One grown up would say, “Ask and you won’t get”.

Others would be all … “if you don’t ask, you don’t get”.

Then another message that blew the others out of the water came in. It was “if you don’t try, you’ll never know.”

So. When I was little I wrote a letter to Margaret Thatcher to ask if we could extend school holidays. Her secretary pointed me in the direction of the educational department and explained that it was their remit. I asked them. They said no.

I then made a list of all the presidents and prime ministers I could think of and wrote letters to them asking if they would stop people chopping down trees in the Amazon Rainforest. President Metreon actually replied, which made me very happy but he didn’t stop the people chopping down the trees.

In my early twenties I once asked if I could be upgraded to first class and they said yes. Which was nice.  Another time I asked to be upgraded to first class but they said no and put me in Business Class instead where a very nice man asked me to come and work for him flying around the world to source textiles for his fashion company. This time I said no, because “I have not studied fabrics or fashions. I am a writer – but thank you for the offer and yes, I’ll take your card in case I change my mind.”

He asked. He didn’t get.

Last summer when me and the Naughty N woke up the sleepy village of Yorkshire, we ran out of bread and milk two days running. On day one we crept sweetly up to the local in pub and asked, “Will you sell us bread? We have run out.”

“I can do you two slices for a quid,” the disinterested barman replied.

I raised my eyebrow at Naughty, then turned back to Bar Man. “Is it nice, thick farmhouse home baked bread for that price?”

“Nope. It’s Hovis Best of Both.”

“And you want to charge us a whole pound for two slices?” blurted Naughty N, destroying our whole sweet facade. “That’s ridiculous man!”

“Sorry,” he shrugged and we ushered the Von Trapp children out whilst muttering.

The next day we returned with the bare footed Von Trapps and said to Bar Man (who was beginning to understand what he was being faced with now). “Sorry to bother you, but can we by some milk?” p>

“Why Can’t You Just Go To The Shop?”

“There isn’t a shop,” I pointed out to this young man who obviously thought we were either A Bit Stupid or A Bit Mad (why else would he be talking to us in capital letters?)

At that point Naughty N took over and explained very clearly whilst gesturing with her hands, “The only shop here is a sweet shop. And we need milk for pancakes. Look at these children. All they’ve done all day is argued and play Wii. They are famished. They need pancakes.”

“Sorry, we don’t sell cartons of milk,” he replied. “Try the pub down the road.” And we ushered the Von Trapp children out whilst muttering.  Again.

On the third day we decided to go shopping and we bought loads of eggs, milk, bread and everything. Also, that evening Naughty N’s husband and The Lovely Ed were coming down from Scotland with a pickup truck full of seafood, so we purchased many a complimentary item to go with lobster. That evening, after their welcome arrival, the food preparations were all under way.

“Can’t find the olive oil,” said the Lovely Ed. “You did buy some didn’t you?”

Naughty N clenched her teeth and looked at me. “We forgot the olive oil.”

“Well, we need olive oil. Can you go to the shop?”

Thump, thump, de-dunk (sound of hearts dropping).

“There isn’t a shop,” whispered Naughty N. She started to gnaw her thumb nail, then burst out laughing like a hysterical mad woman and cried, “There isn’t a shop Lovely Eddie! There isn’t one!… Is there Bethan? There IS NO SHOP!”

Five minutes later we were putting on our wellington boots and I trudged and Naughty N marched ahead to the pub. This time we had no Von Trapp children to look angelic. There was a feeling in the air of having “over asked our welcome”.

“This is utterly ridiculous!” Naughty N declared as we approached the door. “He’s never going to give us olive oil if he can’t give us bread or milk.”

Sensing her increasing despair, I took a deep breath and paused, hand on door knob and looked at Naughty N in the same way that Scarlett O-Hara probably gazed at Red in Gone With The Wind. “Sweetie, there is always A Chance.”

Naughty looked back at me. There was a moment … a dramatic pause. She nodded, determination suddenly flooding her once again. “Yes. You are right. There is always a chance.”

The man at the bar folded his arms as we approached. “What can I get for you?” he asked thinly.

“We would like to buy some olive oil please,” Naughty N said and she slammed down her wallet on the bar in a determined, I’m not taking no for an answer sort of way. I watched with interest as the barman’s face morphed into a “what the f**k is wrong with you people”  and then de-morphed into a look of absolute euphoric bliss.

“Well you are in luck,” he said. He proceeded to lead us through the bar to a tall vending machine that sold, not cigarettes, not flavoured condoms, not even emergency tampons … but olive oil. We were so flabbergasted we almost bought the barman a drink to celebrate… But didn’t – HA! Then we ran home, delighted, with not one but TWO bottles of olive oil just to prove it was all a true story.

The moral of this tale? If you ask, you sometimes won’t get but you sometimes will. If you keep asking, eventually you’ll end up with something that you randomly didn’t expect. But all in all, the way forward is to ask. So grown up one … you were wrong.

PS. I was all inspired to write this post because of the next step I’m taking to bring GYOG to the world. I am currently compiling a list of great, wonderful and powerful women and men to present Gorgeousness to. Out of 78 candidates, the list is being whittled down to 33 and I’m now in a process of asking various P.A.s, receptionists, secretaries and managers for the details of these people. The amazing this is that so far, every single person I’ve asked for help has said YES (detail you shall have) .

PPs. There is something wrong with my computer so I can’t upload any of the lovely pictures I have prepared for this post. This means that until the computer starts to behave, you will just have to see all the pictures in your head. I hope this works ok for you. Also, the “u” is being very sticky, so if some “u”s are missing you know why.

I’m writing a blog post.

No more of this ”eh, eh, am too busy, am too over worked, am too stressed to write anything on the blog” BEN-DAR-ISM.

For THAT is what it has been.

Pure. Unadulterated. Benderism.

Is Bender a rude word? Can someone tell me? I’m not sure. It sounds politically incorrect but in this torrential, feverish twanging of the Benderism I am going to have to use whatever wordage comes to me.

So what is Benderism? Well, in my case it’s a combination of Overload, Rah Wave, Procrastination and feeling the watchful eye of a few Local Critics here and there.

It’s been a built up Benderism following the polar shift that took place in my life seven months ago. Since that time I’ve felt rather like I am staggering around in The Round About Land from Enid Blyton’s book The Magic Faraway Tree. One minute I’m on firm ground, then WHAM, I’m rolling down a hill and landing in a bush. People I thought I knew seemed to fade into little faces on the horizon. At the same time brand new characters, relationships and personalities have flashed into my life and are popping up like magic flowers all the time. So THAT has been going on.

Now throw into this cauldron of madness my new found Single Mamadom, the launch of Grow Your Own Gorgeousness, my Positive Perspective workshops lifting off, preparing a house to sell, Christmas, New Year and …. WAHH-LAH! We have a frothing, bubbling stew that even Heston Blumenthal would stand back and scratch his head at.

This foaming monster of a Rah Wave finally exploded on November 27th.

I fell off a rope swing.

This was a shock.

I’ve never banged my head like that before and lying there on the leafy ground, my head centimetres away from a jagged tree stump, I didn’t feel hurt. I just felt really sad. It was a proper, soggy hearted, tear-welling, water logged sadness. Lying there, I thought … “Need a little rest. And a hug. And some quiet time.”

So then I made like a mole. I stopped writing the blog. I hung up my pencil-case. I tucked my dreams for GYOG into the bedroom drawer.  I went underground and decided that I would just focus on me and the children and earning some pennies.

That was about two months ago.

And that’s what I’ve been doing.

Moling it up.

But lately something has been bothering me. It’s not just getting that itchy feet feeling – do you ever get that?. It’s not even that I keep looking longingly at the drawer where the GYOG dream has been folded up so neatly. It’s not the doleful glances that my pencil-case keeps casting across the kitchen.

The thing that’s bothering me is that I’ve started feeling scared.

1. Scared to get down the pencil-case.

2. Scared to unfold the GYOG vision.

3. Scared that the Gorgeousness voice can never be heard in the thundering noise of the mainstream world.

4. Scared to put my neck out of the mole hill.

5. Scared of people’s reactions.

6. Scared that – and this is the scariest one - that I might fall on my face.

And what we have above is basic Benderism. My gorgeous, clever, witty and much loved step-sister-type-person is studying medicine in York and I am sure she will vouch that these are definite Benderism symptoms.

Question is, how does one cure such an infliction? Well, without knowing it, Life has started twanging me little remedies. The beautiful Janin of Fingerprints, Munich, sent me with an email about self belief that twanged me out of my mole hill and into the stark sunlight. Then, the Goddess Fosbury wiped all the sleepy dust from my eyes and reminded me to ”think big” and to “forget the critics and stop being limited by geography/location”. And then another friend, texted to say, “Missing the blogs. I haven’t seen one for a while”.

Finally, last week, the ultimate dose of twanging arrived. I was working in The Deli when the door exploded open and this wild, eccentric scruff bag (sorry if you read this scruff bag man) exploded in. He ordered latte and then turned breathlessly to me and declared, “I am making a short film about dreams for my film school brief”

“Sleepy dreams, or aspirational dreams?” I inquired.

“Either … anything will do,” he boomed.

“You should film that,” I said, nodding to the flower pattern on top his latte. “That is like dream art.”

“You’re right, yes, you’re right!” Urgently he rummaged through his coat pocket and produced a small handheld video camera. “I will get a shot of it. And er, what about you? Would you be willing to talk about dreams and let me film you?”

“OK,” I shrugged.

So he did. He filmed me. And I talked about dreams. I’m not going to tell you what I said because it involved a large vanilla flavoured sponge metaphor, with childhood ideas, experiences, life ingredients and essential aromas all mixed in. By the end of my speech the scruffy film maker looked baffled but pleased and he shambled off, whistling happily.

He was the last Twanger of my Benderism. And I would like to thank him.  Because he reminded me that dreams aren’t meant to be neatly folded in drawers like age old love letters. They are scruffy, messy, eccentric, wild, bold and free. They are delicious like vanilla sponge cakes with gold sprayed loganberries, silver balls and praline swirls. Bringing dreams out reminds me of thinking “oh fuck it” then dragging out the gold leaf tea set and having a flamboyant, raucous tea party without worrying over spilt crumbs or the washing up later. And THAT reminds me of this scene from one of my top films, withnail and I. Look.

After that final twanging I was all very much “right that’s IT” with GYOG.

So I declared two days of the week MINE, MINE, MINE and drew a great circle around them in red pen (sometimes quality of time is more valuable than quantity of money, don’t you think?).

Now I have some space.

And I’m not sad.

In fact I am happy.

Very, very happy.

The Benderism has been twanged and a blog post is written.

PS. I do know what bender means really. Apologies to anyone who is bendy and insulted by such word usage. Love xxx

She then galloped back to the living room and sat down, gawping at the telly where a documentary which explained how all  single mothers are causing the rapid demise of modern society.

* Sound of being hit around the head with a large plank of wood. *

Ooooh.

Okay.

I am a single mother.

Okay. Okay. Relax. Hold hand rests of armchair and get a grip on self. Deep breathes. Frown. I am a single mum. Am I a single mum? Oh my, I AM a single mum. Tentatively I hold out my hand and receive my new label.

This label doesn’t feel – let’s say – honourable. It doesn’t feel –I don’t know -  like I’m getting knighted or anything. I proceed to sit and watch the doco in morbid fascination and wriggle around with my new label jagging me in the stomach. Apparently, according to one survey by the deep and wise information source well known as the -

- my kids are going to become drug pushers with ASBOs before they leave primary education.  Eeko.

By the end of the doco, the single mum label has gone through a strange metamorphosis. Rather than remaining a spiky luggage tag, it has turned into a tight, awkward piece of clothing. Kind of suffocating. Like latex.

Well, that night I went to bed and I can safely say I felt more twitchy than someone who has just watched Tomb Raider in a deserted, underground nuclear base, whilst being spiked with large doses of LSD. I tossed and turned in bed. I just couldn’t get comfortable with this new Single Parent Latex Body Label I had going on. So instead of fighting for sleep, I lay there and let my mind drift awhile.

I thought about how, before the marriage broke up, our family used to look like a square. Two parents two kids.

Now one corner of the square isn’t there and it has left the square kind of wonky. Tilted. Unstable in windy weather. Anything could blow it down ….

These thoughts continued to work around my mind until somehow, at some point, I managed to get to sleep. When I woke up it was light. My eyes felt like they had been popped out of my sockets, rolled in grit, then popped back in. I found Naughty N in the kitchen stirring tea.

“My whole life feels like a wonky a triangle,” I declared tearfully.

Naughty N looked up in surprise. “You might need to explain that a little further.”

“Look!” I snatched up an envelope, scribbled my triangle diagram and explained feverishly. “We used to be a square. See? But now one corner is gone and I am left here, all sideways.”

Naughty N took the pen away and gave me a great big hug. Patting my back reassuringly she said, “Loveliness, if anyone else heard you saying that they would think you were utterly mad.”

That all happened about four months ago. For several weeks I shuffled around in my Single Mother’s Latex Label Gear. Then I got quite claustrophobic and peeled it off with the same urgency as someone who has felt the tickle of a house spider in their all in one pyjamas. Once off, I placed the Latex Label on the side where I could look at it objectively. I prodded it. I explored the stigma around it. I dissected the Daily Mail, age old perceptions of Single Motherdom and other negative social associations.

For the first time, it occurred to me that I was not feeling very gorgeous about my Latex Body Label.

Now, one of the major tools that I talk about in Grow Your Own Gorgeousness is language and how our use of it effects the way we perceive and experience ourselves and our life. Because our thoughts and perceptions effect how we act and ultimately the results we get, I consider language a very powerful thing. Tis a weapon or a paintbrush, depending on how you look at it. At some point after taking off my Latex Body Label I decided to give it back to the Daily Mail with its singling out pointy finger and replace it with;

Single = individual, distinct, a microcosm of the macrocosm, honest, undisguised, whole.

Mother = ultimately empowered, creative, succulent, vibrant, miraculous, earth-like life bloomer.

As the languaging and descriptions started to change, so did my body language. I stopped feeling like I should be hiding and instead I stood up tall. With all those positive descriptions I realised that yes, I could cope. I was strong. I could handle it.

And here is my question.

Why does the media have to scape goat single parents as one of the key reasons that society is falling apart? Does making the figure head of triangular family units feel ashamed and disempowered serve anyone in any way? I’m not saying that being a triangle family is ideal, but they do exist. So, why not empower single mamas to feel like a wonder woman breed, spearheading their own little shuttle of family gorgeousness? Why not give them the tools to feel good about themselves and rise up into their own brilliance?

It took a few more weeks for the new perceptions to really sink in. Then one day I checked in with myself and lo! Something amazing had happened. When I imagined my triangular family unit, the point in the triangle had shifted. I was no longer a square LACKING a point. My place had become central. My family had become an equilateral triangle – one of the strongest shapes there is.

My point for writing this post is to say something about the way we treat different members of society. The plain fact is that, Christian blueprints of marriage … until death do us part … is no longer a predominant force. Just like careers, homes and countries, people may move through more than one relationship throughout their life time.  But what is essential is an individuals relationship to themselves … how much they value and see themselves as valuable members of the human tribe.

Everywhere we go now, there are triangular families. If we can empower and help or spearhead mamas to feel strong, centred, empowered, loving and heard, then they will steer their triangles onwards and upwards in a positive beautiful way. Or we can wrap them up in negative latex labels so that they feel ashamed, bad and wrong.

Here is my present to all spearhead mums in this world. It’s a new label.

 S.I.N.G.L.E = Strong,  Independent, Nurturing, Gregarious, Loving, Energised PARENT

]]> http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/2011/11/23/the-single-mother-label/feed/ 3 bethanstritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/2011/11/16/trackies-n-wellies/ http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/2011/11/16/trackies-n-wellies/#comments Wed, 16 Nov 2011 19:06:16 +0000 Bethan Stritton http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/?p=3774 ]]> Imagine being able to bottle the Friday Feeling. Wouldn’t that be amazing? You could keep it in your bathroom cupboard and give yourself a spray every time you wanted a bit of ….”aaaand relaaaax” well being.

OR-OR-OR, you know that euphoric moment when you bend back the cover of a brand new journal or sketch pad? Imagine being able to capture the essence of that gleaming, fresh paged potential and then give yourself a dab or two as you brush your teeth and start a new day.

And, OK … wait a moment. What about this?

Imagine going out to a party wearing the glammest of glam outfits and feeling a million dollars … then bottling that feeling up in the same way that the BFG bottles dreams.

Imagine knowing that in your knicker drawer is a little container of gorgeousness and you can dowse yourself with it whenever you like. It wouldn’t even matter if you were in trackie bottoms and wellies, cleaning up dog poo or chasing a feral turkey around your garden. All you’d have to do is uncap that bottle, spray and whooosh! You feel utterly, ultimately, bendy-wendingly gorgeous all over again!

Incidentally, do you remember the other day when I was making the Italian sausage thing and expecting my friend around? Well, she got lost. I was in my house trousers, which are actually men’s PJ’s and are far too long for my legs. Also, despite having the waistband pulled right in, these house trousers often slink down past my hips which makes them very impractical especially when walking up stairs or running. Because I got a frantic call from the lost friend and forgetting I was wearing the PJs,  I slipped on my trainers as if they were ballet pumps and staggered out across the gravel to wave her down. Two cars drove past, (both whom I thought were her). I leapt out and waved frantically and discovered they were not her, which meant I then had to skulk back into the shadows and keep waving in a casual-AND? sort of way. Eventually when the lost friend did pull up I had to direct her to the Christian Retreat Centre car park (v. welcoming, friendly place to park) but she was baffled, which meant I had to run down the road behind her car in the too long/impractically waisted PJs and not-very-well-slipped-on trainers in a way that could only have resembled a Pinocchio and Worzel Gummage love child. But it was ok. Because I had the gorgeousness …

Oh. My.

Am quite embarrassed now.

Talk about massive off-tangent veering. I just suddenly remembered all of that when I mentioned the trackie bottoms and wellie thing. But hang on … miraculously my veering on this occasion is actually relevant. See, the friend in the car was coming around to begin the design sessions for my range of Gorgeousness Essences. This range of essences will be created to allow the user to realign with her unique beauty, confidence, authenticity, self expression and powerful body presence EVEN WHEN

* wearing trackies and wellies

* having a bad hair day

* being systematically humiliated, then sacked by satanic boss.

It will be like a range of Gorgeousness Rescue Remedies. Have you heard of the Rescue Remedy? It is a Bach Flower Essence. The Gorgeousness Essences will be based on the same principle as the Bach Flower Essences, but the difference will be that mine are  taken from trees and now flowers. And they’ll be sprays not pipettes.

I am thinking that the Gorgeousness Essences will come in sets of three or ten and in my imagination they are packaged in lovely brown boxes a bit like those Graze boxes. I love Graze, don’t you? (Whenever I go to see Me-Acre there is always a Graze box sitting on the side and I have to eat at least one thing from each compartment. Sometimes EVERYTHING from one compartment gets over-nibbled, but we don’t mention that. We just close the lid and hum a tune while wandering away innocently).

Anyway, what I love most of all about the idea of creating this range is that they are Gorgeousness essences. Because, if you think about it, Grow Your Own Gorgeousness is all about the reader getting in touch with her own, unique, beautiful essence and then expressing that beauty in the world. When we feel 100% wonderful about who we are, we are thinking massively positively about ourselves. We then act, stand, speak and love others in a way that reflects our own inner oasis of well being and it all becomes a happy, luscious loop. The Gorgeousness Essences and the Grow Your Own Gorgeousness book are both tools to access and unleash YOUR true essence.

Right, I’d better be on my way. This is another guerilla post piggy backing on stolen time. I am in a  canteen that is positively rumbling with pensioners. Have you ever been in a canteen that rumbles and vibrates with the sound of pensioners? Well, I have*. I am here. Now. And it’s time I left. Before I go though, I just wanted to share with you one more thing. This;

I have seen this poster THREE times today in completely unrelated places. The first time I thought nothing of it. The second time I thought, “ooh, fluky. I’m sure I saw that earlier.” The third time I thought, “OK Universe, message received.” Truth is, I haven’t been very calm lately. Everything seems to have hit a bit of a Rahh Wave, not just in my life but in many lives I am observing. So, I just thought I’d pop the poster on here. That way, if you’ve got a Rahh Wave going, you can take a deep breath and think “yes. Keep Calm and Carry On” too. I think that’s all …. except, I hope you have yourself a relaaaaaaaxing day.

*To experience a canteen that rumbles with pensioners, visit The Old Smithy at Godshill, IOW. Alternatively try your nearest garden centre.

With his work appearing in the V&A, Buckingham Palace and countless exhibitions around Europe and America, glass blower Carl Nordbruch has spent the last 24 years living and breathing glass.

Intrigued by this industrial yet exquisite creative art and curious to see a working studio, I took myself on a road trip to Colwell on the Isle of  Wight where I shared a danish pastry with one of the UKs leading craftsmen.

Inside the flaming mouth of the furnace, Carl expertly twists the metal
pole, capturing on the tip, a bud of molten glass.

“Don’t try and avoid me,” he grins as I jump back. “Just be still and
I’ll move around you.”

He proceeds to sit down and pick up a prong that would look quite at home in a medieval torture chamber. Casually balancing the rod on a frame, Carl rolls it back and forth, expertly sculpting the glass into shape.

“This will become a section of just one of many chandeliers I’m currently making,” he explains. ”I make each component and then the chandelier is assembled elsewhere. This one has been commissioned by a private client in Russia. I have had others go to clients in Arabia. Here in the UK I create pieces for designers and artists as well as taking commissions from the Royal Heritage, Buckingham Palace and the Royal Albert Hall.”

Over the last 24 years, Isle of Wight born Carl has become a leading name in the glass blowing world, however mastering this craft wasn’t always his goal.

Aged 16 Carl left school and with just one O Level. “I remember getting a call a few weeks afterleaving,” he recalls. ”It was the dole phoning to say they’d found me two possible jobs. One was working with a pest control company and the other was at a glass studio.”

What followed was a seven year apprenticeship at the internationally renowned Isle Of Wight Glass Studio in St Lawrence. “I worked with Peter Riley,” Carl tells me. “He is an incredible craftsman and really taught me everything that I know.”

Carl Nordbruch – Waiting For Something

Carl maneuvers the piece of rapidly cooling glass to a second furnace – the glory hole then continues. “By the time I was 24 I was ready to move on and went to work at Wolverhampton University. I
was a demonstrator, teaching glass blowing all day, every day, for two years before going to the Royal College to complete an MA in Ceramics and Glass.”

“All through my MA I was making pieces of glass and selling them to support myself and my partner. I then went and worked for another studio in the area but unfortunately the owner went bust and everyone lost their jobs. My wife was nine months pregnant with our first child so we needed to think fast.”

It was at this point that Carl came full circle and decided to relocate his family and equipment back to the island. Here he and his wife set up an emergency studio in the barn in Colwell Bay, Freshwater.

“This is the emergency studio,” Carl grins, looking around. “And now we’ve been here for over ten
years.”

For an emergency studio it looks pretty permanent. Hunched against the salty sea winds, the barn contains huge solid kilns where the glass is gradually cooled to relieve stress and
cracking.

Hefty tonne bags full of glass fragments sit outside the barn door. Known at culet, these recycled chunks of glass will later be melted down in the main furnace.

Leaning against one surface are massive heat resistant moulds.

Some of these have been provided by artists and designers who Carl creates glass components for and
others belong to him. Once the glass has hit the right temperature, it is removed from the glory hole, lowered into the mould and then blown into shape.

At the back of the studio is a classic car that, being of a girlish nature, I did not retain the name of. Thankfully I happened to have Carl’s wife’s number and she told me afterwards, “the car is a Volvo P1800. Carl bought it 11 years ago with every intention off driving it to his graduation at the RCA. Simon Templar, better know as the Saint, drove a car just like this one down the mews at the side of the Royal College in the TV show in the 60s. Sadly Carl’s version died and has never moved since.”

However, all is not lost as it now doubles up as a pretty damn funky shelf.

Now, 24 years on from his first tentative glass making days, Carl has built up an impressive client group and CV. Besides his restoration work for stately homes and work he does for private clients abroad, Carl has also been commissioned by notable artists such as Johannes von Stumm and Ronald Pennella and his work is exhibited in galleries and pretigious exhibitions all over the world.

Carl Nordbruch

Untitled, Carl Nordbruch, 2004. Handmade, free blown glass with double colour inlay. Photo: Heini Schneebeli

While business is strong, I am interested to know what Carl plans to do next. “If we get the chance to move the studio to a less emergency place, then we will, but we won’t do it on a whim. If we thought we could find the right spot where we could pick up passing trade then we would like to have some sort of gallery too.”

When I asked Carl for advise he would give fledgling glassblowers, he said, “It was through being in a studio that I learnt how to blow glass. That’s what I’d say to anyone who wants to go into this; go and learn in a studio and then go to University afterwards. Most people go straight onto University and try their hand at everything but if you are really keen to blow glass you’ll need to be doing it about fifty hours a week and University isn’t hands on enough. You need to be in a studio.”

  “Once you have glass blowing experience, always remember that the very successful glassblowers – the ones that make a lot of money – tend to have a palette of pieces that they make. You wouldn’t get anyone who is really successful making a one off, and then another one off. They would hone their skills and get a reputation for it and so the pieces become immediately recognizable to that person.”

Finally I asked Carl what makes a good glassblower. “You’ve got to want to do it,” he says. “Believe it or not, it’s not about stamina,” he says. “It’s simply how keen you are. It’s about how much you really want to learn.”

Time theft.

This morning I am tucked in a cafe and am supposed to be writing an article for a women’s magazine, but have put my article aside to steal five minutes to say hello to you and then google Italian broth recipes.

See? Time theft. In action.

So, why google Italian broth recipes? Well, I have a special someone coming around this evening to begin visioning and creating a range of Gorgeousness Essences that will be launched in 2012 and I have promised to provide nourishing food for her.

The person coming round is rich in folklore and stories and tassels and beads. She is a fathomless well of knowledge; some tapped, some untapped and she is also an old, old friend.

Entertaining such a friend has rinsed November of all chavviness. Suddenly it feels undeniably Tim and Tobias with medieval peasant twists.

Anyone remember Tim and Tobias books from school? Tim = boy? Tobias = cat? Flew around on broomsticks in East London whilst interacting with a variety of spooky people and witches? No? Yes?

Well anyway. Here we are. And instead of hanging around in Sainsburys car park, I am providing a welcoming haven that smells like broth and fresh bread.

And whilst sitting here in this cafe musing over whether I should go for broth or casserole, I can’t help noticing my total lack of nerves over cooking. This is testament to the strange transformation I have undertaken over the last few months.

I can now almost make food.

To a point.

Look.

These are forest berry and pecan Bakewell tarts. I’ve also learnt to make bread and a whole variety of other things. I think that the only people who can truly appreciate these Bakewells are those who know me well … those who have experienced how lacking I am in the kitchen-department.

Am not entirely sure where my lack of culinary skills emerged from. It’s one of those age old questions; nature or nurture? Are some people born genetically crap at cooking or are we conditioned into it by our parents? The truth is, I was brought up on cheese sandwiches and spag bol. Me-Acre was a child of Women’s Lib and whilst she was pretty damn good as earning bucks, the kitchen was not her forte.

(Sorry Me-Acre, but let’s be frank about this.)

It wasn’t through lack of trying that Me-Acre experienced kitchen-fail. It was more lack of confidence. Pre dinner party our family suffered. Hundreds of pounds wold be spent in the supermarket. Agonising hours passed as Me-Acre chewed her thumb nail and poured over gourmet cook books. The parents nearly divorced over ensuing stress and the result was nearly always tandoori chicken marinated in a plastic Roses jar. Once the guests had chomped through the tandoori they then got ridiculously drunk and moved onto the important business of writing their signatures whilst holding a fountain pen with their toes and laughing hysterically. Then it was all over. Finito.

When one is exposed to this sort of culinary stress as a child it’s hard not to inherit a degree of anxiety oneself. Obviously it can swing back the other way and one can end up taking over the kitchen and reigning supreme as child chef prodigy. But not mwah. Nope. Sometimes I actually wonder how I’ve made it to thirty without really cooking anything.

But now it’s aaaaaaalllllllll different.

I am learning a new skill and I have discovered that just like anything we want to be successful in (a new project, manifesting an idea, making a roast dinner or launching a book), the same basic ingredients are needed: confidence, perseverance and patience.

Confidence …. A wise nine year old once told me (I was seven and looked up to the nine year old like she was a god) that Madonna once said (brace yourselves), “To hit the high notes you’ve got to sing loud”. This is so true. To really hit any target you’ve got to approach it with a good helping of ”umph, by Jove, I’m going to whup this thing’s arse.” Problem is, if you sing loud (like Madonna suggests), people are likely to look and then there’s always the chance the note goes flat and it will be a little humiliating. But hey, if you have confidence, then it doesn’t matter. You just try again … which leads us into …

Perseverance … Things don’t always go right the first time around. Take frothing milk for a cappuccino. I have discovered that if you don’t really care about your milk being silky, shimmering and the right thickness, then perseverance to succeed doesn’t matter. You just persevere in making crap caps. But if you want your cap to truly delight the cap-drinker, then you must push forward, keep trying until you eventually get the milk right. And with time you will master it.

Perseverance and confidence are like Romeo and Juliet. They go hand in hand. And it takes confidence to persevere.

Patience … Sometimes it takes a while to master something. Eventually you’ll master it. And?

So there you have it. The magical recipe for breaking out of your conditioning and doing something new (and possibly scary). I am now going to go and make Italian Sausage casserole. But I’ve decided I’m going to buy some pumpkin bread to go with it as I’ve now run out of time to make any. I was also hit with the idea to publish the casserole recipe that I use on here, but have changed my mind.

After all, this is not a cooking blog.

It’s just a helpful blog.

A little gorgeousness blog. That’s all. And I don’t want to blur boundaries and all that.

]]> http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/2011/11/10/this-is-not-a-cooking-blog/feed/ 1 bethanstritton bethan stritton Tim and Tobias bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton bethan stritton http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/2011/11/09/chav-to-midnight/ http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/2011/11/09/chav-to-midnight/#comments Wed, 09 Nov 2011 07:48:36 +0000 Bethan Stritton http://bethanstritton.wordpress.com/?p=3716 ]]> This blog post is dripping with deception. It’s riddled with guilt, over-the-shoulder-glances and criminality. Can you feel it? I bet you can.

Well, as you are sharing this moment of stolen naughtiness, I’d better tell you where we are. We are sitting in the car in some bleak, wind-swept car park, hunched over the passenger seat scribbling out a blog post that fuelled by none other than Stolen Time.

That’s right.

Precious, diamond, beautiful, Stolen Time.

You see, it appears that the only time I can get my hands on these days is stolen.

No! Stop right there. Don’t you roll your eyes at me. It is quite true. I have spent all day today delivering workshops, talking to new clients and driving from A to B then to Z, grinding my teeth and wondering why  life has begun to resemble a very crammed filing cabinet. Does your life ever resemble a filing cabinet? (Off the record, my car is starting to look like a skip. I also have Red Bull tins in the glove compartment. Not a good sign. I swear I never drink Red Bull normally.)

Anyway, today, in all the running and twitching and scrambling, it dawned on me that I wouldn’t be back in time to collect the children from school, so I rang the wonderful Mother-Me-Acre who stepped in like Wonder Woman and agreed to get them. Sigh of relief all round.

Then something quite unexpected occurred.

I finished work early. Driving back to meet Me-Acre, I realised that somehow I must have performed a Jedi mind trick on Grandfather Time Himself and I actually had half an hour before the arranged collection time.
( You know your life has become too hectic when the idea of having half an hour makes you want to run to the nearest church, get down on both knees, light a candle in way of thanks for this small mercy then burst into racking sobs of tears.)

Well. I didn’t do that. Instead I snuk here to this sneaky car park and decided to say hello to all you gorgeous lovelies. And to say sorry. It’s been so long. I feel like I’ve neglected you dreadfully. If it makes any difference, I haven’t been around to see my grandparents in four months either.

I am ashamed to admit that they only live up the road. Hmm. You may also notice that there are a lack of piccies with this post, which is another symptom of the no time to think thing.

Part of me blames October for all of this.

How is anyone supposed to retain control over their life when one minute there’s this whole pseudo-summer thing and it’s all blue skies, people  swishing around in light cotton clothes and trees adorned in crimson berried gorgeousness. And then the next minute … WHAM. It’s dark. And you are lighting
fires. And have carved pumpkins on the doorstep. And November is upon us.

(The dark month. Brrrr). No wonder we’re baffled.

I’m not really prone to November. The nights are too long. Days too short. Just going to meet someone at Sainsburys car park at 5.30pm feels like you’re hanging around Brixton at midnight. There’s a menacing, chavvy nip to the air. Do you know what I mean by that? November is shifty.

If you don’t know what I mean, don’t worry too much. I probably wouldn’t know what I mean’t, except I actually did have to meet someone at Sainsburys a few afternoons ago. Despite the fact that neither Hollyoaks nor the Simpsons had been aired on telly and it was probably still halfway through something comforting such as Blue Peter, 5.30pm in November feels strangely night-time-ish.

And if hanging around in Brixton at midnight isn’t disconcerting enough, imagine that your colleague doesn’t turn up! Well. There is only so long you can pace up and down outside Sainsburys main entrance like an indecisive Darlek before you have to do the ultimate predictable thing… get the
mobile out.

“Yes, hello. But WHERE ARE YOU?”

Muffled voice. “I am so sorry. I haven’t left the house yet. Am looking for the  forms. Why don’t you
meet me at the traffic lights and I will pick you up en-route?”

Meet colleague at traffic lights? At TRAFFIC LIGHTS? There is one thing  hanging around outside Sainsburys at chav-to-midnight in November, but at least you are surrounded by savory Sainsbury types. What sort of person hangs out by the traffic lights? At THIS TIME?

Gathering my courage and stomping through the  car park and down the road, I did something that I would rarely admit too. I made one of those pointless phone calls to someone random in the attempt to make myself feel less alone. I then wittered on about my dreadful situation of having
to hang around in dodgy areas of town at dreadful times of night … erm … late afternoon.

As I wittered my way across the bridge to the river one of those horrible moments occurred where you think someone is following you and it makes you all skittish like a horse who has had a traumatic foalhood. I jumped and jerked around to look who was behind me. No one. Then I  had this flash of
fear that the stalker had moved to one side, was double bluffing me and was going to tap me on the other shoulder. Was compelled to spin around Jackie Chan style, one way and then the other.

No one. Not even a leaf. Heart pounding.

Hurried off bridge and tried to ignore the small child sitting in a car, pulled up at traffic light, face pressed against window obviously having witnessed entire paranoid horse incident.

Off the bridge, I was strangely uninspired to go and stand on the edge of the road by four sets of traffic lights to await colleague.  Instead I headed into the empty car park outside Brantano and Block Busters. Called colleague and insisted that there was no way I could stand at the traffic lights scrutinising every car that goes  past in case it was her, because frankly it would make me look like a hooker. She understood. Agreed to meet me outside Brantano in empty car park instead.

Except. Gulp. As phone went down, I realised I was now  standing in an empty car park in middle of the night in November, looking nervously shifty. Didn’t want to look shifty. Wanted to look purposeful. Problem is , every time I tried to look purposeful I felt like a hooker pretending NOT to hanging around a car park looking for business, so went back to looking nervously shifty.

Strolled around, thanking footwear Gods that I had’t worn clippy-cloppy heels and had instead gone for my winter boots with thick, chunky, deep treaded soles. Passed a shady looking tall bloke with shaved head. Thought “dodgy Tuesday, late afternoon, car park hangarounder. Must be a  thug or drug dealer.” Then he headed into Blockbuster and I breathed deep sigh of before being hit with a total and utter inspiration sandwich. I Could Go Into Block Buster Too! Then I wouldn’t look like a prostitute or an indecisive Darlek. Hurried thankfully towards Blockburster entrance with similar elation to a time traveller who is leaving the pimp-infested Dark Ages for a warm, yellow, 21^st century oasis of Hollywood only to feel something soft and slippery beneath my boot.

No.

Looked down.

Yes.

It was NOT a small compact chunk of squelchy autumn leaves.

It was everything I hoped it would not be.

There is something deeply comical about watching someone get dog poo off their shoes, isn’t there? The foot action could be known as the “Scrapey Foot Dog Do Jig”. Or, when someone is wearing their winter boots with thick, deep tread soles “The Dog Poo Pavement Riverdance.” It was just as I was
completing an epic Riverdance Finale that my colleagues welcome car pulled up.

Thank flipping flip for that.

Was saved!!!

You’d think after that I would want to spend any time in a car park ever again, wouldn’t you? But here I am, sitting in one, bent over the passenger seat with a pen in my hand and a crick in my back. And as I’m sitting up, having consumed all of my Stolen Time, I’m wondering if I’ll ever get more of the time stuff to dedicate to my beloved little blog. Fingers crossed I will. But right now I’m off to liberate children from Me-Acre (or the other way around) and then after that, I am officially going to see my grandparents. Because they are, of course, my beloveds too. Ciao for now!

This used to happen to me all the time – until I very nearly ran over Lavender Cap Lady. On that day I had to have a serious word with myself.

Lavender Cap lady is quite old and she is partial to walking.

She is particularly partial to walking a metre into the road, whilst wearing a lavender cap, an oversized shell suit top and baggy MC Hammer trousers.

Such a combination is quite trying for drivers with distractible tendencies.

The thing is that when you focus in on anything – a pothole, an old lady, a juggernaut careering towards you – subconsciously your wrists will shift to follow your eyes. This means the steering wheel will follow suit and before you know it you are veering towards the very thing that you don’t want to collide with.

In most cases you can pull it back, get past the hazard unscathed and not kill anyone. But there is always that cold and jelly-like leg sensation that has you feeling like you’ve just been caught smoking by the scariest teacher in school.

Then there is the niggling fear of “should I be on the road at all?”. Which is not helped by the fact your passenger has fainted.

At times like this a little word to the self is required.

Word = FOCUS

What we choose to focus on is POWERFUL.

Whether on the road or steering our way through life, we will always navigate towards what we focus on. This can be applied to old ladies walking down the road, or it can be applied to other things. Like donuts.

Focus: I mustn’t eat donuts. Mustn’t eat donuts.

Result: I am seeing donuts everywhere. Friend brings round bag of donuts.
Supermarket oozes sugary donut smell. Oops. Just ate a donut.

(Strangely enough after writing this post I ended up in the supermarket compelled to buy a box of small, jam filled donuts. They weren’t the usual ones, but very small … the size of chocolate truffles. They were quite revolting.)

Focus psychology is used also religiously by the beauty and cosmetic industries.

By spending billions on clever media and advertising campaigns, mass terror of aging, getting fat, not having big enough boobs, not having a pert enough bum, can be generated. Because we are all subjected to this conditioning on a daily basis, we are compelled to focus in on it. We start to focus on how closely we fit the air brushed ideal, where we are on the aging scale (oh my God!!! I have a new grey hair!!!) and over a matter of time our  flaw-fear-focus hits such epic fever pitch and we run to the shops rasping, “give me the OLAY! I NEED OOOOOOO-LAAAAAAAY!!!”

Result? The Olay bank account grows sleek and fat and gleeful and we receive greasy faces and a thread of hope that we’ll stop the inevitable, unstoppable processes called Nature.

(Sorry to use you as an example Oil of Olay, but when I was a kid you used to test on animals and therefore are ingrained in my memory as bad and you are were also the ones that I saw coating glossy double paged spreads in Country Living Magazine which just BUGS me when I actually want to be reading about making chutney).

Often when people ask me what Grow Your Own Gorgeousness is about I say “it’s about the  effect of the beauty and cosmetic industry on women’s self-esteem”, but actually I am focusing in on the wrong thing.

The true focus of Grow Your Own Gorgeousness is not the big, bad cosmetic industry. It is actually about the reader unleashing their true – sustainable – real – Gorgeousness and letting that expand every area of their life. The focus is to empower women with the tools to EXPERIENCE THEIR BEAUTY from the inside out.

We can always choose what we focus our mind on; Lavender Caps Lady, pot holes, our “flaws” (ie. where we don’t match the ideal beauty mould offered by the people who are also offering nose jobs, boob jobs, lipo etc) or our Gorgeousness. And where we focus our minds, there our attention will be drawn and we will start moving in that very direction.

What are you going to choose to focus on today?

PS. If you would like to buy copies of Grow Your Own Gorgeousness for your sisters, friends, daughters or the other Gorgeous women in your life, then you can get them by clicking right here.

More important than any of that was my Exceptional, Handcrafted by Many Talented Folk photograph. I thought it looked fabulous. Loved it v. much. Didn’t appear to be squinting at the sun. Also didn’t resemble a body guard about the take out the camera man like I did in last County Press photo. A refreshing change all round.

And then, as I was leaving newsagents feeling joyous, I noticed something.

T’was proof.

Proof that my Jedi powers hadn’t completely failed me.

Stuck on the wall was the poster that the County Press provides the news agents with and on it was a headline. Look.

A truly historic moment to say the least.

Throughout the whole interview I awaited the perfect Jedi moment. It came just as the reporter was straightening his papers and I was preparing to leave.

He said; “That’s great Bethan. I’ll send a photographer along to see you early next week so he can get a shot to go with the article.”

And I said in my most business-like, yet casual and generally “here’s the deal, take it or leave it” voice; “So … if you want a photograph of me, it’ll need to go on the front page of the Weekender.”

The reporter – obviously an intelligent and highly acclaimed Jedi master himself - stopped straightening his papers and glanced up. “And why is that?”

“Well,” I said, studying my launch-gnawed nails in bored manner, “when my two children’s books were published you put me on the front page of the Weekender and well, it’s only right that you should do it again for Grow Your Own Gorgeousness. Its all about consistency. You know?”

The Jedi Reporter raised an eyebrow. “I shall see what I can do.”

Leaving the offices, I swooshed through square to Olivos for a triumphant coffee, all the way having a whole little celebration party in my head. “It worked! Ooh ooh ooooooh! The Jedi mind trick worked! GYOG will be Weekendered. Oooh baby yeaaaahhh.”

Yet as I arranged my triumphant bottom on a nice little sun warmed chair, I was suddenly disconcerted by a new thought. What if the photographer came around and took a boring, dull picture of me holding a copy of GYOG up whilst grinning insanely? I have seen photographs like that of authors.

In fact, I have been in photographs like them.

But never again.

No way.

A massive rethink was required. As I sat supping coffee and staring hard into nowhere, I realised that what I needed to do was set up a shot – an interesting shot – that was vibrant, interesting and worthy of the Weekender.

The only thing for it was to keep sitting exactly where I was, chewing the remains of my thumb nail and thinking up potential photo shoots until I was hit with an inspiration sandwich.

Eventually the sandwich arrived (slthough it didn’t hit me until two days later) and as soon as it did I called up the Jedi Reporter.

“I was lying awake last night,” I explained. “Was reflecting on how GYOG is all about wildness, growth and our beautiful and imperfect natural selves shining into the world … And then I thought, what if I dragged a bookcase into the garden and arranged it in the flowerbed with all sorts of wildness and plants growing up it? And me … sort of leaning on it. Holding GYOG … Or something like that?”

Jedi Reporter listened to idea with interest . He said, “Go for it. But if you look like a crazy person don’t blame me.”

Excellent! I thought.

On the day of the photo shoot, Naughty N arrived at my house to find me sweltering hot in epic Indian Summer heat.

I pointed to far end of flower bed where I had dragged a small bookcase (borrowed from Mother) through five autumn spider webs, across treacherous soil and rubble and into the outer regions of the flowerbed. And there it sat all pathetic and small and mediocre.

“It looks stupid. What am I going to do?” I asked NN sulkily.

“It is a bit lost in all those weeds and things, isn’t it?” Naughty agreed. “You need a bigger bookcase. Like the one in the kitchen.”

In my kitchen I have a very tall, beautifully made bookcase that is stuffed full of very embarrassing books that I actually thought were quite sensible until they were taken out one by one and scrutinised before being piled on the kitchen table.

Once each and every book had been scrutinised and laughed at, Naughty N and I heaved the bookcase away from the wall.

We took a quick break from lifting (during which Naughty N screamed in horror, ran to the sink, grabbed a cloth and began removing something rather unsavory from the skirting board behind the bookcase while I hid mournfully behind the living room door, in between shrieking “get rid of it! I told everyone that something had died in here!” and nearly being sick all at once).

After it was all over and Naughty N had done an impeccable job of removing the mouse corpse, we heaved the bookcase into the garden and plonked it onto a different flower bed.

Stepped back. Narrowed eyes. Cocked our heads from the left to the right.

Naughty N pressed her lips together. She shook her head. “Not right.”

I couldn’t nod. I couldn’t move. Was frozen in panic. “The photographer is going to be here very, very soon,” I said hoarsely. “It can’t be too big. It must be the angle.”

Naughty shook her head. “Nope. Not the angle. Definitely too big.”

For a moment I didn’t know what to do. Suddenly Shrieky Bethan was all like, “Look what you have done! You should have just stuck with a picture of you and the book! Now you have two bookcases in different flowerbeds and the photographer is going to be here in less than an hour!”

I took a deep breath. Summoned Zen Bethan. Zen Bethan was asleep, so summoned Ideas Bethan. She said, “Get a second opinion. Get Debs The Loveliest Neighbour One Could Wish For.”

Debs was summoned and took one look at bookcase. “Too big,” she said.

Gahhhh!

“But,” she blurted, holding up a finger of triumph, “I do have one that would be perfect!”

Five minutes later and me and Deb had hauled a perfectly sized bookcase out of her top-most room.

It wasn’t too big.

It wasn’t too little.

It was Just Right.

Naughty N and I then stood back, sweating in the sweltering Indian Summer sun, whilst Debs The Loveliest Neighbour One Could Wish For buzzed around setting up the shot. (Deb and her husband both worked in TV and advertising and so used to do this sort of thing for a living).

She arranged the bookcase, took out batches of GYOG books and stood them elegantly on the top shelf. She created little features with autumn apples and opened up a handmade version of GYOG to display at the front. Then she summoned her husband Phil – who is also the Loveliest Neighbour One Could Wish For and asked his expert opinion. Phil suggested another feature, so we added my birdcage and finally a chair for me to sit in at the front. In the chair I sat. Struck a pose. And everyone said ”just right.”

Well. Thank. Flipping. Flip. For. That.

At approximately 15.00 that day the photographer arrived. He took a photograph of me sitting in the chair. I was holding GYOG and squinting at the camera because the sun was at that horrible angle where it burns your eyes out every time you look up and you if you were in your car you would probably crash or run over an old lady, then kick yourself eternally for not bringing some sunglasses.

I am not sure if the photographer realised quite how he had been supported that day. Not sure if he realised the shot had been set up by none other than my creatively brilliant self, the astoundingly artistic Naughty N, a creative director from London and a real life, proper TV producer. Also not sure if he noticed the random bookcases of various sizes sitting in various flowerbeds around the garden.

As he left I showed him to the gate and said, “I hope you were able to catch a shot in portrait for when it goes on the front page of the Weekender.”
“Oh, is it going on the front page of the Weekender?” he asked pleasantly.

I made a little sing-song, see-saw noise that meant “well, I hope so” and “of course man! Didn’t you know?” and “we’ll have to wait and see”, all at the same time. Then I slammed the gate shut, ran in the house and drank wine. And hoped and prayed.

Have been hoping and praying ever since and now it is TODAY. It is the day of reckoning. It is Weekender Day – or not Weekender Day, depending on whether my Jedi mind trick worked.

Right.

Am off to buy a paper.