The Maths in Space moment

 

Do you remember measuring your playground?

 There’s nothing sweeter than standing on busy Oxford Street in London, especially in chilly November, gasping for breath and trying to fight back tears because you’re laughing so much with your Australian friends, as Brits rush past you on the way to do Christmas shopping, wondering what the bloody hell the joke is.

This is the situation I found myself in a couple of weeks ago.

It started when my good friend Andrew invited me to go shopping with him and another male friend John at H&M in Covent Garden.

I hadn’t met John, but he assured me that he’d “adore”. As it turns out he did. Pity he was also gay.

After a brief stroll around H&M, we decided to head to Subway for a bite to eat. Andrew had a Subway card, meaning that I could get a discount, a cause for huge celebration especially in these austere times.

Whenever I meet up with Andrew, we always reminisce about our school days.

Although we didn’t go to school together, in fact I went to a small private school in country NSW while he went to a state school in Sydney, we share memories of taking part in the same types of activities and finding humour and curiosity in the same sort of things.

Up until this cold November day, our favourite memory was of a dog running into the school playground.

Does anyone else remember that one?

Picture this: you’re sitting on the seats in the playground, enjoying your little lunch. Just when you thought that the most exciting thing is that you’ve been given BBQ Shapes for morning tea by your mum, into the field strolls a stray dog.

Suddenly it’s no ordinary recess that you had to have.

Lunch boxes would be thrown aside, kids would be standing up on stools, as everyone gathered around this strange dog.

“Mrs Battleaxe, there’s a dog in the playground, people would cry!” Or something similar.

Surely you must remember this?

Okay, I’ll admit that I went to a school in a small town. People would get their kicks out of anything. An extra Nutella thrown into your canteen lunch order accidentally would set someone off.

But it seemed a dog coming into the playground was an Australian phenomenon.

Indeed, there’s already several Facebook groups dedicated to this, ranging from “THERE’S A DOG IN THE PLAYGROUND!” to “That Awesome Moment When You Find Out There’s A Dog in The Playground.”

It also features in another group: “You Know You Grew Up in the 1990s when…”

Laughing about this is actually a favourite pastime, believe it or not, of Andrew and mine whenever we get together.

In fact I think the first time I met him he mentioned it. Since then it’s usually come up in the conversation somehow everytime we’ve met. Without fail.

When it does, cue the next half hour, at least, of boisterous merriment, screaming and table banging, along with attempted comparisons to other exciting events during our school days.

Our mutual friend Rania (Queen Rania, as she’s often referred to) once brought up a magpie flying into a demountable classroom. You’d have to be Australian to be able to relate to that one.

Why we even try to think up something more hilarious than a random canine wandering in the quadrangle is unfathomable, as we know nothing will ever compete with this treasured memory.

On this November Sunday, I can’t remember exactly how it came up. I think maybe there was a lull in the conversation and Andrew thought it was a good time to jump in.

I can’t remember what he began with either, but soon we were talking about doing languages via the Open High School and sending in tapes of ourselves practicing our newfound language skills. (He did German, I did Italian. Although don’t know what the point was of spending all that time putting sentences on tape to practice our pronunciation, with our Australian accents).

Next came the magpie flying into the demountable came up.

Then the inevitable dog coming into the playground.

And then, out of nowhere, a definitive vision of my secondary schooling that I hadn’t thought about since year 12 came flashing back to me: walking around my playground with a trundle wheel, a simplified form of a surveyor’s wheel, during Maths in Society, the lowest HSC maths course.

Maths in Space, as we all knew it was a joke. None of us took it seriously.

There was only one thing you did in Maths in Space – and that was measure your playground.

We. Did. It. Every. Single. Lesson.

Why, I still have no bloody idea, as if you asked me today for even rough measurements of my own playground I wouldn’t be able to tell you if my life depended on it.

And I certainly didn’t seem to get anything out of measuring my playground.

For instance, why didn’t we learn some practical skils? What about maths for everyday duties, such as deciding which quantity of foundation to buy at the Selfridges beauty counters?

Or basic budgeting for the high street?

Surely that would have been more worthwhile for future life, especially during a double-dip recession in the UK, rather than trudging around the perimeter of your schoolyard 190 times (click, click, click), recording the exact measurements???

“Did… you… do… Maths in Space?” I whispered to John and Andrew, ashamed to admit that I took the subject, despite making up for it with my humanities.

There was much chuckling all round. Despite only Andrew being a former MIS graduate (John “didn’t do ‘veggie’ maths. I was too busy with calculus, trigonometry, conic sections et. al. to be measuring the quadrangle” he assured us) they both knew what I was talking about.

“I did Maths in Space,” I declared, no longer ashamed of this. In fact I was now proud, having been reminded of its apparent notoriety.

“And every lesson, without fail, “ I said, my voice now breaking up,” we…”

I couldn’t get it out… I was struggling to breathe..

“We measured the playground,” I finally finished, before beginning to giggle hysterical.

“With a trundle wheel,” I continued, between breaths. “Every single lesson. Did you do that?”

There was explosive laughter, from all three of us, if I can call it that.  Perhaps hyperventilation may be a more apt description.

I tried to repeat the story for effect, but was laughing so much I could no longer speak.

At one stage John had to take off his glasses and rub his eyes, as he was close to tears. I thought that I was also going to cry.

How we managed to calm ourselves down, I do not know.

We left Subway and walked to Oxford Street, where we did more shopping.

But my recollections of Maths in Space stayed with us all.

On the corner of Oxford and Great Marlborough Streets we had a relapse. This was probably actually more of a surreal scene than sitting in Subway, as we had to actually stop on a street corner and try to catch our breath, as hundreds of busy Christmas shoppers hurried past.

I wondered if the Brits who walked past us were wondering what we were chuckling at?

And if we’d told them, would they have found it amusing?

Had they measured their playground when they were in year 12, too?

It was – and I know this is a tough call – one of the funniest moments of my entire five years in London so far.

It wasn’t just that the memory of Maths in Space that made me laugh so much. It was the idea of standing on a street corner with two friends, one who’d I’d only just met, 14 years after the event, in a foreign country on a bitterly cold day during such austere times, laughing about something, well, so utterly simple.

There are some things, it seemed, that were so Australian that they bound all of us together, no matter where in the country you came from.

And at the end of what had been a few crap weeks, it was so good to laugh non-stop for ten whole minutes.

It had reminded me that memories are free, and that laughter is the best therapy of all.

The following day, even when I went to get the breakfast cereal down, I still couldn’t help but think of the ‘Maths in Space moment’ and laugh.

When the three of us mentioned this on Facebook in our status updates, many other Australian friends laughed at the memory of doing Maths in Space.

Some, for instance my friend Samara, seemed to be laughing at us laughing at this, instead. “You’re a cracker,” she told me.

Since this episode I’ve Googled how to make a trundle wheel.

It seems that other nationalities, not just the Aussies, knew how to have a good time with a trundle wheel on their playground.

I might make a trundle wheel for “old time’s sake”, I told Andrew the next day.

“I might make one and measure the forecourt in the McDonalds opposite (in Vauxhall), “ he replied.

Days later, he recalled that he’d come across a retail manager in town who had only charged him £1 for a cardigan.

It seemed that there might be some Brits who did Maths in Space after all.

The story also came up when I went to lunch with Rania.

Of course I broke down into a fit of giggles relyaing it to her, and she started laughing as well, even before I’d finished the story.

Are there that many moments – I’m not talking about the big milestones in life – that you wish you could have back to relive over and over again?

I don’t actually think so. But I do wish, in fact I’d give anything, if we could have that moment on Oxford Street, standing huddled over in the gutter with our hands over our mouths, trying not to cry, as we cacked ourselves silly over a metre wheel and some grass, on an awful winter’s day in the Old Dart, back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well that was a complete waste of time…

My friend Ria (@AccordingtoRia) and I had finally managed to organise dinner for the first time in months, despite living near each other. We weren’t even halfway into our meal and busy jabbering away, talking with our mouths full, particularly moaning about how hard it was to work from home and “get things done” (Ria as a university student looking for work, me as a freelancer) when suddenly she dropped a bombshell.

“I’m going to a time management worksop this weekend,” she said.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

Her timing was, well I’ve got to say it, impeccable.

“Oooh,” I squealed with excitement, as if she’d suggested we spend our entire two days off in the Selfridges shoe gallery.

Although I once used to think that routine was lethal (as writer Paul Coelho recently said on Twitter), I now dreamt of being… organised. You know, one of those women who wrote one list, ticked it off and whittled it down, revised it and then started all over again.

Recently, I’d been quite frustrated working from home and trying to divide my day up. It seemed that I was becoming distracted easily and constantly experiencing pangs of guilt throughout the day for wasting time.

So a time management course sounded like a useful way to spend a Saturday afternoon, even if I had to give up some retail therapy at Whistles.

“I’ll see you on Saturday,” I told Ria.

I was excited. I mean who wouldn’t want to say to at least one person, “I’m doing a time management workshop this Saturday.” It made one sound semi-important.

By the time it was nearly time for the time management workshop, I had of course lost the email with all the details in it and was five minutes late (although not as late as Ria, who showed up about 3.15pm. Obviously we both needed this course).

To be honest, the time management course ended up being, well, a complete waste of time.

About 20 minutes was taken up with meditation. London may be busy, but who has time for meditation when there’s a mid-season sale on at Reiss?. As far as I was concerned, meditation just added to the stress, by taking up more time. While I sympathised with the instructor (a freelance photographer, surprise surprise) about juggling a lot of tasks and assignments which sent her all across London, her time management list didn’t seem that sophisticated. Not did it offer a lot of flexibility, as I discovered the next day when I accidentally ripped the shower head off after writing my first time management list.

Her other tip was the RAFT list: refer it, act on it, file it, throw it away.

“Must have been designed by someone with an MBA: they love 4 box models!” @Dee_oz said, when I Tweeted about this a day later.

It seemed the only person who enjoyed the time management course and found it useful was a guy who had just seen the sign for it while walking by and decided to check it out.

“Are you living in London?” I asked him.

“No,” he replied. “I’m on holiday.”

When I reached into my handbag for my phone to check my emails (I had a Saturday night to plan) during the workshop he raised his eyebrows at me.

“I’m just trying to manage my time,” he explained.

When I complained about the time management course online the next day, my friend Rachel suggested a new name for it – “The waste your time management course.”

Although the first time management list went down the drain, so to speak, following the shower incident, I’m sticking with it for the time being – but drawing up lists that allow me an extra two hours for say smashing the place up.

On tomorrow’s list in the top left hand? “Call Greg The Handyman” and “Do more anger management and less time management.”

Right, off to have a bath. Will try not to drown one’s self.

Can you live your life on Twitter?

It started on a dark, rainy February day as I was crossing the pedestrian not far from my home, in West Hampstead, and saw a girl wearing a pair of stockings. The legs were different colours.

I thought she was pretty cool so later that night I Tweeted about it. “Trend of wearing different coloured items of clothing, a la Helena Bonham Carter, really taking off in West Hampstead”, I wrote from my Twitter account @amyfallon.

I was “off Facebook” at the time, despite my “friends” telling me that they “missed my status updates” and “hearing about my exciting life”. They only told me this online of course and never to my face, because I now only ever saw most of them online. When did relationships become like this? That was the whole point of my latest Facebook sabbatical – to force myself to actually speak to people over the phone, via email or – shock horror – actually have face-to-face contact with them.

Several weeks into my self-imposed Facebook exile I caved in. (Well, the power had gone in our house. Along with the heating. And I was having a bowl of Cheerios for dinner. I just had to share this part of my “exciting life” with my 450 followers).

After the Helena Bonham-Carter-girl incident though, it was all about Twitter and later that night, I noticed that another user @WHampstead, aka a “hyperlocal” blogger had retweeted my observation of the girl with the different coloured legs. It was one of my first retweets, I think, so I was quite excited.

We “saw” each other online after that every now and then. One day he Tweeted and asked, “are you going to the #Whampgather?”

I couldn’t imagine what the #Whampgather – apparently a “hyperlocal Tweet-up involving residents, bloggers and others” – would be like but was curious.

“Can Twitter friends become real life mates? About to find out soon at my first  #Whampgather #thepowerofsocialmedia” I Tweeted before heading off to the local pub a few nights later.

When I arrived to a room full of more than 60 people – I didn’t know from a bar of soap but they all apparently lived in the area – on my own I was nervous. I felt like I was on a blind date with my whole neighbourhood.

“Are you here for the gather?” I asked the first guy I saw at the bar.

“No,” he said, looking at me as if I was trying to chat him up.

Luckily I located @WHampstead, aka Jonathan, who had lived in the area since 1998 and had been holding regular #Whampgathers, a few minutes later. He didn’t look that much like his Twitter profile photo – the West Hampstead tube sign.

It seems I wasn’t the only one wondering what this event was all about, or even how to describe it.

“What is this? What is it? I mean what do you call it?” asked a friendly fellow called Stu (@stubishop), the next person I bumped into, who was holding a pint. He was with his girlfriend, who looked slightly bewildered.

I had certainly never been to a “gathering” like this before. London, though, despite being a city of nearly eight million people can be a lonely place at times. I had friends scattered all over the city, but sadly not one in my own borough who I could ring up on the spur of the moment and say, “what about a drink tonight?” And despite living with three lovely other people, our whole house was apparently too busy to find the time to simply have a meal together at our local watering hole.

But whether the #Whampgather was just an excuse to get drunk, whether I’d never cross paths with these people again, I still loved the idea of it.

Everyone I was mingling with certainly seemed to be enjoying the night.

@Accordingtoria was a pretty Spanish girl in her mid-20s who lived a stone’s throw away from me. Then there was also a local councilor there (funny enough, we somehow got into a conversation about him wanting to do a Facebook cull).

@Moyasarner, a fellow hack like myself, was with her mum who seemed to be having a better time than anyone.

At the end of the night, I said goodbye to my new “friends” and promised to keep in touch. That was now my biggest question about the whole event – would I see or hear from any of them ever again?

The next day the Twittersphere was buzzing with #Whamp tweets about the #Whampgather

The news had gone trans Atlantic.

“reading lots of positive  #Whampgather tweets here in NY!” @StyleOnTheCounch wrote

And this:  ”#Whampgather has made it to Beijing as well ” from @BillGlover

I was also amused later that day when speaking to a friend from Essex on the phone that she asked about the event and said she was disappointed to have missed it. (Apparently she had a friend who lived in West Hampstead and had attended).

About a week later, surprisingly, I heard from @AccordingtoRia and we met up for a ‘hyperlocal breakfast’.

Then a few weeks later @POWHampstead, aka Abi, who I’d met online and exchanged a few Tweets with (she hadn’t attended the gather) suggested a drink with @Ghoul_of_London and @offpistecook.

This was the final nail in the coffin for Facebook, as far as I was concerned, the ultimate proof that via Twitter you could not only meet new people, but also see them in real life as opposed to just giving them a good ‘poke’.

Since then I’ve seen both Ria and Abi several times and also keep in touch with them online.

Of course living in the virtual ‘hyperlocal’ community also has other benefits – like getting a discount here and there because you’re always Tweeting about where you’re going and what you’re doing. (Thankyou @alicehousewh)

I was distraught to learn one day recently that I had missed @dmiliband (aka David Miliband) at local café @wealllovefood, after logging in. I’ll certainly be keeping an eye on them more closely now.

Through Twitter I’ve discovered too that help, even with the most mundane daily things, is nearly, even closer than you think.

One day I was having a ‘bit of a mare’ with a job for work that involved a mammoth scanning task. After complaining about this to my followers, @SunilRadia suddenly stepped in to save the day. I knew he lived in my area, but had no idea where exactly. It was only when I looked up the address that I realized that he owned the newsagency and convenience store right near my house, the same one I’m in and out of every day.

“The power of the internet,” he said when I walked into the store.

Of course NW6’s famous coconut cake – available @cafebonNW6 - sold out like, well hot cakes, on Twitter when yours truly and @WHampstead started extolling its virtues in the microblogging world.

Even a non-resident (he’s from, ummn, Peckham) traveled to the area to see about the cake.

I haven’t heard of any #Whamp Twitter romances yet, but I’m sure that there’s one bound to be one develop or developing soon.

Thanks to Twitter believe it or not, I now know so many more #Whampers and have discovered so many more places that were practically right in my own backyard that I now spend probably too much time in my own borough!

In fact it was only recently that @POWHampstead and I met up for a drink and were joking  that we should organize a #Wham tweet-up in … West Ham.

#onlyjoking #Whampforever

“Can I have a banana, please?” How these words sparked a Twitter sensation & cake wars in my neighbourhood

It started with a simple request. “Can I have a banana, please?” I asked the girl behind the counter at Starbucks West Hampstead one morning, in a rush on my way to work.

In the morning, all I want is this: a hot chocolate (not a coffee or tea gal), a banana and a Guardian. That’s my routine. Simple. In fact some days I really only went to SB for a banana and The Guardian, because you could get both and be in and out quickly, and it was on the way to the tube.

I am ashamed to admit this, but over the past two years I have become such a regular customer at the store that this particular worker not only recognised me, she knew my name and what I did for a living. She had seen me cry once or twice in the shop (when I was having a bad day). Hell, I think she’d even heard my mother on Skype. So I definitely thought she had my accent and orders sorted.

However on this particular day I might as well have said, “Can I go to the moon on a broomstick, please” rather than”Can I have a banana, please?” Instead of bringing me a hot chocolate and banana, she completely ignored the aforementioned fruit.

Why is it that the word “banana”‘ sends people bonkers? Remember David Miliband at the 2008 Labour conference? at the 2008 Labour conference?

Coming from a small town in northern NSW where one of the biggest events on a social calendar is of course The Tweed Banana Festival (breaking news from Dad via Skype – the price of bananas have skyrocketed again after the recent floods in Queensland, people could really be going bananas when they see the cost), my order didn’t seem ridiculous. So I tried again.

This time she flashed me another look that said she understood me, but I was being unreasonable, like asking for a whole banana plantation instead of just one small banana.

I finally got my banana in the end, but I walked out of the store very annoyed. The fact that I had to spend another ten minutes while they carefully selected one didn’t help. I think I was thinking (if you know what I mean) that deep down the girl may have not understood me. When I was little, I can remember saying banana the American way, since I have a Canadian mother and was used to the way she spoke. I remember going to school one day and all the kids laughed at me because I wasn’t saying banana the Australian way. Memories of this were coming back to me now and I was paranoid.

But come on, I wasn’t asking for an Espresso Con Panna. I just wanted a yellow, curvy thing. Plus this woman knew me.

Now seething with rage (yes I know I really should go to anger management), I made a mental note: never to go to Starbucks West Hampstead again. Boycott whole brand again.

Confused as to what I had done wrong, I went to the place you go to whenever you want the meaning to any of life’s problems – the Twittersphere. A couple of users suggested that my order had been “too hard” for Starbucks.

I was now facing a “bit of a mare”, as some would say. Where to get hassle-free fruit and a coffee in the morning?

Saving the day (or the start of the day?) of course was West Hampstead Life who immediately jumped in on the conversation and suggested Cafe Bon, a few doors down from Starbucks. What’s more, they apparently had a wonderful coconut cake, which WH Life had already sampled.

A few days later, when I was working from home, I went to Cafe Bon to sample their creation. It was truly wonderful. The kind of homemade and filling coconut cake that you haven’t had in years. Despite being on a diet, I ate a huge slice. The icing on the cake was… well just the icing on the cake. Fabulous icing on the cake.

The word about the cake soon spread, via Twitter and in particular West Hampstead, and the whole area started talking about this discovery right on our doorstep. The sudden popularity of the treat even prompted Cafe Bon to join Twitter. One worker at another popular eatery, The Kitchen Table, also asked another resident to bring him some of the cake while he was at work “so I can see what all the fuss is about”.

Soon we were getting daily updates about the cake eg “Your favourite cake is back tomorrow. See you soon.”  People began asking for supplies to be rationed. (I should add that Cafe Bon also provides very personable service. On one occasion they even Tweeted me to let me know that I had left my headphones behind and that they were “saving” them for me).

It wasn’t long before others outside NW6 wanted a piece of what we were having. “That place sounds good, did you want to meet there sometime?” my friend Tilby Tweeted me the other day. He lived in Peckham (I think they like fried chicken there, although have no idea how they like their cakes), but was willing to make the trek all the way up to north London to sample the coconut cake.

So today Tilbs is coming up to West Hampstead and we are going to Cafe Bon to have a huge slice of The Coconut Cake, and I will finally be able to get a completely unbiased opinion on the cake that has turned into a Twitter sensation, and taken West Hampstead by storm.

However I’m certain that an entire suburb cannot be wrong.

UPDATE ON THE GREEN SKINNY JEANS INCIDENT

After The Green Skinny Jeans Incident on Mill Lane, I have purchased the green short cut-off denims from Whistles. It seemed Whistles must have known ummn what a success they were, as they put them on sale for me.

I had my first brush in the green skinny cut-offs last Saturday morning, when I was rushing to West Hampstead tube to have some vaccinations for my upcoming trip to Uganda. Having worked about an 18 hour day the day before, I was quite tired and in a bad mood so the following conversation with two sleazes standing outside the newsagent ensued:

SLEAZES (in sleazy accent): Nice nice, very nice.

ME: Do you not think I deserve a bit of respect when I’m walking down the street minding my own business?

SLEAZES (in sleazy accent): I was just telling you you looked nice. You don’t know how to take a compliment.

ME: Storms off.

Later that day I was at the corner of Kilburn High Road and Coventry Close when another guy I walked past said, “nice shorts”.

And only yesterday I was rushing again up Mill Lane  on the way home when I saw another girl walking on the opposite side of the road, going the opposite way, with the exact same green skinny jeans on. She was walking hand-in-hand with a guy. A result of The Green Skinny Jeans?

 

Off the beaten track again (this time in Espana)

After discovering the Shoe Museum in Toronto, the Captain Cook Museum in Whitby  and the Museo del Perfume in Barcelona, I seem to have done it again and uncovered another gem of the museum world that I had entirely to myself. Let it never be said that Aussies don’t go off the beaten track.

This time it’s the one and only Museo Tiflologico in Madrid, also known unofficially as The Blind Museum (“tiflos” is Greek for sightless, apparently).

How on earth I managed to stumble upon it when I wasn’t looking for it despite having full vision when there could be others walking around looking for it and not being able to locate it – oh the irony of it all if I can call it that? – I still don’t know.

All I do know is that I was walking around Madrid on a sunny day, on my mini-break known as Spain Part 2 (Spain Part I in February involved a passport being lost – guess whos) when I happened to find myself on a street near Estrecho Metro station.

The building had the acronym ONCE (the the Spanish National Organization for the Blind) on it.

That looks quite interesting, I thought, as I read the writing on the wall about it. I had never actually heard of any museum at all for the blind and visually impaired before (apparently there are others in the world), but thought it was amazing that such a place existed so decided to go up.

Inside it seemed not only very quiet, but also a bit dark and clinical.

When I got to the right floor for The Blind Museum a lady sitting a blind lady at the desk greeted me.

She was happy – or more like I hope she was happy – that I was there as there was not one other soul there.

During a quick walk around, I discovered that the museum is designed for visually impaired and blind people. All the exhibits are accessible to touch and visitors are encouraged to touch the pieces on display. There are also pieces made by visually impaired artists.

On display were models of some of the world’s most iconic buildings, from London Bridge to the Taj Mahal to the Sagrada Familia to the Kremlin to the Tower of Pisa.

There were designs by artists called Fernando Suarez, Antonio Mesa and Carme Olle.

One exhibit appeared to be an alien made out of green steel in a crawling position, looking like it was ready to invade.

Another consisted of nails which had been hammered into a square turned on its side on a mirror. I shut my eyes and felt it to try and get a sense of what it might be like to be blind and be feeling this exhibit, but to be honest can we ever really empathize with anyone until we’ve actually walked in their shoes?

There were also paintings. One was a spiralling wave formation in  fluorescent
colours. Another was a row of bright orange beach umbrellas on the whitest of sand with a turquoise ocean. If I’d actually been at the scene of that photo I know I’d need my sunnies.

The museum also has a permanent collection of tools that have been used to help the blind.

When I left there was one other woman in the museum, taking her young son around. Fair enough, it was a beautiful sunny day outside, but I hope more people coming to Madrid also stumble across Museo Tiflologico.

I know it sounds cliche but how wonderful it is knowing that everyone can enjoy art, especially in a city that is known for just that. I may be able to fully see, but The Blind Museum has opened up my eyes.

AFTER THE BLIND MUSEUM…

I went to beautiful Retiro Park (The Parque del Buen Retiro) and tried to recreate the Pippa Middleton boat scene from a few weeks ago. But let’s face it, I don’t look good in white. And I don’t have the Duke of Northumberland at my disposal. So I just sat on the grass and ate gelati instead.

IN OTHER NEWS…

Forget Zara, MANGO and Desigual. While in Espana I have discovered that Whistles’ green cut-off jeans (the shorter version of the green skinny jeans, which caused a bit of a stir in my neighbourhood last Sunday) are on sale. So I have ordered a pair. Look out West Hampstead.

 

 

 

The Green Skinny Jeans Incident

Coloured skinnies are one of this season’s biggest trends, or so we’re told by the fashion experts, but who really knew the power that green jeans had on the opposite sex?

Certainly not me, as I skipped along Mill Lane in West Hampstead, on the way home, after going to the movies on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

Having chalked up about three full wearing days of my new purchase from my favourite shop Whistles, the honeymoon period for me and my new beloved denim was far from over. I had been eyeing the pale green skinnies up for ages and even better had purchased them at 20 per discount price. They were a turquoise shade (but luckily more green than blue).

I had anticipated that the addition to my wardrobe would be a hit – although hadn’t received a direct comment about them yet apart from the sales woman who sold them to me. “Ohhh I just love this colour,” she said. She would say that wouldn’t she?

I had only two recollections of wearing them before this afternoon. One was for a work shift. Another was for a coffee (yes it was with a male). I was yet to receive any feedback on them.

So when a male driver beeped me as I crossed the pedestrian on Mill Lane (near the felafel place on the corner on West End Lane) I thought it was just your typical hoot, like your typical wholf whistle (ie sounding one’s horn at anyone who looks like they might have ovaries).

But I’d only gotten a few metres on, up to the the Emanuel Lane Primary School on Mill Lane, when a black Range Rover pulled up alongside me. It was him.

“I just had to come back and say hello,” he said.

“It was those green skinny jeans.”

I can’t remember my exact reaction. As I said while I envisaged the jeans may get a couple of comments, I didn’t have a witty line ready for any male motorist who tried to pick me up near the corner of my house supposedly because of them.

Although I was slightly taken back I didn’t run off immediately (let’s face it girls, who doesn’t like a bit of attention now and then, especially on a boring Sunday arvo?) giving him time to give me his name (Michael), where he lived (south London) and enquire if I was “happily married” and if not could he please have my number.

I told him no, but wouldn’t give away much more than that. In a flustered state I raised my hand to my face, revealing my green turquoise nails which I’d had done the week before (circa the arrival of the jeans) and giving him the opportunity to comment, “oh you’ve even got the same colour nails”.

With that he drove off, blowing me a kiss.

Hats off to him for trying, I suppose. And hats off to me for wearing green skinny jeans in the first place. Why opt for normal denim when you can take a walk on the more adventurous side, so to speak?

I am now monitoring the effect of coloured skinny jeans (especially green) on men.

But for myself (NB: for myself, not for a male) I am getting the green denim cut-offs this week.

Ban the burpy now

 

Beautiful Hampstead Heath, scene of many burpies.

May I never be called upon to fight for the Empire. And if I am, may my team’s chances of winning the war not depend on my burpy skills.

Because for the past month I have lived in fear of doing the dreaded burpies. Before I elaborate any further on my burphobia (extreme fear of burpies, also known as ‘burpees’) let’s get one thing straight. The kind of burpies I’m talking about aren’t the type that you used to do at the dinner table when you were six, after filling up half your mouth with food and then trying to speak, only to be told off by your mother. No, the burpies I’m talking about aren’t that variety. They’re not the kind that you hear blokes making at the Walkabout after they’ve downed ten Snakebites, either.

Rather, they’re an ‘elite’ type of exercise which I’ve been introduced to through British Military Fitness outdoor classes on beautiful Hampstead Heath.

In short, burpies are a kind of combination push up/squat which involves one springing up in the air at the end. Wikipedia describes them as “a full body exercise used in strength training and as aerobic exercise. It is performed in five steps.” They’re described by BMF on the Runner’s World website as “the ultimate exercise for your chest, arms, front of shoulders, thighs and abdominals” and the one exercise for “total body conditioning”.

But while some exercises – squats, sit-ups, even ‘the plank’ – may look remotely ladylike and sexy (especially when you’re hot and sweaty, and being told to be on ‘stand by’ by former marines), there is nothing at all attractive about watching someone perform a burpy. Not only does one feel like a proper “unco”, but all I ever seem to achieve when I do them is acquaint myself with the ants and count the holes in my runners (latest tally: five).

Do the troops on the frontline really do them? “Come in, Helmand. That’ll be 20 burpies, thanks. Over and out, mate.” Can’t see it, myself. (Although I’m sure that Prince Harry and co did a few when they were in Afghanistan).

My decision to join BMF, after a brief fling with it in 2008 (I’d had a brief brush with the burpy then), was partly after being inspired by my marathon machine mate Mel, who is training for the London Marathon. (She has also run the Reading Marathon. And the Kingston. And she’s also blogging about it. Talk about being it in for the long run).

The first time Mel and I met up for a run was before she’d run Reading. We met near her place, in lovely Maida Vale, ran past Regent’s Park, up to Primrose Hill and past the canal and then ended up back in W9. I was quite excited, when she suggested the idea of going up near Primrose Hill, thinking that we may see some of the ‘Primrose Hill Set’ out and about, such as the newly single Jude Law.

We didn’t, but I still felt like I needed a drawcard to lure Mel over to Hampstead for a run. “I’ll take you past Saif al-Islam’s,” I told her. I mean it was quite a humble abode, really although the ‘spa parties’ were notorious.

Mel didn’t seem to impressed with this (could she be a no-fly-zone kinda gal or not?), so a few weeks later I joined BMF. My first session was with my friend Natalie, who not only freaked out one of the instructors with her writing (“you have handwriting issues” were his actual words) but nearly caused him to have heart palpitations himself by ticking ‘yes’ to the ‘have you ever had chest pains?’ question on the medical form (despite the fact that she is totally fit). For the entire session I could see him watching Nat, ready to get into the compression position.

We survived in “the blues” though (the bottom team, although if I’m being modest I might say there’s plenty of room for us to move up to “the reds”, but of course we want to be top of the bottom bunch). For a few, idyllic weeks I lived in a dream world, as if I’d never heard of the word ‘burpy’ in my entire 31 years.

Then it happened. I can’t remember the exact date of the session, but I was taking part in a group race with my “handbags” (aka fellow team members. But I must say I like referring to them as “handbags”. And yes, if you’re wondering, mine’s a Marc Jacobs). We had been instructed to run a relay where each partner had to run around a cone, run back to the start and then link arms with their “handbag”. Then they must both run back up around the cone, back to the start and pick up the next “handbag” until everyone had their arms linked. Strewth, talk about a lot of shopping.

We did a few repetitions of this and each time the losing team was given a chosen exercise as ‘punishment’ by the instructor. First it was the squat thrusts, then press-ups, then sit-ups and jumping jacks. But the penalties were soon running thin, and when it came around to my team losing (yes, again) the punishment this time was … five burpies.

There was a unanumous groan from the group. It was as if the instructor had announced we were all to undergo waterboarding.

I stood there in horror not knowing what to do first – let’s face it some of us are backwards in coming forward especially when it comes to burpies – until I was in a total state of confusion, with a complete mental block. “What’s a burpy?” I finally asked another girl. “It’s when you jump backwards, then forwards, and then spring up,” she said. I put my hands down and faced the ground, but knew that even if I was told to do five or 55 I would never on God’s Green Earth perfect the burpy.

Time though passed quickly – and most importantly without the instructor noticing my burpy technique and singling me out in front of the whole group.

But for a few good weeks now since that day, I have lived in fear of the bastards that are burpies. Some days when my alarm clock goes off I even find myself lying in bed, fear overcoming me for a few minutes, as I have visions of myself being randomly selected by the instructor to perform burpies before a group of 50 other people (coincidentally after coming last in another exercise). If the UK Government wants to turn the situation in Libya around completely, they should seriously think about threatening burpies.

It seems I’m not alone in my fear. My family and friends sympathise with me. “The devil’s exercise. Horrid nasty things,” Mel said when I confessed to her my fear of them. Complete strangers have even been in touch, offering their support. “Burpies are the WORST!” someone I didn’t know from a bar of soap Tweeted me.

However spare a thought for those training with Sugarcreek Crossfit-Forging Elite Fitness in Ohio, America. Their clients recently embarked on “The Burpee Challenge”. Aimed at “improving cardiovascular fitness”, it’s a 100-day program which culminates in, you guessed it, 100 of those buggers. Burpies. The program winds up on August 5 – meaning that’s nearly four months of doing burpies. According to the Sugarcreek website, the program is designed to “get everyone over the fear of burpees”.

I do try not to worry at BMF about things. For instance, when the instructor was getting us to “shake off” the other person’s feet the other day during the stretches at the end of the session and told us females “not to worry if you see wobbling” my heart didn’t even skip a beat. As another team member replied, “That won’t cause concern at all.” Guess what sex she was. (To be fair, the instructor did retract the comment, telling us “I shouldn’t use the world wobble.”)

As for the whisper that once you progress into the red running club (held on Sundays) you’ll have to run up Parliament Hill backwards, that doesn’t phase me either. Not in the slightest. There’s also a few other moves which seem slightly intimidating, such as ‘the Elvis’ (swivelling one’s hips), the ‘Beyonce Bust’ (moving one’s hips from side-to-side) and ‘the Saturday Night Fever’ (a John Travolta-style move).

Then there’s ‘picking the apple and spreading the seed’. This is similar to those daggy dance moves we used to make up in school, such as ‘the sprinkler’ or ‘walking the dog’. As one instructor says, “We don’t just teach you how to get fit at boot camp. We give you some good dance moves, too.” His colleague recently put our ability to throw shapes to the test when he asked us to swing one hand forward and the other one backward. I must admit that that ones does throw me.

But nothing will ever terrify me like it does the burpy. I’m sure that when FDR said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” he omitted “and five repetitions of ten burpies.” Our biggest fear is not that we are inadequate, it’s that we’ll be asked at any given moment to drop into a squat position with our hands on the ground.

That’s why from this moment on I am calling for the worldwide eradication of burpies. A ban on the burpy. Clearly burpies violate some part of The Geneva Convention. I’m that serious about this, that if I should ever meet with my fellow compatriot, WikiLeaks whistleblower Julian Assange, sometime in the future I will even have a quiet word in his ear about this form of torture (along with another one – power plate).

Until then, keep an eye on Parliament Hill. You might see someone up there waving to you.

 

 

May I never be called upon to fight for the Empire. And if I am, may my team’s chances of winning the war not depend on my burpy skills.

Because for the past month I have lived in fear of doing the dreaded burpies. Before I elaborate any further on my burphobia (extreme fear of burpies, also known as ‘burpees’) let’s get one thing straight. The kind of burpies I’m talking about aren’t the type that you used to do at the dinner table when you were six, after filling up half your mouth with food and then trying to speak, only to be told off by your mother. No, the burpies I’m talking about aren’t that variety. They’re not the kind that you hear blokes making at the Walkabout after they’ve downed ten Snakebites, either.

Rather, they’re an ‘elite’ type of exercise which I’ve been introduced to through British Military Fitness outdoor classes on beautiful Hampstead Heath.

In short, burpies are a kind of combination push up/squat which involves one springing up in the air at the end. Wikipedia describes them as “a full body exercise used in strength training and as aerobic exercise. It is performed in five steps.” They’re described by BMF on the Runner’s World website as “the ultimate exercise for your chest, arms, front of shoulders, thighs and abdominals” and the one exercise for “total body conditioning”.

But while some exercises – squats, sit-ups, even ‘the plank’ – may look remotely ladylike and sexy (especially when you’re hot and sweaty, and being told to be on ‘stand by’ by former marines), there is nothing at all attractive about watching someone perform a burpy. Not only does one feel like a proper “unco”, but all I ever seem to achieve when I do them is acquaint myself with the ants and count the holes in my runners (latest tally: five).

Do the troops on the frontline really do them? “Come in, Helmand. That’ll be 20 burpies, thanks. Over and out, mate.” Can’t see it, myself. (Although I’m sure that Prince Harry and co did a few when they were in Afghanistan).

My decision to join BMF, after a brief fling with it in 2008 (I’d had a brief brush with the burpy then), was partly after being inspired by my marathon machine mate Mel, who is training for the London Marathon. (She has also run the Reading Marathon. And the Kingston. And she’s also blogging about it. Talk about being it in for the long run).

The first time Mel and I met up for a run was before she’d run Reading. We met near her place, in lovely Maida Vale, ran past Regent’s Park, up to Primrose Hill and past the canal and then ended up back in W9. I was quite excited, when she suggested the idea of going up near Primrose Hill, thinking that we may see some of the ‘Primrose Hill Set’ out and about, such as the newly single Jude Law.

We didn’t, but I still felt like I needed a drawcard to lure Mel over to Hampstead for a run. “I’ll take you past Saif al-Islam’s,” I told her. I mean it was quite a humble abode, really although the ‘spa parties’ were notorious.

Mel didn’t seem to impressed with this (could she be a no-fly-zone kinda gal or not?), so a few weeks later I joined BMF. My first session was with my friend Natalie, who not only freaked out one of the instructors with her writing (“you have handwriting issues” were his actual words) but nearly caused him to have heart palpitations himself by ticking ‘yes’ to the ‘have you ever had chest pains?’ question on the medical form (despite the fact that she is totally fit). For the entire session I could see him watching Nat, ready to get into the compression position.

We survived in “the blues” though (the bottom team, although if I’m being modest I might say there’s plenty of room for us to move up to “the reds”, but of course we want to be top of the bottom bunch). For a few, idyllic weeks I lived in a dream world, as if I’d never heard of the word ‘burpy’ in my entire 31 years.

Then it happened. I can’t remember the exact date of the session, but I was taking part in a group race with my “handbags” (aka fellow team members. But I must say I like referring to them as “handbags”. And yes, if you’re wondering, mine’s a Marc Jacobs). We had been instructed to run a relay where each partner had to run around a cone, run back to the start and then link arms with their “handbag”. Then they must both run back up around the cone, back to the start and pick up the next “handbag” until everyone had their arms linked. Strewth, talk about a lot of shopping.

We did a few repetitions of this and each time the losing team was given a chosen exercise as ‘punishment’ by the instructor. First it was the squat thrusts, then press-ups, then sit-ups and jumping jacks. But the penalties were soon running thin, and when it came around to my team losing (yes, again) the punishment this time was … five burpies.

There was a unanumous groan from the group. It was as if the instructor had announced we were all to undergo waterboarding.

I stood there in horror not knowing what to do first – let’s face it some of us are backwards in coming forward especially when it comes to burpies – until I was in a total state of confusion, with a complete mental block. “What’s a burpy?” I finally asked another girl. “It’s when you jump backwards, then forwards, and then spring up,” she said. I put my hands down and faced the ground, but knew that even if I was told to do five or 55 I would never on God’s Green Earth perfect the burpy.

Time though passed quickly – and most importantly without the instructor noticing my burpy technique and singling me out in front of the whole group.

But for a few good weeks now since that day, I have lived in fear of the bastards that are burpies. Some days when my alarm clock goes off I even find myself lying in bed, fear overcoming me for a few minutes, as I have visions of myself being randomly selected by the instructor to perform burpies before a group of 50 other people (coincidentally after coming last in another exercise). If the UK Government wants to turn the situation in Libya around completely, they should seriously think about threatening burpies.

It seems I’m not alone in my fear. My family and friends sympathise with me. “The devil’s exercise. Horrid nasty things,” Mel said when I confessed to her my fear of them. Complete strangers have even been in touch, offering their support. “Burpies are the WORST!” someone I didn’t know from a bar of soap Tweeted me.

However spare a thought for those training with Sugarcreek Crossfit-Forging Elite Fitness in Ohio, America. Their clients recently embarked on “The Burpee Challenge”. Aimed at “improving cardiovascular fitness”, it’s a 100-day program which culminates in, you guessed it, 100 of those buggers. Burpies. The program winds up on August 5 – meaning that’s nearly four months of doing burpies. According to the Sugarcreek website, the program is designed to “get everyone over the fear of burpees”.

I do try not to worry at BMF about things. For instance, when the instructor was getting us to “shake off” the other person’s feet the other day during the stretches at the end of the session and told us females “not to worry if you see wobbling” my heart didn’t even skip a beat. As another team member replied, “That won’t cause concern at all.” Guess what sex she was. (To be fair, the instructor did retract the comment, telling us “I shouldn’t use the world wobble.”)

As for the whisper that once you progress into the red running club (held on Sundays) you’ll have to run up Parliament Hill backwards, that doesn’t phase me either. Not in the slightest. There’s also a few other moves which seem slightly intimidating, such as ‘the Elvis’ (swivelling one’s hips), the ‘Beyonce Bust’ (moving one’s hips from side-to-side) and ‘the Saturday Night Fever’ (a John Travolta-style move).

Then there’s ‘picking the apple and spreading the seed’. This is similar to those daggy dance moves we used to make up in school, such as ‘the sprinkler’ or ‘walking the dog’. As one instructor says, “We don’t just teach you how to get fit at boot camp. We give you some good dance moves, too.” His colleague recently put our ability to throw shapes to the test when he asked us to swing one hand forward and the other one backward. I must admit that that ones does throw me.

But nothing will ever terrify me like it does the burpy. I’m sure that when FDR said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” he omitted “and five repetitions of ten burpies.” Our biggest fear is not that we are inadequate, it’s that we’ll be asked at any given moment to drop into a squat position with our hands on the ground.

That’s why from this moment on I am calling for the worldwide eradication of burpies. A ban on the burpy. Clearly burpies violate some part of The Geneva Convention. I’m that serious about this, that if I should ever meet with my fellow compatriot, WikiLeaks whistleblower Julian Assange, sometime in the future I will even have a quiet word in his ear about this form of torture (along with another one – power plate).

Until then, keep an eye on Parliament Hill. You might see someone up there waving to you.

 

Ban the burpy now

May I never be called upon to fight for the Empire. And if I am, may my team’s chances of winning the war not depend on my burpy skills.

Because for the past month I have lived in fear of doing the dreaded burpies. Before I elaborate any further on my burphobia (extreme fear of burpies, also known as ‘burpees’) let’s get one thing straight. The kind of burpies I’m talking about aren’t the type that you used to do at the dinner table when you were six, after filling up half your mouth with food and then trying to speak, only to be told off by your mother. No, the burpies I’m talking about aren’t that variety. They’re not the kind that you hear blokes making at the Walkabout after they’ve downed ten Snakebites, either.

Rather, they’re an ‘elite’ type of exercise which I’ve been introduced to through British Military Fitness outdoor classes on beautiful Hampstead Heath.

In short, burpies are a kind of combination push up/squat which involves one springing up in the air at the end. Wikipedia describes them as “a full body exercise used in strength training and as aerobic exercise. It is performed in five steps.” They’re described by BMF on the Runner’s World website as “the ultimate exercise for your chest, arms, front of shoulders, thighs and abdominals” and the one exercise for “total body conditioning”.

But while some exercises – squats, sit-ups, even ‘the plank’ – may look remotely ladylike and sexy (especially when you’re hot and sweaty, and being told to be on ‘stand by’ by former marines), there is nothing at all attractive about watching someone perform a burpy. Not only does one feel like a proper “unco”, but all I ever seem to achieve when I do them is acquaint myself with the ants and count the holes in my runners (latest tally: five).

Do the troops on the frontline really do them? “Come in, Helmand. That’ll be 20 burpies, thanks. Over and out, mate.” Can’t see it, myself. (Although I’m sure that Prince Harry and co did a few when they were in Afghanistan).

My decision to join BMF, after a brief fling with it in 2008 (I’d had a brief brush with the burpy then), was partly after being inspired by my marathon machine mate Mel, who is training for the London Marathon. (She has also run the Reading Marathon. And the Kingston. And she’s also blogging about it. Talk about being it in for the long run).

The first time Mel and I met up for a run was before she’d run Reading. We met near her place, in lovely Maida Vale, ran past Regent’s Park, up to Primrose Hill and past the canal and then ended up back in W9. I was quite excited, when she suggested the idea of going up near Primrose Hill, thinking that we may see some of the ‘Primrose Hill Set’ out and about, such as the newly single Jude Law.

We didn’t, but I still felt like I needed a drawcard to lure Mel over to Hampstead for a run. “I’ll take you past Saif al-Islam’s,” I told her. I mean it was quite a humble abode, really although the ‘spa parties’ were notorious.

Mel didn’t seem to impressed with this (could she be a no-fly-zone kinda gal or not?), so a few weeks later I joined BMF. My first session was with my friend Natalie, who not only freaked out one of the instructors with her writing (“you have handwriting issues” were his actual words) but nearly caused him to have heart palpitations himself by ticking ‘yes’ to the ‘have you ever had chest pains?’ question on the medical form (despite the fact that she is totally fit). For the entire session I could see him watching Nat, ready to get into the compression position.

We survived in “the blues” though (the bottom team, although if I’m being modest I might say there’s plenty of room for us to move up to “the reds”, but of course we want to be top of the bottom bunch). For a few, idyllic weeks I lived in a dream world, as if I’d never heard of the word ‘burpy’ in my entire 31 years.

Then it happened. I can’t remember the exact date of the session, but I was taking part in a group race with my “handbags” (aka fellow team members. But I must say I like referring to them as “handbags”. And yes, if you’re wondering, mine’s a Marc Jacobs). We had been instructed to run a relay where each partner had to run around a cone, run back to the start and then link arms with their “handbag”. Then they must both run back up around the cone, back to the start and pick up the next “handbag” until everyone had their arms linked. Strewth, talk about a lot of shopping.

We did a few repetitions of this and each time the losing team was given a chosen exercise as ‘punishment’ by the instructor. First it was the squat thrusts, then press-ups, then sit-ups and jumping jacks. But the penalties were soon running thin, and when it came around to my team losing (yes, again) the punishment this time was … five burpies.

There was a unanumous groan from the group. It was as if the instructor had announced we were all to undergo waterboarding.

I stood there in horror not knowing what to do first – let’s face it some of us are backwards in coming forward especially when it comes to burpies – until I was in a total state of confusion, with a complete mental block. “What’s a burpy?” I finally asked another girl. “It’s when you jump backwards, then forwards, and then spring up,” she said. I put my hands down and faced the ground, but knew that even if I was told to do five or 55 I would never on God’s Green Earth perfect the burpy.

Time though passed quickly – and most importantly without the instructor noticing my burpy technique and singling me out in front of the whole group.

But for a few good weeks now since that day, I have lived in fear of the bastards that are burpies. Some days when my alarm clock goes off I even find myself lying in bed, fear overcoming me for a few minutes, as I have visions of myself being randomly selected by the instructor to perform burpies before a group of 50 other people (coincidentally after coming last in another exercise). If the UK Government wants to turn the situation in Libya around completely, they should seriously think about threatening burpies.

It seems I’m not alone in my fear. My family and friends sympathise with me. “The devil’s exercise. Horrid nasty things,” Mel said when I confessed to her my fear of them. Complete strangers have even been in touch, offering their support. “Burpies are the WORST!” someone I didn’t know from a bar of soap Tweeted me.

However spare a thought for those training with Sugarcreek Crossfit-Forging Elite Fitness in Ohio, America. Their clients recently embarked on “The Burpee Challenge”. Aimed at “improving cardiovascular fitness”, it’s a 100-day program which culminates in, you guessed it, 100 of those buggers. Burpies. The program winds up on August 5 – meaning that’s nearly four months of doing burpies. According to the Sugarcreek website, the program is designed to “get everyone over the fear of burpees”.

I do try not to worry at BMF about things. For instance, when the instructor was getting us to “shake off” the other person’s feet the other day during the stretches at the end of the session and told us females “not to worry if you see wobbling” my heart didn’t even skip a beat. As another team member replied, “That won’t cause concern at all.” Guess what sex she was. (To be fair, the instructor did retract the comment, telling us “I shouldn’t use the world wobble.”)

As for the whisper that once you progress into the red running club (held on Sundays) you’ll have to run up Parliament Hill backwards, that doesn’t phase me either. Not in the slightest. There’s also a few other moves which seem slightly intimidating, such as ‘the Elvis’ (swivelling one’s hips), the ‘Beyonce Bust’ (moving one’s hips from side-to-side) and ‘the Saturday Night Fever’ (a John Travolta-style move).

Then there’s ‘picking the apple and spreading the seed’. This is similar to those daggy dance moves we used to make up in school, such as ‘the sprinkler’ or ‘walking the dog’. As one instructor says, “We don’t just teach you how to get fit at boot camp. We give you some good dance moves, too.” His colleague recently put our ability to throw shapes to the test when he asked us to swing one hand forward and the other one backward. I must admit that that ones does throw me.

But nothing will ever terrify me like it does the burpy. I’m sure that when FDR said, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself” he omitted “and five repetitions of ten burpies.” Our biggest fear is not that we are inadequate, it’s that we’ll be asked at any given moment to drop into a squat position with our hands on the ground.

That’s why from this moment on I am calling for the worldwide eradication of burpies. A ban on the burpy. Clearly burpies violate some part of The Geneva Convention. I’m that serious about this, that if I should ever meet with my fellow compatriot, WikiLeaks whistleblower Julian Assange, sometime in the future I will even have a quiet word in his ear about this form of torture (along with another one – power plate).

Until then, keep an eye on Parliament Hill. You might see someone up there waving to you.

Timely window-dressing

Whether it is deliberate recognition of the unrest that is happening in the Arab world at the moment or not, I really liked seeing this window display of an Arab man at the All Aboard charity shop on West End Lane in West Hampstead, when I was walking to the tube this morning.

Nice to see some creative window-dressing.

In support of the fish

Some right-wing sections of the press (not mentioning any names) are so nasty that not only is it offensive to be an immigrant, homosexual or woman etc, they’ll also have a go at anyone who happens to be fond of having their footsies fondled.

It seems though they may one exception when it comes to the toe-nibbling rule and one rule only: the Duchess of York.

When a fresh lot of scaremongering over ‘fish pedicures’ on the high street was served up this week by newspapers, which, speaking of fish are probably better used to wrap them and the chips, I became quite annoyed.

Strewth, why don’t they just let the fish do what they want to do? I thought.

It had been less than six months ago that yours truly had had her own precious toes nibbled by the garra rufa fish at Aqua Sheko in High Street Kensington (a nice part of town), and I still had 10 toes and counting.

Bizarrely enough, most of the clientele apart from me on the Friday night that I went were Kiwi. Some could argue this itself is fishy.

If there’s anyone who is an authority on the subject of small things nibbling your tootsies, it’s me. After all growing up in Murwillumbah (aka “I’m a Celebrity Land”) you were lucky if it wasn’t a leech or cane toad in the swimming pool trying to chew off your pinky toes.

So after reading this article on Monday morning, I decided that just to spite all the ‘fish pedicure’ critics and particular sections of the press, and in support of the fish, I would book another session at Aqua Sheko.

My good friend, Caroline, had a few days earlier had her own feet nibbled at a fish spa at Camden and was now, coincidentally around the time that the fishy story was published, reporting back to me on the results. More positive news – she also had all her own toes intact.

Of course however the stories that were published in the press caused the usual mass hysteria by their usual, ever-loyal followers.

I only got to about comment number five out of 183 as I had to, speaking of another “beauty craze”, which is how this story describes the fish pedicures, ummn wash my hair.

But according to Caroline there’s a comment from a female reader who claims to have worked at a ‘fish salon’. She accuses the staff of frying the fish afterwards.

To be fair, I have not seen this comment myself so will not speak on it.

But one remark I did see from another reader was this: “the fish probably have more brains than the readers”.

Not commenting on that one either, just letting you know what I’ve seen.

By the time 7pm came around on Friday I was so tired that I was more than ready to let the fish feast on my toes as a weekend treat.

With only a few hours to go however, something dawned on me: I’d worn odd socks. Helena Bonham Carter eat your heart out. One was red though and one was pink, so at least I was sticking to this season’s big trend of colour-blocking.

The guy at the salon, who looked after my shoes after I’d taken them off, didn’t seem to notice.

I was surprised that there were only two other customers (both women) there. Last time I’d been, circa November if I recall correctly, it had been a full house (not just including the garra rufa).

“Oooh they like you,” one of the women said to me as I put my feet in the tank and all the fish swam up to them immediately. I tried to look modest, but I felt like a pro.

“We’re New Zealanders,” she told me.

Fancy that, I thought. What was it with the Kiwis wanting to have their toes nibbled?

As they were both paying, I heard one of the women ask one of the staff members what happened to the fish overnight. She replied that there was a cover put over the tank and they stayed there. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I have to say that my 45-minute Deluxe Session at Aqua Sheko (it includes a 15 minute foot massage) was probably the most relaxing Friday night I’ve had in ages.

As I sipped a Japanese lemonade, I read the latest copy of Vogue. I got a bit squirmy when I got to this month’s infamous story by Rachel Johnson (forgot that one was in there) and had to lift my feet up for a minute, but quickly flicked past it.

Things looked like they might take a dive for the worst when one of the fish – not in my tank thank god – jumped out onto the floor. However it was quickly scooped up and thrown back into the water –  as opposed to being put into a pot and taken out the back.

As I was paying one of the staff members asked me where I had heard about Aqua Sheko.

I told her that I had first read about it in the Evening Standard last year, but I’d also seen the more recent story. She said she had also seen it.

“So is it true that this spreads infection and disease?” I asked.

“It’s not,” she replied.

What about the claim that the fish were fried, I enquired.

She laughed.

“The fish have no teeth,” she said.

I didn’t quite understand this response, maybe it’s just me being daft, but for some reason still didn’t believe that the next time I ordered a fish sandwich at KFC I’d be reunited with my beloved friends.

“Are you coming back?” she said, handing me a loyalty card. I told her provided my feet didn’t drop off in the next few months, I’d be back.

Let’s wait and see what happens, but I’ve got a good feeling that things won’t turn out to be that fishy. Probably in fact the only infection and disease I’m likely to suffer from, I hate to say it, will be spread by certain parts of the press.