I am in the midst of doing something which I should have done, to all intents and purposes, a long time ago.

Actually, I should rephrase that sentence.

I am contemplating and on the precipice of some dramatic actions, which involve focus and self-discipline.

This is pretty startling territory for me.

It involves, I suppose, a bit of feng-chui (I’ve always wanted to know how to pronounce that word). A bit of de-cluttering. A bit of time meditating upon whether I truly need or indeed, will ever use a British Airways’ blindfold.

My mission is clear and simple. I need to fill card-board boxes with the following: 30 year old birthday cards, 20 year old unused nail varnish (I have never used this substance), 10 year old pencils and pens, as well as any present day accessories that are not required in an emergency. As being blunt, what do you really, really need in order to live on this planet these days?

I’m thinking …. a change of clothes, a tooth-brush, a mobile ‘phone, a book, note-pad and pen. This does, ultimately, depend upon one’s destination as if the North Pole is the goal, one might get a tad chilly. However, I am telling myself with headmistress-like force that keeping an 80’s Swatch watch, which contains no live battery, will not help my mission. I need to think of its title.

At the present time of writing, it has to be ‘Mission Impossible’.

A very good friend, who walks like a penguin, told me in no uncertain terms, ‘Rids, this should have happened a long time ago.’ Well, he was right. I’ve just got a little distracted. After all, card-board boxes are very hard to find. (That’s the understatement of the year.)

My counter-argument is … how do you throw away wool that has been knitted on one hot, star-filled night, by my best friend in the mountains, far away in another climate, how do you throw away a letter from a 20 year old friend which somehow reached me in the darkest corner of the earth and the most memorable words from an adopted sister? I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to let go to these memories.

When I was alive in 1992 (I am not dead yet), I was studying for my ‘A’ Levels. These exams were supposedly the pivotal point in any child’s schooling. The results impinged on the rest of your life. I am not quite so sure about that. But, with the internal and external pressure building up, I found myself building paper cocoons, involving piles of A4 paper.

What a magic filing system it was.

It was a pretty good carpet too.

Only I knew where every scribble, note and capital letter lay. Only I knew the order. It could have been Morse code to everyone else. I could have been working for MFI or is it MI6? I could, indeed, have been Moneypenny, working for Daniel Craig.

But, I wasn’t.

I was an 18 year old, on a mission. I was revising, in a wonderful, safe, orderly mess.

My room isn’t quite like that. But, there are quite a lot of possessions which are hidden or revealed to the casual on-looker. I am not sure how I am going to dispense with them.

But, what I do know is that deep down, that whatever happens to oneself, wherever one goes, memories remain ingrained. One carries them deep down inside. Above all, it is the emotional connections that stay intact.

And so maybe, I will able to complete my mission, with the foreknowledge that through simply hearing a voice, I will always remember my dearest friends, who I feel so blessed to have met.

I have a sneaky feeling that the Chippendales are in the garden.

I have come to this conclusion as there are three 19 year olds, bearing torsos and some legs outside. And if I am being more honest, I’ve been eavesdropping on their conversation; they didn’t reveal their where their next performance would be.

And if I am being even more honest, I have to confess that these species of men were taking down a big white tent, which at 4.00am last Thursday, I forgot what it was doing there … and nearly concluded that it was some kind of alien, putting its feet down on earth for the first time. It was not; it was a marquee. A marquee for a party which I forgot about intermittently until I realized that just maybe there was some hoo-ha going on, which just maybe I should help out with and even be present at.

I am not very good at being polite. I have to confess this. My ability (or inability) to conduct Small Talk is nil. I almost ‘get bored’ before the conversation has even started. So, if I am ever invited to a party or forced to an ‘Occasion’ (nb. The capital O), I reluctantly attend and bring whatever securities blankets are available to me, including the local taxi number.

Please don’t get me wrong. The life-guard this morning (6.40am) commented on my appraisal of a spacious SLOW-lane, ‘Rachel, you’re not very sociable, are you?’ Maybe I am not the world’s best socialite but I socialize in other ways. (What is ‘socializing’ anyway?) I may not have racks of curly-fonted invitations but I nip in and out of everyday socializing like a buzzing bee.

My abhorrence of socializing stems from childhood. I remember, as 7 year old, inviting school friends over to play from 2-4pm. That was it. (How ungenerous was that?). I still have the utmost guilt in going on on a French exchange. This meant that my French girl had to endure my anti-sociable behaviour for three entire weeks. That is not the best way to learn a new language, believe me.

But, when one is faced with one’s parents’ ruby wedding anniversary party in their own back garden, there is simply no running away from it. It’s quite hard to ignore 30 odd people (who are very nice, by the way), nick the car and do a brief tour of the British Isles on a Sunday afternoon.

So, quaking in my heels (killer ones, at that – they became redundant half-way through the O due my preference for real feet versus numb ones), I hovered in the kitchen, faking busyness until Sister no.1 kindly reminded me that ‘socializing’ was an activity for the day. I raised my eye-brows and continued folding napkins.

But, when I did emerge on the soft verge, I had a secret weapon to handle my fetish against S. T. I had some canapés, with a wondrous sunflower on the edge of the plate. The flower did not hide my face entirely but it meant that I could dip and dive, wheel and deal through the throng, without getting stuck by a very well-intentioned Spanish inquisition on the meaning of life and possibly, whether my meaning was a bit off-course.

Interestingly enough, having declined that my opening gambit of my fortune-teller aspirations; I found myself slightly relaxing into ‘conversation’ without too much trouble. With the weight of expectation gradually disappearing from my shoulders, I submerged myself into interesting conversation topics ranging from cross-dressing, to abstract art and the vital need to always be within the vicinity to someone who will allow you to use their bath at any time of the day.

And as Sister no.1 very firmly reinstated during the immense build-up to the O beforehand, ‘It’s not about you …….. it’s all about me.’

When in doubt, always remember these great words.

Actually, it was all about our parents. And as I sat there, wearing a dress (nb.), I thought how weird life is. How 40 years’ ago, they had no clue as to what would happen to them as they began their great adventure of life together. Rather guiltily, I wondered if they had ever imagined having a ‘me’ in their lives, but I felt a lot of pride and thanksgiving for what they have done for all of us, sisters 1 and 2 included. Dare I say it, I forgot about S.T.

The only real shame was that I couldn’t make a speech. I had some classic lines for it. Something to shock the nation but maybe another time, at another O ………

I am very stubborn. Or, obstinate. Or, both. I am finding it hard to pin point this characteristic on the Richter scale but I would say that I near the top end it.

Is it a good thing?

Maybe. Maybe not. (What do you think?)

When I was a child, I went shopping every Saturday morning for honey in the playroom. That was it. I seemed to remember that it was roughly at 10am that this activity took place. (My schedule for waking, checking temperatures and chicken pox marks of my loyal troop of dolls and toys was quite rigorous).

Post-doll and toy playing (i.e. schools, hospitals and birthday parties), I turned into (this is a confession and a half) ‘Wonder Woman’. Yes, I became WW, without the costume but instead, I was able to conjure up this new identity through turning a few somersaults and obtain magic powers. The A Team didn’t have a look in. Maturing (ever so slightly), I developed a big crush on Jason Donovan. And His White T-Shirt. I even went to buy a white t-shirt. No more needs to be said.

My imagination has stayed in tact to this day. I have rejected buying honey on Saturday mornings, turning into Wonder Woman or indeed, being Jason Donovan’s backing singing but I can still transform myself into another world. I can, at least, pretend to visit another planet.

And this is what I did. Or, I’m doing.

It is, admittedly, quite terrifying.

For instance, the feat of the week has been going to the Gym. When, if ever, do I go to the Gym? Never. I much prefer to run wild outside or chase (or pretend to) dolphins in the swimming pool. (Actually, aged 8, I was fixated that ‘Jaws’ lurked in the deep end of the swimming pool, which was an old Victorian building, resplendent with peeling paint and an antiquated sewage system. It was based in Gloucestershire, UK. This, even from my appalling lack of geographical knowledge is not susceptible to shark-infested waters).

I tried to sound quite casual in requesting to go to the Gym at the Leisure Centre. It didn’t work; I looked and sounded like a rabbit about to be run over by a tractor or shot with a fearsome gun. Why? Is it the machines? No, I have no shame in plugging in 2.5 kg weights. Is it the lack of make-up parading my skin? No, I don’t intend to start wearing make-up on occasions that don’t request it. Is it my lack of gym kit? Definitely not. Once a yogi, always a yogi.

No, my abhorrence (and thus, fear) is solely to do with my attitude. I have developed ‘a thing’ about the gym, which needs to be conquered. When I did get there last Thursday, I really enjoyed myself. I was cycling for Britain … I could’ve carried on cycling for the world.* I was singing my heart out (yet again) whilst ignoring the day-time shows. I stumbled (nb.) off the bike (not in Bridget Jones’ fashion), determined to start ‘lifting’ weights. I was rather outstanded with my newly reformed attitude.

In this frame of mind, I am aiming to return. However, on my next visit, I am having an induction. This is very serious. I could actually visit the gym twice within a week. Does this mean that it is all down to ‘attitude’? Could I end up honestly, enjoying marmite on toast?
I am sure that there’s a theory out there to explain my new behaviour. I am trying out all sorts of things ……. And it’s weird. It’s working. Part of my ‘stubborn’ streak tries to persuade me that the new object/activity/thought is not a good thing. Five seconds later, I am fully converted. Well, that last sentence is a slight exaggeration but there’s nothing like a bit of will to get you through the initiation process.

So, I find myself in a new world. Whereas before, I have pretended or imagined myself into different kinds of places, I am now experiencing an alternative reality. Anytime, any place, anywhere. So, what is the next planet to be visited to? I’m not sure. No, I lie. I am most definitely sure but it’s my secret.

And this is why, in a nutshell, I am very pleased to be stubborn.

* This cycling expedition lasted for 10 minutes. I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression; I have no dreams of becoming Iron Woman.

Maidstone, Kent and Pocatello, Idaho have one thing in common. In these two places, a type of hair-cut exists that is currently surfacing beneath the waters of fashion. What is it? It’s the unique, idiosyncratic mullet.

I have to add that I even found one bobbing up in Salisbury the other day; I was irretrievably shocked.

I forgot about mullets, until I visited these two places, reinforcing memories of my 80s childhood. Sporting a mullet isn’t just about parading a fashion (which is, after all, dependent upon one’s own eyes gazing into the mirror), it is also denotes a particular type of person, with a whole vista of interests, possibly including a fixation upon motorbikes, black leather trousers and Pink Floyd.

I’ll admit that I don’t know much about the fore mentioned three potential fascinations in life. But, I have experienced the renowned PF, in the form of a tribute band called ‘Perfect Alibi’. And for me, it was the best. Why else would one risk life and limb on the M3 and M25 unless one wanted to hear the immortal words … ‘I don’t need no education.’

I have been to two ‘popular’ concerts in my life. The first was Take That, the original boy band, when Gary Barlow played the piano, full of a million love songs, whilst realms of girls (nb. The gender), crooned in the shadows (and at a certain convent school), waved their hands in the air. The second was of course, Pink Floyd. Are the two comparable? I think not.

I can’t analyze every song lyric or ponder on the meaning coded between the lines but, something caught my attention most vividly. ‘Something’ was lurking within the atmosphere. What was it? It was ‘the dark.’ And within this darkness, lay frustration at the surrounding world, the questioning of society and its political systems, the angst and rage of injustice as well as the deeply felt aloneness and loneliness of the individual.

I have a friend, who used to walk in the dark. Not literally, as a sleep-walker. Rather, she used to wear dark clothes. Now, she walks in the light. She’s changed her warddrobe, to reflect her mood.

I also remember Sister No.1’s Dark Days. Her face, in stark contrast to her black clothing, stood out a mile along with her choice of music and her habitual refusal to accompany her rather irritating, upbeat younger sister (me) on any activities that required further communication than monosyllabic interaction. (I was yet to learn the joys of adolescence).

I have learnt that the human condition is predisposed to bleakness. It is something that each individual can relate to, on a variety of levels, from the extremes of depression to the sadness of missing a friend. It surrounds confusion, bewilderment and in many ways, a whole plethora of unknown emotions but also creates a depth of personal understanding which can be used as a foundation for all types of life experiences.

It is part of the tool kit for life. Thus, it is easier to empathize with a level of humanity that bubbles beneath the surface. Too much, diametrically opposing any type of darkness is not real.

And that, in a nutshell, is how I saw and witnessed PF’s Tribute Band, Perfect Alibi. Will I now go out and get a mullet? I’m due for a hair-cut quite soon, actually. But, I think that I will bypass on the M but it’s tempting. Very tempting.

I’ve always wanted to drive a Formula One Racing Car. Well, maybe I’ve not wanted to drive one of those very speedy cars but actually, drive on the motorway, which is what, I presume, racing cars do …… along with the rest of the world’s population.

Mind you, it’s never too late to start anything in life.

When I first watched ‘Thelma and Louise’, I was so happy at the way it ended. I turned round to my best friend and exclaimed with pure relief, ‘They got away from the cops’. She patiently replied, ‘They died’. Yes, driving off a cliff will thoroughly endanger one’s health but the notion of getting into a car, driving on the motorway/highway has remained a symbol of freedom ever since.

And last Saturday (this is utterly true), I did just that. I got in a small, maroon fiesta (I forget the litre capacity – I don’t know much about cars), filled up at the local petrol station and left the county.

It was one of the best things that I’ve ever done; my only concern was for the other traffic on the motorway.

It took me four attempts to pass my driving test. When I did pass, I couldn’t believe it. I turned round to the instructor, exclaiming my past three failures (which, in hindsight, isn’t probably the best thing to confess to) and nearly hugged and kissed him with gratitude (which, similarly, isn’t the best response in the world.) But, since that time, I’ve stuck to A-roads and the local terrain where I’ve been living. Through my warped imagination, I’ve converted small country back-roads to big, open highways, traversing states and continents. Now that I’ve experienced the real McCoy, there’s no going back.

I do have, in part, British Rail to thank for. The trains last Saturday were, as is often the case, up the creek, due to engineering works. I refused to board a train, stamping my foot in quasi-adolescent angst. However, the Voice of Reason came to me (in the form of another person’s voice, I may add as it would have taken some doing for me to do this) with the simple words, ‘Why don’t you drive?’

Often, the best things in life occur without thought. Thinking is not always a good thing to do. Too much reflection or consideration about a possible decision or act can take away the excitement or indeed, the plausibility of doing it. Increasingly, I think that spontaneity, within a limited amount of reason is the way to live life. Nothing would get done otherwise.

Back to the Formula One Experience last week-end …….

I can’t remember hesitating. All I remember was thinking that I wanted to drive, however scared I was. Apart from the plausibility of getting lost, breaking down, having an accident or two, my main concern lay with doing some thing that I’ve never done before. And that is really, why my gut instinct agreed to do it. I wanted to challenge myself into doing something that most rational people undertake on a frequent basis.

I wrote down the instructions. I studied the map. I tested myself on the route. And then, I departed in peace (not literally).
It was the Best Thing that I’ve Ever Done.

Weird and wonderful thoughts happen to you when you are driving on a gloriously sunny afternoon across West to the East of England. I felt my Thelma self come into being …… and my first thought questioned my complete irrational fear of driving on the M3 and M25. Or, indeed, driving anywhere unknown. Or doing anything else unknown for that matter.

I didn’t listen to that much music as my furrow was creased with concentration but as I spanned the various counties, I loved how the music stations changed, as if travelling through different countries. (Incidentally, one of the best things about travelling alone is singing one’s heart out to the most ‘outrageous’ music). (Actually, I take that back. I do this in company.)

And on arriving at the main service station for the route, everyone was out in full flow. It felt as if the UK was on holiday. I chatted to my fellow travellers, enveloping the ‘getaway’ feel, which is not experienced when doing the local supermarket shop. I was going into unknown lands, on an unchartered course of adventure. I was, as my Breakdown friend said, going to ‘another country’.

And bizarrely enough, I did arrive at that other country, at the right place, at the right time.

What was the purpose of this enterprise? I wanted to sing my heart out (again), to some fabulous music. Clue: ‘We don’t need no education.’

And so, I have another motto to live life by.

Ps. On a completely random note, check out Band Aid on You Tube. I now really appreciate shoulder pads…

So, I’ve made a decision. Or, rather the decision was made for me.

Either way, it feels incredibly right.

When I was younger (as I am unbelievably old now), I never thought that I could make my own decisions. Either some ‘thing’ or some ‘one’ was in control of my life, the curvaceous path that took me to various places, people and situations. Maybe there were a mass of ‘oughts’ and ‘shoulds’ involved, subconsciously or consciously dictating my actions. Regardless of my ‘influences’, I know now that something has changed. A light has been turned on.

I’ve realized a couple of things.

Firstly, one can make plans (hoards of them) but often, these fail. I will never forget the guy who asked me, ‘So, what is your five-year business plan?’ This was in the midst of a dance class. With my mind focussed on movement, I was a bit taken aback. I still have yet to order my business cards, briefcase and palm pilot. (But, I’m working on it …). Plans don’t always work out. Thus, how is it truly possible to make a decision?

Secondly, there often exists a plethora of options, an amalgamation of hopes, ventures, applications pursued. However, it is not totally up to oneself as to the outcome. This is dependent upon many factors, which are uncontrollable by the individual. And this, this latter point is imperative to take into consideration. No-one is in total control of their life …… and in realizing this; I have found that the best decisions are made.

I describe it as a type of ‘letting go’. It is easier, far much easier to allow oneself to walk away from that inner pressure and allow the wave of mental reason and emotional safety take oneself to another shore. And so, that is what I’ve done.

The decision has been made. I couldn’t go on worrying, considering or debating no longer. I just had to listen ‘inside’ and see the external options available. And bizarrely enough, my decision was made, without much fuss or concern. What is right in life is often the easiest option. It’s the safest, healthiest and also, most interesting one. Yes, it’s new and different but choosing the alternative fork in the road is one way of being true to oneself. It’s a way of reaffirming one’s own identity.

And with one decision now being made, I am now able to not only sleep! But see the way to continue on the journey, to explore the unknown, with the sure knowledge that whatever happens next, the foundation blocks are incredibly secure.