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.

The world is full of choice.

I am quickly learning this, having attempted to shop at Tesco’s very early on a Friday morning. (Yes, this was for the beloved attendees of my birthday party; they were duly informed of my deed.) I was overwhelmed with the variety of fruit juice: branded or non-branded, from concentrate or not, organic or plagued with additives, pretty pictures or bland colours, adult or child-friendly, three for the price of two or two for the price of one. Bleary-eyed at 6.30am, I found myself in ‘stress-city’.

Too much choice is a bad thing.

As a child, there is often a routine enforced, providing security and knowledge of what happens and when. The world is an exciting and potentially adventurous place which can take place within the safety net of the sure knowledge of what is yet to come. As an adult, this mirage is an open book. There are not necessarily any fixed ‘rules’. The ‘rules’ can be adopted, from society at leisure. Life is a plethora of colours, a gourmet of ideas to be conjured and assimilated at will.

So, how do you make decisions? (Please do comment.) Do you trust your instinct? Or, do you weigh up the situation, carefully balancing your rational thoughts with your emotions? Sometimes, decisions need to be made pretty quickly but often, big (possibly life-changing ones) require time and thought. There are always consequences for one’s actions, which often involve and affect other people.

I have learnt again and again that there are also two other factors involved in making decisions: letting go and taking risks. The former implies a loss of control (which is healthy as no-one can ever be fully in control of their life) and the latter, develops a world beyond the confines of one’s own spectacles (Harry Potter or not). Surely there is nothing to be lost in taking a leap of faith? So, why don’t we do it more often?

Personally, I think that there is a huge fear of failure surrounding society. “What happens if I fail in pursuing my dream?” Nothing outrageous will or does happen. The only sadness is in not having tried to reach out, stretch and leap. Thus, the only failure is in not having taken the risk at all.

And I think that that is how one makes a decision as taking ‘risks’ is what makes an individual really grow.

I don't quite understand something.

I have been 33 years' old now for over a week. It's brilliant; I have been alive for longer days than I can count on my finger-tips. However, the downside is that my life is shortening by the minute. That's a really morbid thought.

Plus, I am putting myself through an event which is terrifying me. I don't know why I am doing this but I am having a party, a birthday party, in fact this week-end.

Why am I doing this?

When I was younger, I had annual birthday parties. Each celebrated the milestone of growing, learning and developing. Every child in the class was invited (it was a fabulous way to ensure that I received many gifts). There were games, magicians and party food. When I got to the 'icky' stages of adolescents, celebrating birthdays became more of an 'event' or an 'outing'. If I'm being honest, these didn't work so well. There wasn't the fun or the anticipation of hoards of little people entering one's own domain as well as being the sole focus of attention for approximately 2.5 hours. (Could you let me know of the best birthdays that you've ever had?)

I've not had a party for 3 years. The last one I held was very impromptu, held in part, to meet and greet relative strangers where I had just moved to. Happily it was my birthday; I received two whole cakes (unbelievable), masses of cards and presents (again, unbelievable) and there was dancing. There was dancing with 'my kind of music' ...... there was even a dance off*. (I think that Miss Ruby won).

However, now that I am fully ensconced in my new home (I've changed locks and doors, gateways, colour of cats as well as the alarm system to deter the owners from returning), I do think that it is time. Time for the party to begin. Well, let's rephrase that. It's time for the party to begin, with other people. There have been nightly parties here (I am very good at playing Twister and have only visited A&E twice) but I think it's time to branch out. People make quite interesting parties. After all, as one friend kindly reminds me, 'Rach, what song shall we play? I know ..... All By Myself .....'.

Back to the party. I've sent out invites. I've bribed relative strangers from the street. I've put up a billboard, displaying the event. I did this about three weeks' ago. And on Saturday, all being well, I will be hosting a social gathering. But, before that, there is so much to do ..... there's cleaning. There's catering. There's finding liquid substances for all to indulge in. I'm even planning and plotting games (beware). I'm even considering what kind of music to play. (That didn't take long).

I won't dwell on that point.

I also have forgotten (but have had a quick wake-up call now) that each person, brave enough, to step over my threshold, doesn't know what they are in for ..... Poor people. What am I subjecting them to?

My sister is an Events' Manager. She organizes many occasions, hosting many parties. With each minute that passes by, I respect her more. (I hope she reads this).

However, there is one point that is totally confounding me. This birthday party is suppose to be fun. And I'm a little unsure as to whether I'm feeling upbeat, relaxed or horizontal about the whole encounter. On a scale of 1-10, I would say that I am on 3. But, I have 48 hours in which to start to enjoy this ..... and whatever happens on Saturday night, it will be a surprise. Often, there's no point in planning and 'one' has to just let life unfold. And in many ways, that is the best way to live.

* A dance off is a competition between individuals. Judges are impartial to competitors and points are awarded strictly on the amount of unique and outrageous dancing involved.

Well, here's to Day 7.

Seven days of freedom.

I am now a proud home-owner. Actually, maybe I should rephrase that sentence. I know of some friends who are currently based in Bhutan. These have been very good friends to know; they have given me their house for the duration of their holiday. I think that I should meet more people like this. (Do kindly inform me of your travel arrangements for this year).

I am rather distraught though. Sister no.2, who currently inhabits the wild winds of Derbyshire, has kindly informed me that I am not Cameron Diaz. For those of you whose cinematic inclinations tend to verge more towards those of more intellectual pursuits, I will develop this line of thought further. Along with the aforementioned NH and DD in a previous blog, I have the Dvd (stolen from sister no.2) of the 'Holiday'. In this untaxing film, which could be classed, admittedly, as a 'chick' flick, Kate Winslet, based in a cottage in Surrey, swaps houses for Christmas with Cameron Diaz, who owns a palatial enterprise in Los Angeles. Kate W meets Jack Black; Cameron meets Jude Law (who incidentally turns up on her door-step). (I find it hard to imagine Jude Law turning up on my door-step, even though I have realized my true identity. But, still .....).

Sister no.2 has denied any correlation between me and Cameron Diaz's adventures whilst house-sitting. I tend to disagree. I am only on Day 7, after all.

I moved in last Thursday, with my various carrier bags, containing personal belongings that have been placed in various spaces. I write 'placed' as it's very easy to mix up one's own belongings with that of others'. But, it has been interesting to see how quickly this house has become 'home'. Some places that one lives in never have a 'feel' of home. Indeed, it is almost nigh to impossible to feel at ease in certain environments.
I remember arriving outside a converted motel room in Idaho, miles from anywhere (and unbeknownst to me, I was not to leave for four months). Immediately, I was 'home'. It was a very distinct feeling and something that I won't forget. I have lived in other, less appealing places which have been hard to return to at the end of the day. Here, hidden in the woods, in the undergrowth, I am totally 'at home'. I am tempted to become a hermit but on reflection, have shunned this career.

I have learnt many things this past week. Most notably, I have befriended two cats. I grew up with dogs (albeit the size of a rugby balls) and so, converting one's inclination and temperament towards cats has involved a little effort. However, I have worked out a 'game plan'. If I hear sounds, resembling a slight 'miaow' at the window, I let the two specimens inside the house. However, woe betide my new friends if they attempt to sound their vocal chords by the wrong door. I've decided that in life, it is never too late to discipline any animal or human being (including myself). I was a bit saddened though to be brought down to earth whilst feeding my feline friends the other day. Apparently, cats eat 'triangular' shaped objects, not hearts. Oh. I've tended always to verge on the creative side of life.

So, cats don't eat hearts. Probably a good thing in the long run.

Other extra-curricular activities around the house has been the discovery that tumble dryers don't clean clothes. Washing machines are a better bet. I was getting a little too confident. Both machines appear pretty similar, with square-shaped outsides and circular, transparent holes. I just didn't bother looking at the buttons or knobs on either of them. Procter and Gamble hadn't bothered to include a little liquid ball either so I merrily slugged in the blue liquid onto my clothes. Interesting. No water appeared. It was time to use my brain. I do have clean clothes now; it's very exciting. I even walked around Salisbury today, noting my cleanliness to myself.

Sometimes though, all you can do is laugh at yourself. I've been doing an awful lot of that, whilst running around singing my heart out to really bad music. And staring into space. I have never spent so much time pottering around, dancing and dusting. (Please ignore that latter word; it's happened twice through guilt trips). But, that's not to say, spending time alone is a wonderful way to discover new ways of being. It has made me realize how each of us creates our own world to live in, safe or not. It is vital to live in a 'content' way but more so, I feel inclined to take a few risks. And by doing that, each of us, really lives our potential.

I’ve got a certificate to prove it. Mind you, everyone got a certificate.

I am, to all intents and purposes, a qualified Intensive 5 Day Pressure Cook.

And if Delia Smith’s latest cookery book can hit sky-soaring heights; I’ll have a bestseller out for Christmas.

I spent the last week, learning to cook, with nine other participants at the Ashburton School of Cookery, based in Devon. All I can say is that I have met three chefs who abound in patience and good humour.

My problem lies with the fact that I cannot resist the temptation to wander off, into other unknown pastures, to talk to other beings, who happen to be sautéing potatoes, or stop and stare at the cows mooing outside whilst the soufflé burns softly in the oven or indeed, allow the gas to intoxicate the kitchen. (These are merely examples of kitchen activities and were not actively witnessed by others in the kitchen. I just happen to enjoy multi-tasking whilst wearing a white apron.)

Cooking. I do like it. But, having lived off a jacket potato for a year, in a state, famed for this staple fodder, I have been thinking that the time had come to extend my culinary skills for both my own sake and for the well-being of others. In life, if you want to have friends, it’s a good objective not to poison them, with or without the use of herbicide.

So, I went to Devon. Monday morning brought forth introductions and explorations as to why individuals were attending the course. I had thought long and hard about this; I have a 4 star Michelin reputation at stake. I said, with complete and utter sincerity, ‘I run a kebab van in Salisbury’. This, I hasten to add, is a little lie but I have always respected white kebab vans. Plus, jacket potatoes, from them (as well as Idaho) are unbelievably tasty. I have to add that one of my L.A (please see the first article I wrote) is to eat a kebab at 2.00am on a Saturday morning. This mission is taking some difficulty in achieving).

Having established our identities as Masterchef contenders, we moved swiftly into the kitchen, which was to house our souls, minds and bodies for the next five days, not to forget our chopping skills.

These, admittedly, had a variety of aims, not least in the vegetable department but also in the poultry arena. I have never felt so murderous in nearly 33 years of living. I murdered a chicken. Now, others on the course would be quick to deny this fact but taking a huge knife in one’s hand, and thwacking the living daylights out of some poor, pink object constitutes to me an illegal act. We didn’t, as a group, herd up a bevy of chickens from the streets, ready for immediate slaughter but nonetheless, dislocated joints, thighs and breasts was a pretty gruesome ordeal.

Poor chickens, that’s all I can say. I completely empathize with any vegetarians in the world.

Making pastry is a very interesting task. Or activity. Actually, everything we did, from our ‘mis-en-place’ constituted as an ‘activity’. We were given preparatory lists the night before we embarked upon our culinary adventure. ‘No pressure’, of course, when faced with fifteen or sixteen ‘activities’ for the following day. However, it is important to realize that the school is not a boot camp. Actually, this is far from the truth, especially when all one’s ingredients are prepared beforehand as well as washing up done by an angelic human being. (This has caused a huge shock to the system, on returning to Reality).

Where was I? Making pastry. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it has similar colourings to pasta. And on told to retrieve the chef’s unnamed pasta, I got the former. They both begin with ‘p’. I learnt quickly that in order to cover up mistakes in the kitchen, you’ve got to develop a good ‘faking’ attitude. Always pretend to know what you are doing ……… even if you don’t.

And this last morsel of advice leads me onto presentation. This is a Big Deal. I didn’t realize how cutting up carrots and swede into cubes could influence the whole plateful of nutritious pleasures. (Take note, McDonalds). Similarly, balancing haddock and poached eggs on a bed of steamed spinach, underneath a swirl of béchamel sauce can really obtain magnificent glory. I am determind to carry out this procedure, whether it’s cheese on toast or coq au vin.

And all this means that I am going to have to hold a dinner party. Yes, without blue string in the soup or providing marmalade as a main course. I won’t even be ringing for take-away pizza. I am not going to allow my guests to even eat beforehand. Please let me know if you are willing to be a very nice guinea pig.

If Delia can do it, so can I.

My hypothesis was correct. I tried and tested the formula at the week-end. I met a good person … but I couldn’t go as far as to converse with her as I knew that she was just TOO good.

Yes, I could’ve been judging her a little (or maybe a lot) but her demeanour exuded perfection: blond-hair, happy smile, quick, sharp mannerisms, perceptive questions, colour co-ordinated clothes … she definitely wasn’t the type to be smoking in the lounge with Diana DiPaola. (Please see comment posted in last week’s blog). Or nicking a car (April, I am shocked).

This woman was definitely a blue-eyed girl who never out-grew ‘goodness’.

I also know a family, who positively have halos of eternal worthiness, shining forth upon the world. Why is this so? On a rather more jaundiced note, I am sure that they are simply longing to run wild and free, through rivers and across mud-strewn fields, even though they are fully-fledged grown-ups (with the halos still intact). Something is stopping them from being naughty.

But, having explored the vast array of naughtiness that is available to those under twenty – what is left for the rest of us? I am asking this in advance of my thirty-third birthday. Is life over now? No more time or rather, opportunity for being exceedingly wicked and more importantly, having lots of fun?

Well, I am determined to prove this notion infallible. I do think that being on the other side of the ‘g’ word, as a ‘supposed’ adult; one has to think a bit more laterally in exploring the word ‘fun’. I have a sneaky feeling that ‘fun’ is not encouraged. There’s a certain level of enjoyment which is acceptable, after which, it’s is certainly time to resume to daily living. The latter is a Serious Business. Not something that involves laughing aloud in jacuzzis or nicking alcoholic beverages from hotel rooms. (I have never done this).

Today heralds the beginning of Lent. (Resolutions, detoxing/retoxing, spiritual reenergizing seem to be happening simultaneously this year … Peter, my early morning shower friend has not only failed to make his New Year’s Resolutions (I extended his dead-line until February 1st) but also, admitted to me only yesterday, that he didn’t want to give up anything for Lent as he was having too much fun. I would hasten to admit that we experience the same chlorinated water and hence, the same showers. His wife would not be best pleased to hear contrary to the latter).

I have work to do, even though I am busy undertaking my New Year’s Resolutions with vengeance. It is actually proving to be quite interesting; for one of them, I am doing wider reading. Now, that is what I call impressive. However, for Lent, I feel that it is a time to be austere, to throw off bad habits and live life in a puritanical fashion, devoid of any kind of vices.

That leads me to my next question. What is a vice? According to my reliable source, the New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, it is termed as ‘extreme moral corruption; depravity; evil; grossly immoral or degrading habits or conduct.’

Do you have a vice? If so, would you let me know? As I have homework, set by my future house-owners. Whilst they traverse the plains of India and Bhutan, I am house-sitting for them. In six weeks’, I have to find a vice that no-one else has ever had. That’s a tough call, by anyone’s standards.

I don’t have a visible vice …. But I am always, admittedly, on the look-out, for spicing up life (I am going down to the tattoo parlour this afternoon). I think that this is a very commendable attitude to adopt. And thus, in the most carefree way, it is possible to push the boundaries a little, to have fun ……. And maybe, just maybe over-rule the notion that life is a Very Serious Business.