Give a girl the right pair of shoes . . . And she can conquer the world!

Most pivotal moments in life happen when you least expect them. On a random Saturday morning in Spring of 1988 for example. All it takes is one event, one incident or one little situation and suddenly the dimensions of ones life can alter dramatically, never to be the same again . . .

Okay, so the specific incident I’m referring to here wasn’t exactly a life-changing experience for me, (to be honest I’m not sure I can even call it pivotal really, I just wanted to use the word,) but it was certainly responsible for altering a few things in my life, laying down the foundations for at least two of my biggest passions, (clippie-cloppy shoes and dancing) and at least one of my biggest aversions, (mice and all scurrying creatures in general.)

It all began in the old church hall, nestled in poison ivy at the bottom of a lane dotted with pot holes. There we stood, gazing at the frightening figure before us. Her hair scraped back in a no-nonsense bun, her fingers, slender and long and gesturing for us to move closer. Her figure, according to all the Mummies, was extremely desirable, though it occurred to me that she sort of resembled an ironing board. She wasn’t pretty per se, more striking, intimidating even. None of us dared to disobey.

Obligingly we shuffled forwards, like a herd of mini pink elephants, we huddled together and listened carefully as Miss Marcell tilted her ironing board closer towards us and began to whisper.

‘Underneath us, under the wooden floorboards,’ she somehow whispered at volume,  ‘there lives a family of little mice. And in this Ballet Class we shall not disturb the mice, shall we?’ We shook our little heads in response. ‘So we must walk on our tip-toes at all times and be as graceful as we can. Okay?’ This time we nodded. And those words were carefully etched into our minds forever.

Now despite being a Tuesdays child I am about as graceful as a fairy elephant. Grace is not an attribute I naturally possess and I’m clumsy too. Present me with the simple task of walking through a 3ft wide-door and I shall inevitably smack myself into the door frame in my attempt. Tis a curse, that I shall never be without I imagine.

Oh but I tried. I tip-toed, I whispered, I conjured every ounce of elegancy I could possibly find as I mastered the steps, the plie, the pirouette.  And such was my concentration that I rarely managed to dance without my tongue hanging out to help me, even as I clung to the barre for support. I was a hopeless case. Destined never to be a ballerina, which is such a shame cos I do have what has been referred to as a ’dancers neck’ (in that it is the only part of me that remains permanently (and pointlessly) slender, at all times.)

Eventually though and I cannot pin-point when exactly, something in side of me began to click in to place. It wasn’t the required balance and grace I needed in order to be selected to dance at the front with the best ballerinas though instead it was the powerful urge to rebel against Miss 2-backs and those flippin’ finicky mice.

Here I was going out of my way to be extra-specially quiet, delicate and graceful and those flippin’ mice were nothing more than squeaky squatters! Shacked up underneath the floorboards of our hall, insisting upon silence. Our Mummies paid good money to send us to Ballet lessons with Miss 2 backs, or so I’d heard. And I couldn’t be sure, but I sensed that the mice family probably didn’t pay as much for their accommodation?!  Who the squeak did they think they were?!

And ever since then I have had a very strained relationship with mice And all scurrying creatures, come to think of it.

Ah but my love for dance has never faltered.

Over the years I’ve tried every style of dance going. Jazz, Tap, Jive, Street, Bhangra, Drunken, Lap (only joking!!) . . . You name it and if it involves music, rhythm and some fabulous shoes to wear I’ll definitely give it a whirl.

My favourite kinda dance though is anything that can be performed in heels, because in my heels that clumsiness usually disappears and miraculously I find I have a teeny, tiny bit of grace after all.

And it was this rule that convinced me that I’d be a pro at pole-dancing.

After all I’d slid down the fireman's poles many times before in the park, (none of this is supposed to sound full of sexual innuendo by the way, so any smut in your mind hereafter is entirely your own.) and I thought I’d always demonstrated polished grandeur whilst spinning after one-two-many Vodka’s around the poles in nightclubs.

AND I once got a round of applause from almost every single passenger on the Bakerloo line for my pole-dancing abilities on the tube.

So how hard could it be?!

VERY.

At least it was for me. Even in 6 inch heels and my favourite Chanel lippy. I stood in a studio full of svelte young ladies, snaking their bodies around the poles effortlessly. And I did as instructed. I twisted my leg around my pole like all the other girls and I even managed to pull myself up with just my arms. But instead of spinning in a neat circle and landing on my shoes as I should have done I somehow tied my ankle to my pole and landed with a thud firmly on my arse.

And then I tried again. And again. And again. Until the colour of my face matched my bright red lippy precisely.  And eventually the lovely instructor decided it might be wise to place a crash-mat underneath my pole. For insurance purposes.

I left the class feeling as though I had been involved in a horrific accident. How those girls do that and make it look sexy is beyond me. And I really must visit Peter Stringfellows some time soon to show my appreciation.

Out of all the dance genre’s I’ve tried and tested my favourite, and the one in which I am by far the most accomplished has to be the mystical art of Raqs sharqi or more common, ‘Belly Dance.’

Why they call it belly dance I’m not sure, since it’s actually all about the hips and not at all about the belly. And since the hips are my favourite body part on a woman, and belly dance is all about celebrating being a woman, it suits me to a tee. I can’t get enough and have been shimmying all over the place, in the kitchen, in the shower, in my sleep, (there you go again, being smutty!) - and it’s stirred up the inner hippy, (I didn’t eat her either by the way, I just happen to have lots of creatures inside.) I feel very airy-fairy at the moment, full of inner peace and tranquillity. I’m even thinking of getting a toe-ring. (which in my book is the ultimate in hippy-chic.) I might even go blonde too . . .

And guess what? I don’t belly-dance in my heels at all. I dance barefoot (so that I can ‘draw energy directly from the ground’ and ’be at one with the Earth’ and sufficiently open all of my chakra’s—according to Dolphina (my telly belly dance instructor.) - and I don’t mind at all.

I don’t say this very often but I guess there are some things in life you can conquer without shoes :-)

Steph x

 

If your body really is a temple then mine isn't exactly what you'd call 'architecturally outstanding'.




I think it's safe to say that the Taj Mahal I am not, (though I am similar to the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant down the road, in that I am full of yummy takeaway food.)




I am no longer carrying around a real baby in my bod, but instead seem to have unknowingly adopted a jelly baby in his place, it's not a pretty sight. And since this weeks marks the week of my post-natal check up, and thus means I am officially a 'normal' woman again, I figured that right now is where my temple reconstruction should begin. So hard-hats at the ready please folks, cos this could be dangerous.




Of course the simplest and easiest way of getting back into shape and looking a million dollars is, as everyone knows, to apply to be on 'Extreme Makeover.' To have ones imperfections carefully perfected by the surgeons knife, courtesy of the lovely people at LivingTV. Naturally this is at the top of my to-do list, but on the odd chance that they don't pick me I'm gonna begin the journey by taking the old fashioned route, diet (yawn) and exercise.




This is not gonna be an easy feat for a gal like me. I love food. I love to cook. And most of all I love to eat. And I eat all the naughty stuff too, like pasta and bread and chocolate. If it's even slightly sinful I'll have it. Mealtimes are a big deal in this household, I cook, Lori lays the table, together we eat and usually watch an episode of, 'Come Dine With Me,' whilst we enjoy our grub, then Jay washes up. It's a ritual we've always enjoyed and would love to continue. Nope, as much as I'd love to, I don't think I'll ever be one of those, 'just a stick of celery and a bit of carrot please,' kinda girls.




Exercise, on the other hand, should be fine. In theory. In practise however I appear to lose more dignity than actual weight.




The other morning, for example, whilst exercising my hands with the wonders of the Sky+ remote (which i very rarely get to hold since it is almost always attached to my husband,) I stumbled upon the 'FitnessTV' channel where I found a whole array of workouts and programmes including one, seemingly produced specifically for me, called, 'The High Heeled Workout.'




Within minutes I had kicked off my slippers and stepped into my very beautiful Roland Cartier stilettos and I was shaking my hips and strutting my stuff in my living room-come-dance studio with 'Natalie' as my very own personal dance instructor.




About a half hour in, with my glass of water in hand and my butt giving Beyonce a run for her money, I found myself getting a little hot and thus slipped off my t-shirt so that I was down to my bra, pj bottoms and heels. Of course this was the moment that the postie decided to cycle right past the living room window and (rather rudely) peer in. Oh the shame.




Still I shall not be defeated by the embarrassment that my exercise regimes seem to induce, (click here for a reminder of my running escapades, - am I the only one that can't perform physical activities without making a fool of herself?!) - I am keeping my head held high, (after all tis my head that's the only part to date that I can hold up high and that has not been defeated by gravity.)




I've noticed lately that I'm not the only one that's watching her weight, lots of my Facebook pals and fellow new mummies are also fighting the fat from what I can gather. Now that we have our babes in arms it's time to get our bods back and we are determined women, (after all we have survived the wonders of pregnancy and child-birth, so what's a little dieting?!) together we can do anything ;-)




I've mentioned before that one of my er 'hobbies,' if you will is, (and i say this with slightly shame at the sadness of it,) making lists. I write lists all day long. To-do lists, shopping lists, wish lists, lists of clothes I'm taking when i go on holiday etc. And I'm thrilled therefore to have stumbled upon a site that will combine both my love for lists and indeed my new temple reconstruction. It's called, Fitday and it' a website for tracking ones weight, diet, exercise regime and even moods. I've been using it for the past three days now and every day before bed I've been logging a list of absolutely every* calorie I've consumed during that day, as well as every form of physical activity I've performed. (* when I say 'every' I obviously discount the odd sneaky bite of chocolate, since that doesn't count – chocolate is good for you, it's a scientific fact. I think.) Tis a very useful website, I'd definitely recommend it if you're also about to embark in a reconstruction of your own temple.




I imagine this could take a little while, (after 14 months of pregnancy it's bound to be a bit of a mission,) alas I am determined to have the bod I once had.




Temple or no temple, either way it deserves to be worshiped ;-) Now . . . Where's Mr. Connolly with that massaged he promised me . . . ?




Steph x

My husband, Jay, hasn't exactly got, what you might call, a way with words. I mean, he tells hilarious jokes, (he never forgets a good punchline, unlike yours truly,) and he can do great accents, (my favourite is his Irish one, it's delicious -I would have married him in seconds if he'd used that on our first date!) and when he's working he uses a silver tongue in all his sales pitches. Yet when it comes to describing things Jay will almost always favour his own terms, sound affects and actions over the language of a standard Oxford English dictionary.


It took a while before Jay and I truly understood each other. Not that we have a lack of communication or anything, it's just that I am, in Jay's words, 'a posh Surrey tart,' with a love of the English language and he is a typical west -end London lad that knows and uses virtually every form of cockney rhyming slang ever invented, (and some that I'm pretty sure he's invented himself.)





You want me to give you an example don't you? Hmmmm, well he once called me and said,

'I've just gotta rub over me Baked Beans before we go out tonight. Should I wear my Scooby's or my Gloria Gaynors?'




Which roughly translates to,



'I've just got to iron my jeans and should I wear my shoes? ('Scooby Doo's') or my trainers? '




Gradually, as time has rolled by, we've managed to find a compromise between our two languages so we can chat like any other couple, though I still use terms he finds hilarious and he still says things like, 'tune, by the way,' when a good song comes on the radio or, 'it ain't about that,' when he finds something he doesn't like so much.




One of my favourite characteristics that my gorgeous man possess though is his ability to do Blockbuster sound affects. Seriously he can make the strangest noises. He can simulate a car or a plane or any other motor for that matter, and can make machine-gun noises that wouldn't be out of place in any violent movie. I think it's a talent he shares with the majority of his kind, (the males species that is,) because I've noticed that lots of boys can do it. (Perhaps they learnt at the secret lessons boys had at school, the one where they also learnt to set their farts on fire and to make paper aeroplanes that really can fly?!)




Anyway the point is I am now pretty much used to the way he communicates and thus wasn't surprised when he just pointed out that instead of his life being, (*whistles* a happy tune,) it's more, ('dun, dun, DDDDUUURRRNNNN!!!')




(What he means to say is that instead of everything being easy and simple in his life, it always seems to be complicated and dramatic.)




And this, I'm afraid is where I have unknowingly influenced him. You see my life is always a little dramatic too, I almost always take the hard route and those things that old people are always on about, that are 'sent to test us,' always seem to be sent directly to me. (Perhaps I should redirect my mail?!)




Drama always seemed to follow me around, yet now it appears to want to follow Jay too. Which is why my husband is currently stranded approximately 170 miles from home up in Middlesbrough.




It's a long story, (which involves the loss of a car key and the lack of a spare,) and the conclusion is that instead of being home with Mummy and Leo, Daddy is wearing yesterdays clothes, smells like a tramp, (I imagine, because he forgot to take a towel to use after taking a shower,) and is awaiting the arrival of the spare key which should be with him before 9am tomorrow morning, (according to the very nice lady at the post office whom also kindly informed me that I'd forgotten to actually seal the envelope containing the spare key. Ooops.)




So anyhow I am now technically home alone. Little Leo is spending the night away with Nanny Sandie, (which was arranged during the bizarre hour during this afternoon when it was suggested that I would act as courier and rescue my hubby by taking the 4 hour (and £77!!!) train journey up to meet him,) and Lorelei is still down at Nanny Annie's (and I'm missing her like mad!)




I've got my Tilly and my Jack (both of whom act like Rottweilers, will keep away the burglars and thus will, for one night only, be allowed to sleep on my bed tonight!) – I've got my Tinkerbell (although she hasn't been home for a while, dirty little stop-out) and of course I have Woody and Lucky (the two ducks in the garden) but other than that I'm on my tod.




I'm a 21st century chick. An independant woman. I don't need a man. I enjoy my own company and will saviour this time alone. Ah who am I kidding?! I miss them all already. And I don't quite know what to do with myself.




I have toyed with the idea of drinking Jay's Stella's in the fridge and then belting out a few tunes on the karaoke machine (yep, we must be the only family in Britain to have a karaoke machine in our living room! lol) but singing solo to a couple of mutts seems a little sad, even for me.




I have also toyed with the idea of clearing Lorelei's room and getting cracking on the makeover I'm going to perform as a surprise for her when she returns home. (I've been all inspired by 60-minute makeover and have concluded if they can do a whole house in an hour (give or take the tea break they have half-way through, lazy buggers) I can certainly do a room in 2 weeks!) - Yet I just can't bring myself to tackle the mountains of bits of plastic and play-dough and broken or unused toys.




The telly is somehow displaying billions and billions of channels but still absolutely nothing worth watching and the housework is beckoning but I'm on strike. No way am I going to spend the evening scrubbing thank you very much. (Though I am aware that it is Wednesday and therefore I need to 'do the bins.' Yet since this is Jay's job I'm not really sure what, 'doing the bins' actually entails . . . anyone? lol)




I could go out. Except I have about a fiver in my bag and cash-card is up north. I could invite some friends over, (except we've nearly run out of toilet roll and I don't think it's very good etiquette to invite guests over and ask them to bring their own.)




What did I used to do before I became a Mummy and a Wife? It seems an age away . . . let's see . . . If i wasn't in the pub, or out dancing the night away I might have been in the gym, (Katy and I used to go together. We'd weigh ourselves first, then work-out, then weigh ourselves again, then go and have a Maccy D's to console ourselves on the discovery that we hadn't lost an ounce. Lol) – or failing that I think i would have been at home pampering and preening and beautifying myself.




Yep. That's what i'm gonna do. Stick my ipod on shuffle. Spend an hour in the tub. Deep-condition my hair. Exfoliate. Moisterise. Face-Mask. Slip into my softest PJ's and chill . . .




And just like that. Suddenly I'm not feeling quite so lonely after all ;-)