Ok, this is very lame, but I needed to bank a few at the weekend. Here are my coat hooks, erected with my own fair hand and some excitingly throbbing power tools.
And here are my dressing gown pegs.
I don’t think I will be invited onto a Channel 4 home makeover programme any time soon, but it is a start. And I quite like standing on a chair and wielding a noisy drill about the place, even if I do then have to seek advice as to whether I have got it in far enough. (oo er).
new experience
#32: Drive to the mountains and hike on my own
Well, the sun may be setting on my ‘mid to late thirties’ but I still have the banter of a 12 year old. So when planning this challenge, the only mountain worth considering was ‘Fan y Big’ – the most snicker-worthy summit in South Wales.
It may be surprising to folk who have known me a while to find this on the list – I have after all climbed Kili 5 times and led more tours up the Inca trail than I can remember – but this challenge was more about rediscovering the ‘me’ of yore. In more recent years, I rarely do anything a) on my own, or b) more than 10 miles from our village. If I do venture further afield it is usually for an organised event involving a load of other people.
So I promise it was a legitimate challenge, and not just a jolly. (Although having said that it was quite jolly once I got going)
It took an absurd amount of time to find the right place, due to my lack of planning and poor decision making (though really I should learn to plan for those, as they characterise most of my endeavours!) Wrong turns, no cash, forgot lunch, bought another lunch, more wrong turns, repeated stops to consult map, wrong car park….
No matter! Having left home before 6.30am, the sun was high in the sky by the time I was ready to climb at 9.30. That is, until I rounded the final corner, and entered a dense cloud, covering the very peak I had travelled so far to find. This was a problem, as my navigational skills are of a level that rather require being able to see where I am going.
I parked, and tried not to look too conspicuously clueless in front of the 40 army recruits who were engaged in some impressive venture with very large backpacks.
I set off up a steep climb by a waterfall. And I soon popped out the top of the cloud, to find a glorious sunny day, and lush views in every direction.
In the main the path was obvious, though one stretch was across open country, and at one point I left my hat marking a junction to be sure of finding the right way home.
The summit of Fan y Big was nothing very obvious, a few rocks in a pile. But it was open, and spacious, with glorious views all around, and the schedule permitted a half hour kip in the sunshine, which was rather lovely for early March.
(see here the Standard Mountaineering Pose (SMP))
I cannot pretend it was a massively risky or hazardous venture, but it was lush to be out, and a tremendously satisfying way to fill the hours while the kids are at school… I think it would be much improved by taking some chums, and having an orienteering course under my belt. Might have to add those to the next list!
But it was great to get out and do this stuff again; proper hikes are too few and far between for me these days!
#30: Promote myself shamelessly, far and wide!
Well, I have done my best. I contacted all the local papers I can think of, and several radio stations, and I fear the local rag may feature my ridiculousness sometime next week. I have also asked everyone I know to tweet/like/share my blog on social media, and the results have been overwhelming – I’ve had over 1000 views a day for the last couple of days! Thank you so much everyone.
I have considered all the networks that I am still in touch with or vaguely connected to and emailed them the big news – a ginger legend is in the making. So, charity sector networks, the Clore Social Fellows, University Alumni, Coaching Networks… I have posted links or provided info to all and sundry – we will see what that throws up.
Perhaps most alarmingly, I have emailed everyone in my yahoo address book to alert them to the blog. And I have not updated my address list since Yahoo was born. So I am now feeling slightly queasy to think who I might have told about my absurd endeavours. I wonder how many other parents have emailed our school office this week with anecdotes about pubic topiary. Oh help.
On the plus side, I have had lovely emails from people who I thought I had lost touch with years or even decades ago, so that has been a delight. And folk offering help in all sorts of ways – whether to get me published, or drop me out of a plane, or teach me an instrument… tremendous!
If you have any other suggestions about how I can boost my readership, please tell me! Part of the whole project is to learn more about digital marketing, so any tips are very welcome. (As are the shares/likes/ follows/comments etc.)
Thank you to you all for reading, and for your interest and support. I have really been bowled over by all the compliments and encouragement I have had since I started this.
Onwards and upwards!
#29: Volunteer at school
This was a big one for me, because I have long suspected that I am not good with children other than my own. (In fact perhaps not even with my own! But they are rather stuck with it.)
My morning routine is still sufficiently insane that by the time I get to school I am heartily relieved to offload my own 3 children – so acquiring 27 more at that point is really about the last thing on my mind.
But for the sake of the 100 things, I made an offer to school a couple of weeks ago, and thus was booked to assist in Class R on a Thursday morning. ‘Sit in a quiet room and help the children change their books’ she had said. It sounded like a manageable brief.
But argh!! I had not factored in World Book Day. I arrived with my troops (late, chaotically, and in somewhat tenuous costumes – one bear, one Tinkerbell, and one black cat); to find the playground swarming with excitable pirates, Rapunzels, Snow Whites, witches, dinosaurs, crocodiles, tigers and the occasional uniformed child whose parent had clearly forgotten. It would, the class teacher admitted apologetically, be something of an unusual day. She offered me the option of starting my help sessions next week instead, but a little face crumpled beneath the bear head, and I realised I would have to see it through. If only I’d come in costume myself! Dammit.
The classes were all mixed up; the register was conducted by book character names, so I hadn’t the least idea who most of the children were. But they were all quite charming, and well behaved, and most excited to have me there, which was gratifying. Before many minutes had passed I was supervising the creation of oil pastel-crayon self-portraits, drawn in a mirror frame, (inspired by the tale of Snow White). The children were to study every detail of their own visage and copy it exactly as they saw it, not as they imagined it to be. They were to reproduce their actual skin colour, actual eye shape, and any odd features that might be going on, on account of their costumes.
And so they began faithfully replicating. Nostrils were writ large and pig-like. Eye lashes were lustrous. Spiderman was cursing his complicatedly webbed face. One girl was carefully selecting the right shade of red for a big zit on her chin. Kids with glasses, or scars, or different pigmentation were all happily studying themselves and copying from life without self-consciousness. It was a delight! Nobody cried, nobody wet themselves, nobody hit me. Things have moved on immeasurably since I last helped out at preschool!
I was promoted to the glitter table, where the mirror frames were embellished. 2 glue sticks, 8 children, and no fighting! School must be operating in some sort of magical parallel dimension; this would be an unimaginable scene in my house.
Glittering concluded; my characters trooped off to study The Enormous Turnip. A fresh assortment came in, and I settled to hear Snow White again. More mirrors, more pastels, more glitter. When break time came I slunk off. But it was a very worthwhile morning, and I shall have no qualms about going back next week. Changing their books should be easy now!
#28: Busk/sing in public
This was one of the more dreaded of my challenges, so praise the Lord for good friends to snatch banter from the jaws of a potentially humiliating shocker!
I cannot sing in tune, nor play any instrument. So it was hard to see how this would pan out well for me. But then, inspiration struck. I was to lunch with my 3 ex-housemates for birthday celebrations this weekend, and what if we could make an amusing event of it? An image presented in my brain. The 4 of us, each in comedy wig, brandishing a pink ukulele… and belting out tunes in the middle of London… How could that fail to be Utterly Hilarious???!!!
Once the image was lodged, it was impossible to shift. I broached the idea with them. And bless them all, not one dissenting voice! Hooray for chums who can be persuaded into these ridiculous escapades.
As the birthday lunch concluded, I presented my props. I piled the wigs onto the table. And the ukuleles. And the busking hat, for the public’s contributions. And the cardboard sign upon which we could explain our feat.
And oddly, as I went on, I noticed a hint of doubt appearing on the faces. Surely they weren’t going to bail on me now!!! The sunny day had brought people out in droves, and South Bank seemed a popular choice. Punters were thronging past like the M25 in rush hour. Oof.
In the end, the birthday girl took on a filming role, and the other 2 dug deep to join me. We positioned our sign. We donned our wigs. We discussed our play list.
And then there was nothing for it but to launch in. With woeful disregard for tune, harmony, correct lyrics or synchronised timing, we burst into a truly appalling rendition of ‘Jerusalem’. The crowds slowed. Brows furrowed. Some tourists took photographs. We sang louder. We strummed badly.
One song down, we were gaining confidence. We offered a rousing rendition of happy birthday. Em hid behind the camera and captured it as best she could.
We moved on to Band Aid,’ Do they Know it’s Christmas’. Perfect choice for a sunny day in March. The punters loved it! The contributions began to flood in! (well ok, perhaps that is stretching it, but some people really did give us money!)
We were loving it by now! We had only intended a song or two, but here we were, with (in our minds) the crowd clearly wanting more! We murdered Yellow Submarine. (I should stress that none of us had rehearsed, nor troubled to learn any lyrics, so song choices were a little limited). And still we weren’t done! We gave it large. We hit them with an exuberant ‘Living on a Prayer’. We threw out a horrifying ballad, Elaine Paige and Barbara Streisand’s ‘I know him so well’. Passers-by were open-mouthed. But the donations kept coming! We had reached £8! Surely we could get to £10! We figured by now we had a new crowd and could get away with another rendition of Band Aid, that had been by far the biggest crowd pleaser. And before we even got to the chorus, we made our £10, and only our extreme professionalism kept us going to finish the tune, rather than rush to the pub with our winnings half way through!
No doubt we should have given it all to charity, but I am afraid the only beneficiary was the nearest pub on South Bank. And of course the happy crowds.
So. A triumph! We put a smile on the faces of countless Londoners, had a massive laugh ourselves, earned £10, and ticked another one off the list, conquering to some degree my fear of performing in public and general social embarrassment. As well as creating an amusing memory and bonding experience for all concerned. Hurrah!
Probably my best one to date, that one! Who’s up for karaoke??!
#27: Cook a pig’s head
Good heavens. This is among the most unspeakably grim undertakings that I have undertaken for some time! Vegetarians and those of a squeamish disposition should probably read no further.
Ok, well don’t say you weren’t warned.
It was all quite amusing at first. I wasn’t at all sure how to come by a pig’s head. One doesn’t really see them in the butcher’s display cabinet as a general rule. First I tentatively looked on a couple of websites. Then I got braver and made a phone call or two. Then went into town, and made enquiries at every butchers I could find. One took my number and promised to call when he got one in.
This week the call came. My head was in. Into town I went. To Jesse Smith Butchers. I was relieved of £8, and came away with a head in a bag, (2 bags, thankfully, so it could not be identified by passers by). ‘Mmmm, nice porker’s ‘ed’ observed the butcher cheerfully, as he wrapped it up. ‘Making brawn, are you?’ he asked. ‘Mmmm’ I acquiesced, and with considerable self-discipline, I refrained from elaborating on the 100 things, (and thus sharing far too freely about the Brazilian, the Bananaman, or any of the other bizarre endeavours that seem to pepper my conversation these days).
I got home, stuck it in the garage, and ignored it for the rest of that day.
Today though, it was time to tackle it. I brought it into the house. Took it out the bag. Sat it on a chopping board on the kitchen table. We studied one another, for quite a while. It was a little unnerving. He still had eyes. And whiskers. I kept looking, and then looking away. He stared back. It took a good half hour for us to get the measure of each other.
The whole escapade is enough to make a former vegetarian somewhat bilious. The recipe on www.downsizer.net is very matter of fact about it all. I am to make bath chaps from the cheeks, crispy pigs ears, and brawn from the rest. Oof.
I made him face the wall, and started on the brine mixture. Then I readied all the vegetables for the stock. So far, so good.
But then there was no avoiding the unpleasantness. Having no blow torch I used a lighter to try and rid him of whiskers; not very effectively. Then I held him by the snout and stuck a knife in. A too blunt knife as it turned out, but we made the best of it. I lopped off his ears and cheeks. (Had to turn his face away while I did it). Once he wasn’t looking, it was easier. Then I stuck the radio on and it was just like trimming fat off of any other meat. Though there was rather more fat than meat. And a lot of bone. Bleeeuuuugggghhhhhh.
Anyway. Cheeks and ears put to one side. Covered in brine. Leave in the fridge for 3 days it says!
Then to the stock. Even without ears or cheeks, the head was rather too large for my pan. Help! I can’t have a snout sticking out the pot when the children come home!
Luckily I found a bigger pot. Still some snout protrusion! But better. I put it on to boil. And oh God, the stench! The entire house was filled with the most chunderous aroma imaginable, as skin, flesh, eyeballs, snout and lord knows what else began to boil and disintegrate.
My husband came home and almost gagged. ‘What the f*** are you doing?’ was not an unreasonable question. I explained the various dishes that were underway. His bafflement was absolute. ‘But I don’t want to eat a pig’s face.’ I switched off the stockpot and we all had pancakes.
Later on, I studied the carnage in the pot, and with heavy heart I’m afraid I have had to give up on it. Aside from the utterly rancid stench which now pervades the entire house and probably neighbourhood, I found a gelatinous mulch of fat, meat, vegetables and God only knows what else… with a skull sticking out the middle of it. It is unthinkable that anyone will eat any part of it. So I have scraped the whole lot into 3 carrier bags into the dustbin. I know it is kind of wrong to eat the choice bits of an animal and waste the rest, when it has made the ultimate sacrifice, but what can I say? I tried.
#26: Belly dancing
This was yet another experience that I turned up for roughly 20 years too soon. And another one that I was very happy to enrol some friends for as well.
I found a class in Cirencester, in a church hall. Took 2 friends along, and we loitered cluelessly on the fringes, until our intention to belly dance became apparent. Then the regulars all bustled to make us welcome, introduced themselves, and offered us spare skirts and belts aplenty. (We had, as ever, failed to find the requisite attire, of flowing skirt, and sash/belt bedecked with jangley metal coin-like thingies. (Forgive my lack of correct terminology)).
Once suitably attired, we were politely asked to remove our minging biking trainers, and to dance barefoot if we had no ballet pumps. (We hadn’t.)
Three of the group were of my own party. Then there was the teacher, an administrator, and three other ladies, who reluctantly admitted they were in their second year of tuition. They were clearly anxious that their skill level may not adequately reflect this.
The warm up began. And indeed, it went on for the majority of the lesson. It was far from clear where the warm up ended and the dancing began.
We were asked to move our hips in a figure of eight. Not that hard, you might think, but it was extraordinarily difficult to move just the hips – not feet, not shoulders, just the bit in the middle. Near impossible. I caught sight of myself reflected in the window and I looked like a robot having a seizure.
The class was very gentle, extremely welcoming, light, fun, supportive and encouraging. Everyone took pains to assure us that no one ‘gets it’ straight away, and that the moves are tricky. We must not feel bad about ourselves, for butchering their routines so entirely. But we shimmied, and we shook, and we wiggled our hips, and we stepped and we twirled, and occasionally we fell into time. Here and there we may even have mastered an actual step. I found it rather hard to concentrate on what all the different bits of me were doing, as arms and hands, and hips and feet were all doing unfamiliar things, in different directions, at the same time. I fear the overall effect was anything but flowing.
By the end we were all twirling sticks, while twisting and thrusting and stepping. Hazel made it look beautiful and natural and lovely. I was more of a safety hazard, jerking around erratically with a long wooden pole.
There were too few people to hide in the crowd. We had no choice but to stand proud, be crap, and do our best, but it really wasn’t at all intimidating, everyone was very kind.
The final challenge was to lie on the floor for a cool down. Now there at last we had the edge over our more mature class mates. Everyone creaked and groaned and lowered themselves a fraction gracelessly to the ground. We may not have excelled on the dance front, but the newcomers could at least lie down and get up again without fear of doing ourselves ‘a mischief’.
It was lovely to sample belly dancing, and it is something I’d like to return to. Though maybe not quite yet. But at this rate, I am certainly going to be a step ahead when I do reach retirement!
#25: Shoot something
One thing I am really loving about this whole experience is how friends are getting behind it, and either joining me in my challenges, or, as in this instance, completely fixing it for me to have a new experience that I would have no idea how to organise otherwise!
A good friend just happens to have her own large field, and a very amenable farming dad, complete with guns, clay pigeons, machines to fire them with, and sufficient patience and expertise to supervise a shooting session for me and anyone else who cared to join in. So she organised a legendary ‘lunch and shoot’ to take place on her 40th birthday, the day after a large group of friends had been celebrating this happy event with considerable gusto.
Thus it came to pass that a shooting party gathered in Chew Magna on Sunday, all looking somewhat the worse for wear. Having only barely concluded a 3 course breakfast in an attempt to banish the hangover, we moved on to a substantial lunch, then decided we had really better do the shooting before starting on the birthday cakes. (Once we had done some ‘sport’ we would surely have room for it.)
We gathered outside under ominous skies. Equipment was assembled, clays loaded, and instructions given. Some of the men stepped up and had a go, they hit some, they missed some, but it all looked fairly achievable. Point gun, clay is fired, bang, clay smashes to smithereens, everyone cheers. Marvellous.
Then I stepped up. And it all began to look considerably less easy. Firstly the gun was immensely heavy. Second my posture was all wrong. I was leaning too far back and firing up into the trees. Further explanation was offered by the infinitely patient Phil Coombs. I was to look along the length of the gun, and line up the clay with the little red light on the end of it. Well I was already seeing at least 2 guns, whether due to excess booze, or wearing glasses, I wasn’t sure. Then there was the timing issue. It took a few seconds to line up the gun with the clay thing even once I had the gun in focus – by which time of course the clay thing had moved. Dammit.
My first 2 bullets shot into the sky. Ditto the next 2. And the next. Oh dear. Feet begin shuffling. I was losing my audience. ‘Do you have to actually hit something?’ people began to ask. ‘Did you put ‘shoot something’, or ‘shoot at something’?’ asked another, hopefully.
2 more bullets evaded the clay. ‘I’m not getting this’ I muttered. ‘No you’re not’ agreed my tutor with some feeling. The audience sniggered. Phil explained the principles again. Foot forward. Weight on front foot. Do not lean back. Do not absent-mindedly brandish the gun in the direction of spectators. Ah yes. I nodded sagely, as if all were now clear.
Then I shot again, and to everyone’s hearty astonishment, I hit one! Wahay! I had just been mentally composing a blog post for abject failure, so hurrah and huzzah to actually do it! It was strangely satisfying, even though it was only a clay disc.
I had a couple more shots, but it had clearly been a fluke. No further success. But no matter, I hit one, and so challenge number 25 is achieved. A quarter of the way through!
#24: Have a drastic haircut!
Well, it is done. I think I am pleased!
This was me before:
This is during:
and here I am after:
What do you think? I have avoided any drastic change for about 20 years, so for me it is quite exciting!
#23: Drive through a city without sat nav
I put this one in because I realised how reliant I have become on the old sat nav. I frequently arrive somewhere with no idea how I got there, where I am or how I am going to get home! If the thing packed up half way through a journey I would be scuppered.
And also, it is a shame to lose the old fashioned skills – manoeuvring through fast-moving traffic, map in one hand, steering wheel in the other, handwritten page of directions floating about somewhere in the passenger foot well… Ah yes, that’s what it was all about. And for optional added spice, I tried it with almost zero diesel in the tank and no button to press to find a route to the nearest fuel.
Happily all turned out well. In truth I confess I did not penetrate very far into London, but it will have to do – 77 more challenges on the list! Onwards and upwards!
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