Pathetic.

After dinner, and a particularly eventful episode of Big Bang Theory (SPOILER ALERT Howard’s Mum died), an unfortunate misunderstanding caused me to let out an audible gasp. In my defence, I thought I’d heard Paul say Bernadette was going to die, and I couldn’t believe they would kill off two characters in such quick succession. Poor Howard, first his own Mother, then his fiancée. I’m sure you understand.

One thing I learnt about being mute is that, much like giving up technology, you tend to go to bed a little on the early side. So at 9pm on a Saturday night I retired to my room and prepared to bunk down for the night.

The next morning, I woke to a text from my Mum. Was I coming to yoga with her. Shit, I’d forgotten about that. She was due to pick me up an hour from then, plenty of time, so I pretended I hadn’t forgotten and messaged her back to say I was excited, and chucked a few smiley faces in for good measure.

To be honest, I was glad we were going to yoga. I knew I’d have to do something in public in the 24 hours, otherwise people I don’t know wouldn’t get the chance to think I was a massive weirdo, and where’s the challenge in that? I figured I’d better send a second message explaining that I was going to be mute. Thankfully my mum took it in good humour and didn’t seem to be dreading introducing me as her (slightly strange) daughter.

Even though I’d had plenty of notice, I still faffed around successfully enough to greet my mum half dressed with wet hair when she knocked on the door. She went to wait in the car and I began running around the house looking for trainers and a yoga mat with my toothbrush hanging out my mouth. As I ran up and down the stairs (teeth brushing now complete) I have to confess I let out a barely audible fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. I wasn’t thinking. But also, nobody was around to hear, so technically it doesn’t count, right?

Safely in the car, with trainers on feet and yoga mat in hand, my mum pulled away, asking me if I’d got everything. I smiled a smug yes as I plaited my wet hair. Then she ran through the checklist of things I may have forgotten, as if I was five again. The annoying thing about mums is that doesn’t stop, even if you’re in your mid twenties. I often wonder whether it’s a rite of passage. You have a kid and then all of a sudden you just know what everyone else needs, and more importantly where everything is. I’m a bit skeptical about it actually - I’m half expecting to be in the delivery room and as soon as the baby pops out my mum will hand me a gigantic manual of stuff needed for every occasion along with its probable whereabouts, and I’ll have to memorise the whole thing before the baby reaches one. They may show you all the blood, sweat and torn vaginas in one born every minute, but they don’t show you that.

The thing about getting this treatment when you’re 26 is that, even more annoyingly, there’s still always something you’ve inevitably forgotten. This time it was water. I shamefacedly shook my head as she asked. And then, as if to redeem myself, I waved a fiver in her face. Look! I remembered the money! Bet you thought I’d forgotten the money! She responded by pointing at the tenner on the dashboard, and I tried to enjoy my bittersweet victory. On one hand, I’d remembered the one thing she thought I’d forget. On the other hand, I now had to pay for the yoga class myself.

My mum did her best to decipher what I was trying to say to her as we drove, but she wasn’t doing too well. To be fair, it was probably for the best that she decided to prioritise the road over my attempts to act out that I’d bought a new bike.

When we arrived, I waved my greeting to the group as my mum introduced me. I’m pretty sure they all thought I was a bit weird, but out of all the things you could do as a mute, you’d probably find the most understanding company in a yoga class as you’d get anywhere else.

As the class began I realised that it could have been a challenge in itself. The instructor Veronica (a friend of my mums), had just completed her teaching qualifications, and she was good. Seriously good. No amount of Barbara Currie DVDs could have prepared me for this, and lord knows I’ve tried them. I like the way she (Barbara) tells me how well I’m doing even though there’s no possible way she can tell whether I’m showcasing textbook poses or whether I’m sitting on the sofa with my hand in a bag of Doritos. But we both gloss over it, and I still feel a swell of pride as she praises my salute to the sun, ignoring the fact that I am managing to stretch about a quarter of the distance she is. Honestly, she incredible, she’s probably three times my age and she rocks that legging and leotard combo like she’s in an Eric Prydz video. (Actually I just spent a good amount of time googling her and it turns out I have not over exaggerated that comment. She is 74. I am both impressed and depressed. Bravo Barbara, bravo).

Anyway, turns out Barbara was lying to me, because I can barely touch my toes, and every pose we held in class made my muscles shake pathetically. At a couple of points, Veronica came over to push me a little further. As I gave her my best downward dog, my bum thrust as high in the air as I could manage, she began to gently push on my legs and ease my heels towards the floor. “Just tell me if it’s too much,” she said in her gentle tone. It was too much. But I couldn’t tell her, so I just decided to go with it. And it turns out I’ve got a pretty high pain threshold, who knew!

An hour and a half later, having elongated every limb and attempted a string of head stands (either against the wall or with Veronica’s assistance, sadly it turns out I’m not a secret gymnast), I was feeling pretty incredible. And even though I couldn’t join in with the ‘ohms’ at the end of the class, I channeled my energy like a boss.

When I returned home, I had just over three hours left before I could flex those vocal chords and discard that filter between my brain and my mouth once more. I enjoyed having the house to myself for an hour or so. And then my phone rang. An unknown number, but I knew who it was. It was Halfords, calling to say they’d assembled my precious bike and it was ready to collect. At least I assumed that’s what they were calling about, because I couldn’t actually pick up my phone.

As Jo came through the door, I hovered excitedly, miming to her that my bike was (probably) ready. She had a car full of plants (she’s a gardener), so we ferried them through the gate and onto the patio (plants are heavier than you’d think, and the mornings previous yoga activities were not helping matters).

Finally, at 3:45, it was time. We got into the car and I was excited on two counts; in fifteen minutes I was going to acquire a new shiny bike and my ability to talk. I was insufferable as I counted down the minutes to sweet familiar speech, and as it approached the final minute, I think Jo was about as relieved as I was. I imagine the interpreting is just as exhausting as the gesticulating.

As the challenge approached its final second, I realised probably should have thought of something profound to say as my first sentence, I’d certainly had enough time to come up with it. Instead, I opted for a series of whoops and cheers, accompanied by some undignified fist pumping. I could speak again! And I used that speech to coo happily over my lovely new bike, complete with handy wicker basket…

All in all I learnt that not being able to speak is far more torturous than I imagined. But I can now say with absolute certainty that a silent yoga retreat is not for me, I like human interaction far too much. To quote the old BT slogan, it’s good to talk.

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Fourteen - On the Pull

It was Wednesday evening, and I was in the depths of vegan week, out for a few drinks with some friends, and my friend Ali was talking about oil pulling. (Ok, technically she's my friend, Sam's, girlfriend. But I've hung out with her a few times now so I'm gonna go bold and call her my friend too. And hope she doesn't think I'm incredibly needy. Even though I am.)

She'd been determined to think up a challenge for me all evening, so we were both extremely excited when she did. Especially since it sounded like quite an interesting concept. Plus it's an ancient practice, so it must be legit.

I read a bit over the weekend, and discovered that traditionally sesame oil was favoured, although since it’s become a modern trend, people are using coconut oil instead (supposedly because of it’s antibacterial properties, but I suspect it’s because it tastes better). I decided to go for the traditional sesame because I wanted an authentic experience (and also because there was already a bottle in the cupboard).

On Monday morning, I woke up early, made my way to the kitchen, and located the sesame oil. I LOVE sesame oil. It's amazing in marinades and salad dressings. Although I was sceptical about how it would taste once swilled around your mouth like cigar smoke.

I unscrewed the lid, poured a generous tablespoon, inhaled a deep breath, and took my medicine. The toasted sesame taste was delicious, and I tried to focus on that as much as possible, rather than the awful greasy texture of oil slipping around my gums.

I headed upstairs and to the shower, swishing the oil slowly around my mouth as I washed my hair. I got out the shower and eagerly checked the time. TEN MINUTES?! Why is it that a shower always seems to take the exact same amount of time, regardless of what speed you think you're going at? Even if I'm running late and rushing around like a lunatic, my shower somehow takes up ten minutes. And that morning I had faffed around like a pro in there, and it was still only ten fricking minutes.

Anyway, I was half way there. So, not terrible. I decided to dry my hair, feeling a bit limited with my movements as I concentrated on swilling, not swallowing the oil - not that easy when you're tipping your head upside down and jangling it about.

Once my hair was dry, I checked the time again. Three minutes left. A bit more faffing later and I was totally relieved to be able to spit it out. It didn't look as 'milky white' as it was supposed to, so maybe I had been too tame with my swills. I decided I’d work on that tomorrow.

My mouth was left feeling really awful. Like I'd been eating Chinese takeaways for two weeks straight without cleaning my teeth. It was just offensively greasy. I reached for the water and sloshed it around, desperately trying to remove the trace of oil. And then I whizzed my electric toothbrush around like my dentist was watching me, ignoring the two minute timer and ploughing on through until I felt like my mouth was no longer a suitable place to cook chips.

The next day was a similar experience. The 20 minutes seemed to go on forever. Although this might just be because I have really terrible instincts when it comes to time. When I was 16 I got a Saturday job as a checkout girl in Sainsbury’s. I did two four-hour shifts each week and they used to go so slowly that in the end I had to break them up into 15 minute slots. When that got too much I took it down to seven minutes. And then the whole thing got so depressing I just covered the time up with a biro and snuck looks every so often. Generally about two minutes would have passed and I’d sink further and further into boredom until my shift was over.

When I finally spouted the oil into the toilet, I saw that it had turned a perfect milky white colour. I was getting good! I decided I'd buy coconut oil for the next day; the sesame was beginning to feel a bit heavy, and extremely potent. I also didn’t want to ruin my love of sesame marinated beef (as we’ve established, food is extremely important to me).

But sadly, I never got to try it. On Tuesday evening my throat felt tingly... I downed water and took copious amounts of echinacea, but by Wednesday morning I knew it had been in vain. I'd been struck down by my age old enemy, tonsillitis. By Thursday my glands had swollen up and I thought I had mumps (I didn’t, just a small case of hypochondria), but the tonsillitis struggle was real, and sadly I didn't recover fully until the following week. So there you have it, I'm afraid.

Now, I've read wonderful things about the benefits of oil pulling. It's an ancient Ayurvedic dental technique thought to draw out toxins from the body. It's supposed to be fantastic for your oral health (great if you're a bit plaquey), and I've also heard that it can aid weight loss (great if you're a bit bloaty). And as a morning ritual, it's not actually that bad. I can imagine it could become part of a "normal" routine very quickly. So by all means give it a go...

DISCLAIMER: Oil pulling may or may not give you tonsillitis. Readers partake at their own risk.

[the52foldchallenge]

Week Thirteen - Veganism Violation

It's about time I did something that put my love of food to the test. Anyone who knows me well enough, knows I pretty much love all food except bananas, olives, tinned tuna, and coriander.

I'm an avid Masterchef watcher, and sometimes I judge holidays I've been on by the quality of the cuisine I ate out there. I'm pretty sure the reason I'm in love with South East Asia has a lot to do with the exquisite culinary choices, and my boyfriend and I often discuss our future of touring around America, Man vs. Food style (I'm pretty sure we could give Adam Richman a run for his money in the scoffing stakes).

So I'm crap at diets and I know how to get my money's worth at an all you can eat buffet; you could say that the prospect of a restricted diet doesn’t fill me will a huge amount of joy.

But this week, the time had come to swallow all that (and a few Dairy Milk bars beforehand), because I was becoming an honorary vegan.

I'll admit that the idea came to me on Sunday, so I didn't do much research or prepare myself mentally (or physically) for it. I also didn't really take into account that I was becoming vegan for the total choc fest holiday that is Easter. What the hell was I thinking (I wasn't).

On Monday I went into work and considered my breakfast options. Eggs, no. Cereal, no (although there are vegan suitable options, and if I'd had the forward planning to buy some almond milk or something I'd have been ok). Yoghurt, no. But there were Naked bars at the office, which proudly displayed a large Vegan label with a tick next to it. So I had two.

I like to think I'm quite a determined person, but when it comes to food I am embarrassingly weak of mind. So by lunchtime my brain was convinced I was starving. I needed comfort food. And I read the contents of those bars and they are mainly just dates. Nobody can live off of dates.

I checked the bread in the office, and it was vegan certified. I googled Heinz baked beans (also suitable for vegans) and tried not to think about how much a block of cheese would bring to the party as I munched beans on toast for lunch.

In the afternoon, as I popped to get a piece of fruit, I saw the ice cream man had fully taken advantage of the sunny weather and parked up outside the office. He'd been there all of the previous week, and we'd all walked past with no desire for a Mr. whippy. However, this week I’d changed my mind. I couldn't have a Mr. Whippy or the delicious slightly stale flake, and so I really really desperately wanted one.

I went back inside, to find all my colleagues (and friends) collecting their change. Surely not? The one week I couldn't have one, and they all suddenly had a hankering for soft whip. I watched with longing as they tucked in. One of them had even splashed out on a waffle cone. Insensitive bastards. It wasn't even hot outside.

That evening, I ended up working late. As I got to the train station, I realised I was starving. I knew I'd struggle to make the journey home without a serious case of the shakes. I went into M&S, expecting them to have quite a wide range of vegan snacks.

But it was surprisingly difficult. They had some nice salad pots, but they were all laced with coriander. What's a coriander hating vegan gotta do around here to get a meal? I settled on an apple and mango smoothie, some coconut pieces, and a bag of vegetable crisps. I really should have become better informed before I took on this challenge.

For most of the week, I stuck to a ritual of granary toast with (genuinely delicious) vegan certified natural peanut butter for breakfast, and beans on toast for lunch - I wasn’t winning any prizes for variety. In fact, whenever I was hungry (which, if I’m being honest, is often), I’d turn to toast topped with anything I could find. And given I don’t normally eat a diet consisting of mainly bread, I went to bed most nights looking like I’d fixed the fake pregnant belly to myself again.

I did have a few more adventurous moments though. My first was vegan certified chocolate. I’d chosen to do this challenge over what was probably the worst week for anyone who likes chocolate to dabble in veganism, and so I thought I’d see what was out there. I bought a white chocolate bunny on my lunch break, and as my beans were in the microwave I opened up the wrapper and sunk my teeth in (I have absolutely no problem with desert before dinner, especially since you can sometimes get away with having it after too without anyone really noticing). What I experienced was a grainy, synthetic tasting mouthful of disappointment. I appreciate it’s hard to emulate a creamy texture without dairy, but I’m not sure it’s necessary to switch it out with sawdust.

On Wednesday I worked from home, and had much more room (and fridge contents) to experiment with. The veggie box had been delivered, containing a delightful array of fresh greens, as well as some wild garlic, which had a recipe for garlic vegetable risotto attached. Matt’s parents showed solidarity, and we decided that if you used vegetable stock instead of chicken stock, and omitted the parmesan (sob) then it would be vegan appropriate. With dinner sorted, I was feeling inspired with lunch. Paul had been amazing and bought lots of salady bits for me, as well as falafel and houmous (which I’d already resorted to eating with pitta bread for breakfast), so I had a sort of moroccan salad, which turned out to be bloody delicious. I’ve found with salads that you need to get the right balance of stuff so that you don’t feel like you’re being super healthy. It needs a good leaf-to-other stuff ratio. It is also all about arranging it tactfully on the plate, so that your eyes can trick you into thinking you’re about to have an indulgent feast.

Dinner that night was delicious, although I did feel quite bad for everyone else that we’d had to use vegetable stock. I’m sure we were all thinking that it would have been even more amazing if Jo was allowed to use chicken stock and a splash of cream, so I seriously appreciated the support, and finally felt like I was beginning to find my way to a decent diet (or at least one that didn’t make me feel like I was with child). I didn’t even mind when the others started liberally grating cheese over their bowls (ok, that’s a lie, I almost went insane with jealousy and I had to stop myself from drooling into my bowl as I stared at the beautiful soft, curled flakes of cheese falling gracefully onto the risotto, melting like snowflakes and creating a sticky layer of deliciousness). It was tough. But by far the best thing I ate all week.

By Thursday, I was on a roll and no longer feeling sad about the things I couldn’t have. Plus I’d discovered 90% chocolate from Ecuador, which was an absolute dream (and also £7.50 a slab, but Jo had very kindly offered it up regardless, probably due to my unbearable desperation). Sadly for me though, things were about to get tougher...

I don’t win much in life. Which sounds much sadder than I actually feel. Some people are lucky bastards, others just settle for the taking part. I am neither of those people. Generally, if I win something, it’s because I bloody earned it. Which, I’ve concluded, is why I never win the lottery. (Although, I did once win £100 on a scratch card, but that was when I had a bit of a gambling problem. Not a problem as such, but I did put £20 into my lottery account once, and played the maximum amount of scratch cards you are physically allowed to play in 24 hours before they ban you. That was due to a warped idea that I’d been so unlucky in general life around that time that I was bound to win something. And to be fair, I did, just not as much as I was going for. But it was a lot of scratch cards. So really, I earned that £100).

Anyway, the point is, I’m rubbish at some stuff. Like those competitions at school fetes where you can win a giant teddy bear if you guess it’s name. So when we had an easter competition at work to guess how many chocolate eggs filled a huge glass jar, I was not hopeful.

Since I couldn’t eat any of the eggs anyway, it didn’t matter to me. So of course I won. And then I had to share in the interest of being polite. Even though I couldn’t have any. Being vegan sucks.

Now, you may be querying the title of this post. Because up until now, I’d successfully lived as a vegan for four days. And I was doing really well. I’d gone  whole day with people munching down on my prize before my eyes, with not even so much as half a mini egg grazing my lips. So what happened?

Like most of life’s mishaps, it all started with alcohol. It was Easter. We had some drinks after work. I may or may not have booked a £70 private karaoke booth that I don’t remember much about being in (apart from a dodgy rendition of ‘Meet Me Halfway’ by The Black Eyed Peas, surely the weirdest karaoke song choice that has ever happened). Suffice to say, we were all a little squiffy. But I stood my ground, and even in my drunken state, I avoided the burger/kebab/both that I longed for, and settled for cardboard chips from Burger King (that’s right, Burger King. Not even McDonalds). So still no violation.

The next day, however, was a different story. Now I could go on to describe my pulsating brain as I lifted my head from the pillow, or the unsettling concoction swirling around uncomfortably in my stomach whenever I took a breath, but we all know what a horrendous hangover is like. And I was definitely suffering from one of those.

I pathetically shuffled downstairs, downed some water, and without really thinking, slathered a load of butter on a piece of bread, and promptly inhaled it. When I realised what I’d done, I was half appalled, and half totally unfazed. I felt dire anyway, what’s a bit of guilt on top of it?

I arranged to go to lunch at Wagamamas with my aunty and cousin, a welcome alternative to spiralling down into a hole of self-loathing, which is what I’d have otherwise done. Plus they had vegan food there, so I could redeem myself. Or I could stuff duck gyoza in my mouth, and polish off a chicken Yaki Udon, which I’m ashamed to say, is what I actually did (I’m so sorry).

I did, however, manage to stick to the no chocolate rule until Sunday, so that’s something, right? Although as soon as I was allowed, I scoffed pretty much all my Easter chocolate immediately, like Augustus Gloop at the chocolate river. I’m surprised the Oompa Loompas didn’t have to come and roll me up the stairs.

So there you have it. I am totally pathetic. But I guess if you’re going to have a weakness, you could pick worse things than meat and dairy.

I’d like to point out that I have a huge amount of respect for vegans, and their beliefs. Being vegan is not an easy decision, and even with today’s more accommodating culinary establishments, it can still be difficult to find decent food on the go without reading the contents of every single packet. I do, however, think that it’s harder when you’re not morally invested. Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself, because otherwise I’m just a big old greedy failure.