Day 80 – The annual family holiday
When the giant called a couple of months ago and asked if the boy and I wanted to join the rest of the clan on a trip to Chamonix I was slow to reply. Though I adore my family and love to ski we are hardly the Brady Bunch and as far back as I can remember our family holidays have ended badly.
It is not that we don’t love each other it ‘s just that we find it all too easy to wind one another up. We are all such big personalities and so strong willed that in close confinement we clash and crash like bumper cars with no rubber. We do try to get along but somebody will say something wrong and all hell will break lose. As I am already a bit crazy at the best of times it doesn’t take too many dramas to tip me over the edge and when I am away from the boy I struggle to know where to turn when the tensions start to mount. It is because he has received one too many tearful phone calls from a foreign land after the drama has kicked off that the boy suggested I did not go this time.
I wanted to go anyway as I love the idea that one day we will have a Brady Bunch style holiday where the most exciting thing that happens is my mother burning the toast. Because of this tragic dream I assured the boy things would be different and I actually believed it, there would only ever be four family members together at any one time and there was going to be partners and friends to force us all to be on our best behaviour.
For the first four days everything went well; there were no sulks, no snarls and even sarcasm was kept to a minimum. I started to feel smug at how dull we had become and even considered making cookies for us all. I should have known it would not last. The giant enjoys his space as do we all and in the absence of yoga, Facebook and Sky television the tensions began to mount and all it would take for things to explode was a happy hour combined with an empty tummy too many.
As I am not really meant to be drinking I usually try to back away from situations where I feel obliged to drink. Après ski however is a traditional part of mountain culture and is one of the nicest parts of the skiing day. After the lifts have stopped the skis come off and people gather together with their friends, family and travelling companions upon the terraces which look up to the slopes and swap anecdotes of a day spent with their heads above the clouds. When everyone suggested an après ski drink I could not resist and over a cold beer we had a great time dissecting our day and congratulating ourselves for surviving a blizzard to come unharmed through the other side of the mountains mist. 
The problem with drinking after a hard day on the slopes is how quickly the alcohol goes to your head. I have fallen foul of the beer fairy before and in doing so have ruined myself for the slopes the next day; with this thought in mind and an overwhelming desire to finally get up to date with my blog I headed home leaving the others at The Rhododendron; the cheapest and most cheerful pub in the whole of Le Praz. I was feeling quite proud of myself for recognising the limits of my liver and treated myself to a strong coffee and hot shower to ease the aches of the slope.
I do not know why everything went wrong but I do know when it started to slide downhill. I had curled myself upon the couch after returning to the apartment alone and was looking forward to spending some time alone. I had just finished coming up with a concept for the day’s blog when my thought structure was interrupted by my sister’s partner crashing through the door upon the arm of my father’s godson. Admittedly he had been moaning while we were in the pub and had asked for a cold pack but we had all assumed he wasn’t too injured as he had skied down the mountain on it just fine only an hour before. One look at his face convinced me he was not faking, he was pale and acting as though he was in total agony. Though I do not have the most maternal of bones I felt I should at least attempt to care for him. His knee was the size of a tennis ball after all and with my sister absent and my mother back in the UK I applied the medicine of every good Irish woman, a cup of tea and a sandwich.
After adding to my cure a couple of painkillers and some snow packs, (my father’s godson’s innovative invention) ,it was clear he might need more medical attention than I could provide. Although I did a first aid course when I was twelve all I could remember was something about a triangular bandage and I didn’t really see how that could help us now. It was about this point that I started to panic.
My sister and the giant were over at the bar with no idea about the deteriorating knee situation. Though my sister had said she would return home after one more drink I had little faith in her keeping this promise. 
I have echoed the same spiel myself when the boy has rang to see when he could expect me home. Though one likes to believe one will be home in a jiffy the craic of the bar will always outweigh any call to come home, especially as the caller will usually be a cross patch by the time you get back and be none too amused when you tell them you wuv them very smuch indeed.
As I feared she may not be in the mood for problem solving when she returned I had sent a messenger to find out whether there was any hope of getting help on a Sunday and found out that the nearest hospital was forty minutes away. When I heard this I had another unpleasant realisation; I was the only one capable of driving and I haven’t been in a car since December. 
I was beginning to feel rather overwhelmed by responsibility and upon hearing another groan from my sister’s partner I realised I had no choice but to get the doctor involved. When she arrived she seemed quite concerned and advised a hospital visit for X-rays and painkillers. After deciding it would be best to wait till the morning to take him I began to feel relieved that something had been done.
My sister had returned just before the Doctor got there which left me free to return to my writing whilst she played at being nurse. Just as I had settled into the couch however and opened up a monthly magazine, the giant returned. If it wasn’t for his rosy cheeks I probably would have jumped out the ground floor window upon seeing the look on his face. The giant had been unaware of the developments in the knee situation and as far as he was aware I had called out a seventy-five euro doctor for no reason and was a bit of a fool for doing so.
There is little point in going into detail about who slung the mud and how deep was the colour but what got said tonight has destroyed the delicate peace of the last few days. I feel foolish for coming away and annoyed because come the morning I will be the only one who will remember the harsh words spoken. The boy is perhaps right, maybe the time has come to call a day on the annual family hell-a-day.
- Today’s dress is another loan from my sister who also took the photos from today. It is from Hennes and though it looked great with a beret all of us were feeling a bit too bitter about the rugby to promote French culture any more than we had to. The mountains in the background by the way are Swiss.
- FYI – The reason I am smiling in the pictures is they were taken before everything kicked off when we were still on speaking terms. I do hope our family will be at peace again., I just find it hard right now to imagine how.
Day 79 – The three greatest ski accidents of my life
When I started to ski falling over was all part of the fun. I think the reason little ones learn to ski so much quicker than those who take to the sport later in life is because they have no fear and have a lot less far to fall. When I started to ski my sister and I would have a competition to see who could fall over the least. She was a far better skier than me so it would inevitably be me but by the end of the holiday the rules would change and the glory remained to be claimed for whoever had fallen the most or she who had came a cropper to gravity in the most spectacular way.
I am an accomplished skier and can tackle most runs in an upright stance with speed and on the odd occasion some semblance of style, therefore when I suddenly find myself sliding backwards down a mountain head-first with my skis in the air or slam straight into a piste marking pole it is always a bit of a surprise. If I’m honest I enjoy these unexpected falls; as well as getting my adrenalin pumping it does my pride a lot of good to land on my bottom and ensures other skiers in sight a good old giggle. There is something so wonderful about surrendering complete control for the stretched seconds it takes to come to a halt. Even though my falls today tend to be as dangerous as they are dramatic they still make for fabulous anecdotes and serve as a reminder of the fragility of life and the importance of grasping out and clinging to every second we can steal of it. 
It is important to live every second we wake and whether this means ensuring one watches each and every episode of Glee or even challenging oneself to ski the Valle Blanche before one’s body is tired to do so, it is all part of the pleasures of life.
As a child I would have fallen at least a dozen times a day whilst out on the piste and like a jack in a box my sister and I would spring immediately back up, snow in our hair and a smile on our faces. Although there were several memorable childhood falls, the funniest and most dramatic of them all occurred just before my father took a photo of us skiing down the mountain together. 
In one photo we are both looking back at him from the chair-lift, wearing the colourful shell-suit-ski-suits popular in the 1980s and although we are both grinning away my wispy light blonde hair is sticking out in all directions and my face is much more flushed than that of my sisters. Before this photo was taken the giant had decided he was a professional taker of pictures and that a picture of his two daughters skiing down the mountain in tandem would look fantastic. I am sure it would have done but it never actually got taken so the picture of us on the chair-lift is the only evidence of the masterpiece which never was.
Although I was taken to the dry-ski-slopes before we went away I had never bothered to mention to the giant I did not yet know how to slow down or stop. I had a vague memory of our instructor talking about turns but I was fairly bored by this point and just wanted to go on to the steeper slope. The plan for the picture was to ski down making turns together and then stop just in front of my father and smile for the camera. It all would have gone brilliantly except for the fact that when I tried to stop I remembered I didn’t know how and applying my own rules of speed and motion to the proceedings I sat down on my skis in the hope this would make me slow down, it did not. I hurtled straight past ta rather concerned looking giant and straight over the edge of the mountain right next to the queue for the ski lift where a group of Germans were chattering happily away before a 4ft ten-year-old cut straight through the middle of them. I have no idea how I managed not top hurt myself but all I remember is looking up to see my sister clamberin g over the edge to help me up. 
It must have taken us about half an hour to gather up my ski kit. My gloves, skis, poles, hat and goggles were littered down the 100ft near vertical drop down which I had fallen. It probably took us longer than it should have done because we were giggling in fits of laughter and shouting up to the giant to take the picture.
The second worst fall I ever had whilst skiing was when the giant and I were put together in ski school. The giant has been trying to teach me how to ski since I was nine and as his main method was bringing me to the point of no return on a near impossible run and telling me I could either ski down it or walk I had to learn pretty quickly. More times than you would think I would stubbornly remove my skis and walk down the slope, a pint size temper tantrum throwing pre-teen. 
It was perhaps my seventh time away and our entire family had taken the perhaps foolish decision to come away together for a ten day holiday to Austria. Looking back on it I remember us having a fantastic time but there were at least three nights where the fireworks flew inside our hotel on account of one word carelessly spoken.
The giant and I were put into one school as our ability was deemed to be equal, a conclusion in which i took great pleasure and the very reason I was so cross the other day when he beat me in a race after all these years. Though we would clash in the evenings, on the slopes surrounded by our peers we were both on our very best behaviour and kept our domestics to a minimum. Though I was a little put-out about my father stealing some of my lime-light I tried to hide it well and when I came third in the races on the last day it was quite nice to have a member of my family there to watch my small victory. 
Years ago I used to ski in a way which was described by my tutor as being “very good but also very dangerous, both for yourself and other skiers”. As this was the same guy who had taught me how to do 360 and 720 turns I took his advice with a pinch of salt. It wasn’t until three years later whilst skiing the Olympic contenders slalom just for fun after veering away from my group. Although some of our group had opted out for fear of falling the best skiers in the group all took on the challenge and I was damned if i was going to back out. At first it went incredibly well, I managed to work my way round the flags, zipping so close my hair touched the silk. It wasn’t until I reached the end that I took the corner too fast and flew fifty foot into the air and came crashing down landing hard on my neck. I was so dazed that after I pulled myself up I skied down the mountain towards the rest of the school below sans sunglasses, poles and scarf. 
Though I carried on skiing the rest of the holiday the incident was a sharp and terrifying reminder to check my speed and ever since I have had a complex about the fragility of my neck whilst on the slopes.
The final fall which I had after finally perfecting my technique to the point where I can happily ski any piste happened two years ago on the L’hears run in Chamonix. I was taking the slope slowly showing my baby brother how to turn on moguls, letting ones kness take the impact of the powder before pushing up and turning quickly so as not to build up speed. After letting him go on ahead so I could see what he’d learnt I set out to show him howq it was done. Unfortunately I missed the second turn, picked up speed and had to throw myself down to stop myself falling off another cliff. I was going so fast by the time I fell that I still didn’t stop and went hurtling down a hundred feet of steep slope head first. I tried everything I could to stop myself, only that morning we had heard of three deaths the same week and I was very aware of the rocks peeking through from the valley below the snow. After clawing at the ground I slid straight over a pole which slowed me slightly but pulled the pole out of the ground. I landed just inches before a huge rock and was in absolute shock. 
My father came across fear in his face to help me get up and I have no idea how I managed to get down the slope. When I looked around once I managed to stand I noticed my brother standing besides the pole which had obviously flown into the air and landed twenty meters away besides where he was stood watching in horror as I fell.
I was still a smoker but had gone without any for days for fear my parents would find out. Once I got down to the restaurant below however and persuaded my family to leave me alone I shakily rolled myself a cigarette and sipping slowly upon my rum and hot chocolate gazed out to the mountains as though it was the first time I had seen them. It is not much fun having to face one’s own mortality and since the accident I have never been able to take the same joy from the slopes as I always had before. I am a far more cautious skier and though this means I am safer than before the buzz is never as good. I hope that one day my confidence will return and once again I will be the girl who thinks nothing of throwing myself from the top of the piste with no thought to what might lie beneath.
- Today’s dress is on loan from my sister. She kindly took a selection of dresses with her for me to borrow so I wouldn’t go completely over my weight allowance. This dress is from Tesco but claims to be made by Florence and Fred. I have no idea who these people are but I have heard of Tesco. James Cornish my sisters partner again took the images. The hat was on loan from my sister and my hair is styled by the slopes.
Day 78 – The giant, the mountain and the ball gown
Though the giant and I have a terse relationship when we are skiing we somehow manage to put our differences aside and enjoy each others company. When I was nine-years-old my father decided it was time to take me along on the O’Neill family annual skiing holiday. My mother has never been a big fan of the sport so she tended to stay at home with whichever tot was too young to come along. Although I was a daddy’s girl when I was younger by the time my first skiing trip came round my feet were planted firmly at my mother’s side and the idea of leaving her to go away with the giant seemed to me like an act of treason. In the end our darling Catherine managed to convince me that skiing was “really good fun” and I conceded to join her and the giant in a trip to Austria.
I must admit I did not immediately take to the activity, it was freezing cold and no matter how many times I sucked on my gloves my fingers felt like icicles. By the end of the holiday however I was hooked; I loved the way the wind whipped through my hair as I hurtled down the slopes, I loved how fast me and my sister could fly down the flat runs, pausing only to size up the best path for show jumps and I loved how well we all got along without the pressures of two other siblings, housework and homework. My sister, my father and I would get up and out by half seven and stay out on the slopes till the last lift of the day. The flights back then used to cost a fortune so we would save our money by bringing Mars bars from home and the occasional slab of Milka to keep our energy levels up throughout the day. 
My father would share it out between us on the chair lift and we would chomp it down before embarking upon another run.
The best holidays were always those where we split into ski school groups during the morning then met up at lunchtime to swap stories. I do not know why it is we get along OK when we are skiing, perhaps like our shared love of football, having an activity which we both enjoy means we have something in common other than blood. Whatever it is we always seem to have a good time up on the mountains and we have spent whole afternoons together tearing down The Alps, racing and seeking out new challenges, chasing the sun and attempting to escape the cloud and the mist.
I feel privileged that I have been able to go skiing from a young age, although me and my sister were taken out of school I do not think we missed out on any where near as much as we gained from going. Some of my favourite and most traumatic childhood memories are from these holidays, such as all the times my sister and I used our sunglasses to check out hot men on the slopes or the time my father fell over the side of a cliff and we had to beg passing skiers to stop and help us drag him up. 
For some time my father and I were at a level with our ability but sadly he has now overtaken me and it makes me a little sad that we no longer ski in union. We had a race today and for the first time in years he beat me leaving me with a burning desire to get my fitness back on track as soon as we get back to the UK to make sure this travesty never happens again, I mean for goodness sake he’s practically retired!
- My sister kindly took the photos for today and we tried to get a backdrop of The Alps but the railway crossing got in the way a little as well as some rude drivers who seemed to think they had the rights over the road . Today was supposed to be Little Black Dress Friday as started by The Uniform Project a couple of weeks ago to promote creativity and sustainability. Unfortunately it has been postponed till next week but as dress supplies out here are as scarce as the snow in the valley I decided to wear my long black dinner dance dress regardless. My mother bought it for my dinner dance when I was 16 and since then I have worn it on only five other occasions; four of these were to dinners and evening dos with different boyfriends, the last was for a visit to the opera in Verona with my father, my brother and my mother. I love it to bits and even though I look rather different in it now to when I was a slender sixteen-year-old, I still think it is one of the most beautiful dresses I own.
Day 77 – Falling off the wagon, French style
Today I fell off the wagon rather dramatically. In my defence I have been doing fairly well; other than a few drinks on a couple of special occasions over the past four weeks I have been surprisingly sober. I can not deny that I haven’t missed the drink; I love the grape and the grain as I do a long overdue conversation with a good friend so being without it has left me feeling a little lonely at times, particularly when my society consists of the suitably sozzled.
Though I had decided to do my best to have a booze free holiday it turns out not drinking in France is nearly as depressing as not smoking. When I tuck into a long lunch with a baby bubble beverage rather than one of their sweet stumpy beers I am looked at like a leper and feel like a right old bore. After all I say to myself I am on holiday and after all surely occupation of a different country means one must adopt their laws and customs. Surely I think by not drinking their delicious vino I am causing unintended offence.
After running through similarly logically sound arguments all day I finally fall well and truly off the wagon during dinner. I manage to convince myself that holidays are technically a special occasion and after all I have cause for celebration and this is the first time I have shared a meal with my family after getting my good news. It may be an excuse and I am perhaps kidding myself but it certainly feels like an occasion. 
We go to our favourite restaurant in Chamonix. Although The Hotel Eden do some of the most fanatic dishes in the whole of The Alps, their prices are pretty high and although I would love to go to their restaurant until I am employed it is just not realistic. Our favourite restaurant is one of the best value in the whole of Le Praz, a small village just outside of central Chamonix. It is only a five minute stroll from where we stay and their menu has I think stayed the same for the last five years.
It is one of those restaurants where as soon as you walk in you know who the owner is. The family who own it are often eating there themselves when we come in and the television stays on the sports channel for their pleasure. The y have not changed their menu or themselves to accommodate the influx of tourists into their village. We order in our very best French, desperate not to seem like the atypical arrogant anglais who can not be bothered to stretch his tongue to please his hosts. If we make a mistake she kindly corrects us and when there is an issue with translating the puddings she will switch to sign language and indulge us in our guessing games but she will not use the English tongue and for this I admire her. Once when we had fondue there the lady who owns the place along with her sports fanatic husband took pity on our peasant ways and showed us herself how best to coat the futons in the melted pot of cheesy gold.
We usually have the same, a special salad which has a poached egg on top as well as little bits of bacon and croutons drenched in oil. It is delicious and if I was more of a fool I would ask her for the recipe. The salads are followed by steaks, chips and more devilishly dressed salad, I do not want or care to know how many calories I consume in this meal but every squat, sit up or stair climb I have to do to burn it off will be totally worth it. 
Even I, the ketchup queen, will happily go without red sauce because everything is cooked so well it would seem an insult to injure it by adding one’s own accompaniments.
Tonight, there was just a little bit of tension at the start of the meal and as I have been fearing a repeat of last years family feuding I turned to the drink as a distraction. I find it hard to relax and just be and whether or not it is wrong or healthy having a drink just brings me down a level and loosens me up. I am always on such a tightly wound string it is nice to lose a little control once in a while and as I had told myself earlier that day I am after all on my holidays. Though I did my best to take it easy, technically speaking the tablets I am taking do not exactly advise alcohol. Two glasses of delicious table wine later I was feeling fabulously free and when the owners decided after our drunken debate with a table of Irish men about who would win the rugby the next day we all drank to France’s victory with a liquor from 1946. It totally finished us all and the walk back was hilarious. I am standing in the photos but many did not work as I was swaying ever so slightly.
On the plus side on our return to the apartment rather than falling into the trap of desperately trying to keep the party going I got myself a glass of water, watched a bit of the football until I was forced to admit that all I could see was a red and green blur I slid under the duvet, typed a few words of my blog and slunk into the loveliest sleep I have had in days. I may well have fell off the wagon, but at least I didn’t get hurt.
- Today’s dress is a kaftan borrowed covertly from my mother whilst she was away in Chamonix. Knowing the only way she would find out is if she read the blog I decided to chance it as she should be doing her essay so should certainly not be browsing through her daughters drones. I know it is ridiculous but I wore it with a beret as when in Rome and all. The green jumper was loaned to me, with permission and everything from my older sister. I love it and am thinking of accidentally acquiring it during the course and the panic of our packing. We are sharing a room at the moment and it is great fun. The top is apparently from Asda and the shirt dress is from Marks & Spencer Autograph collection. I think it is meant to be a top. The pictures were taken by my sister’s boyfriend, James Cornish who is quite the amateur photographer and kept doing strange things like practice shots.
Day 76 – A woman will find the strength to move the mountains if only her sister would ask
“Of all the gifts our friends give us, it is often simply a few words of encouragement that we value the most. Our closest friends have X-ray vision: it allows them to see our potential even when it is invisible to us. Their belief in us gives us the courage to venture into new territories. When we suffer a setback their words help us to heal and their faith in us restores our faith in ourselves.”
Today did not start well. After having just under four hours sleep I was feeling irritable, cranky and alone. With no car and no one to assist me I felt stressed and overwhelmed at all I had to do prior to boarding the plane to ski Chamonix. Today’s post could so easily be a bitter rant, full of complaints and criticisms of Easyjet and their frankly fearsome front of house desk clerk, however I have decided this simply will not do. Today we have cause for celebration.
Two days ago I entered a bit of a flunk about how few frocks I had left. Admittedly when I started this project I had hoped to keep it going the whole year but two weeks into march and I was running out of dresses and fast. Feeling fed up, lonely and hopeless I posted a blog about the dire dress situation. 
I had less than a dozen dresses and though many people had offered to donate, I had no clue as to whether they would reach me in time. Since publishing that post I have been overwhelmed by your response. Over the past two days, many of you, through facebook, twitter and plain old snail mail have sought out ways to keep the project alive.
Whilst one follower demanded 200 dresses from her friends through an informative wall-post, another directly contacted Fearne Cotton and Daisy Lowe through twitter to request dresses for the project. I also received a package from a follower in the states who had included a beautifully written letter and some ear-rings, just because. Girlfriends have got in touch with their own friends to promote the project and to try to source dresses and others have just forwarded my call for assistance throughout cyberspace.
I have been impressed and inspired by your generosity and selflessness; though I was down and had started to lose faith you rallied round and restored my belief in what the blog could be. When I first became ill I had no idea what was happening to my head. Fearing they would call me crazy I was too afraid and ashamed to seek out help or confide in my peers. If my being honest about my troubles helps even one person feel that to have head troubles does not mean you are a freak or even that you are weak and that life can and will be good again, it will have been worth it.
I have been so impressed by all you have done over the past couple of days and indeed the last three months to support the blog, I appreciate it more than I can say. To come clean about my crazy and not be made to feel a fraud or a failure is reward in itself. I do hope the day will soon be here when people feel comfortable about being open with their friends if they are having troubles. Since I stopped trying to hide what is an unfortunate but undeniable part of my make-up I have felt happier in myself than I have for years. Now if I feel funny, instead of taking to ground like a leper I come clean, tell my loved ones I am having a hard time and we battle through it together.
It’s a lot less lonely when there are others with you. Whilst you light the path they will lead the way and when it gets deep they will always have a shovel on hand to dig you out from the depths of your depression and will find a way against all odds and obstacles to pull you to the surface so you may see the sun. Even if you cannot feel its warmth at least they will have helped you to see it still shines, always and ever, upon us all.
- Today’s dress is on loan from my mother. It is at least as old as me if not older. The belt is from Topshop and has served me well the past couple of years though it may well be at the end of its legs now. I styled my hair with a pen as I keep losing bobbles and it has been bugging me with how samey it has been looking recently. It was not the most practical outfit to travel in but I felt great in it and I love that it is one of my mother’s favourites and how seeped in her history it is.
Day 75 – Lost in Lycra
My mood has been all over the place today. The first part of the day I was feeling as high as a kite, after having a luxurious lie in and bubble bath I started snooping around the house for dresses to wear which were conservative enough for my visit to my new place of work to sign the contracts. After having a bit of a snoop in my mothers wardrobe I came across a combination of flowery shirts, one old dress which I know is her favourite and a kaftan top which is quite long. Though the shirt was too short and the dress was just to desirable to steal without first asking the long kaftan dress fitted just right and I added it to my pile of packing along with my dinner dance dress, a silk 1920s Vintage ball gown or bridesmaid dress and a jumper dress which may well be a tad too transparent. Having had such a productive start to the day I set about the task of finding an outfit for the day again. 
I tried on countless nighties with fancy belts and slimming slips, attempted to turn a skirt into a dress and even raided the giants wardrobe for shirts with “shirt dress” potential. Whatever I tried though just wasn’t right, although I was rather keen on one nightie when combined with a silk cotton 1970s French Connection sleeveless top, there was no way of getting around the behind issue; whichever way you looked at it the nightie was see through and as the contract I was signing was not an agreement to enter rear of the year I started to despair.
Having just about resigned myself to a “shirt dress” with a long coat which would never come off I traipsed downstairs for some tea. Imagine then my delight then when I stumbled across this dress which I had only received yesterday from my lovely London based friend. I had somehow completely forgotten about it and although it is a teeny-weeny bit tight and shows off every hump lump and bump it is a dress and it is black. To ensure the look was completely conservative I classed it up with some blue Marks & Spencer tights which I bought in one of their outlet stores for £1.50. I had to pour myself into the dress so I quickly did some evil squats and sit ups to prevent the seams from splitting once I felt confident enough to breathe in it. Once I got the hang of sucking in my stomach and throwing my shoulders back I loved wearing this dress and by the time I was ready to head down town I was feeling like a slinky with a hill to master rather than a set of stairs.
Unfortunately a slight damper was put on my day by the usual troubles with getting a prescription and having a uncomftarble conversation with a doctor I had never met before about why exactly I was on weekly prescriptions. ”I think it might be because they were worried I would take an overdose.” Que awkward silence followed by me grinning in a misguided attempt to lighten the mood which probably left me looking a little loopy. Couldn’t be helped but not the easiest start to an acquaintance by any measure. In spite of this little awkward moment I had a really rather lovely bubbly day. As well as signing my contract without bursting into tears of joy, I also found a bar in Market Harborough which has WiFi. It is called The Square Bar should anyone ever be around the area and is as pleasant a place to work as any. Delicious coffee, plenty of natural light and unlike Cafe Nero two doors down does not charge for internet access and gives you a warm glow for doing the right thing by local business.
I do not know when the anxiety started to kick in. It might have been after I got home and realised just how much I had to do. I have been putting off a couple of reviews and doing the women’s week proved more difficult than I thought. I am trying to find decent quotations and if possible direct quotes from the women in question particularly in letter form to give the postings more warmth and authenticity but all of this takes time and as we all know so well time has a habit of hurrying on regardless. To be fair the anxiety may have well been much to do with being alone in the house for a couple of days and having little contact with anyone other than shopkeepers and cyberspace. Usually there is at least one person in the house or even the dog to keep one company and I find it difficult being by myself for too long. I love the idea of getting my own place once I start work but perhaps I am more suited to the social aspects of sharing a flat.
Though I managed to get quite a bit done with a little help from the Glee massive, by the time I went to bed my head was ticking with all the things I wanted to do the next day and it was impossible to switch off. By all rights the dose of the dreaded nauseating Quetiapine should really be all that is required to send me into a near comatose state for eight hours but for some reason tonight it just never kicked in. Perhaps it was the eight cups of tea I drank whilst trying to stave off hunger pangs; the tablets stimulate ones appetite but I am desperate not to gain any more weight even though I know its shallow I just don’t feel I look like me and it makes me feel fed up. Whatever it was I ended up lying here till three am, trying to get to sleep and desperately trying to ignore all the unanswered questions in my head. I think it was about three that I gave up on getting any shut-eye and just decided to do the work I wanted to.
For months now I have been considering getting business cards but have not yet found a suitable site. Last night however whilst tweeting through the witching hour about my desire for prettily designed cards of my own with lostinnotation as my home I was sent a tweet from a stationary angel from across the pond. She writes a wonderful fashion blog called Prim Knickers and recommended me a decent site. I do not actually remember ordering them as I was so tired but here within my email is a confirmation of the 500 business cards I ordered. The difficulty of the internet for occasional insomniacs like myself is it allows you to do pretty much everything 24 hours a day. Decisions which would previously be denied to the sleep deprived are now available and openly promoted. Once after not having slept for five days I booked my boyfriend at the time a trip to Amsterdam for his 21st birthday, it cost me around £800, nearly all of my savings and for some unholy reason I had booked us in to The Botel, a boat which is also a hotel because I thought it sounded romantic. 
It was not, but there was no getting out of it because they had my card details and I had confirmed it. I sometimes think there should be a universal law for those who suffer from instances of mania no matter how brief that once they have emerged from their spell they should be allowed to take back all their ridiculous purchases and get a free refund. Alas they do not and so soon I will have 500 business cards, at least they look pretty.
- Dress today is on loan from Clara De Los Acres Diez. She is an utter legend and the dress is a great shape from Zara and with blue tights and Kurt Geiger boots it looks extra special. I wore my hair up today as I think it makes me look more serious plus it has started to get on my nerves and if it continues to fall into my face I will be getting a bob before you can say limp lank and lifeless.
Cate Le Bon live at The Deaf Institute
Ellie O’Neill
08/03/2010
Meeting your heroes can be a truly terrible experience or one of the happiest moments of your life. When we meet our heroes we do not expect to be disappointed, so when they turn out to be a big fat lecherous let down it can be quite a blow (is there something you’d like to share with us, Ellie? – Ed).
Though Cate Le Bon is not a hero, she is currently being praised as a fantastic folk singer, specialising in soul soaring songs. Perhaps this is why the performance she gives at The Deaf Institute is so upsetting for the audience who have dragged themselves out on a Monday night, parting with nearly ten pounds for the pleasure of seeing her behave like an angst ridden, slightly pissed adolescent.
She follows the deeply set footsteps of masters of crowd pleasing and teasing; the kings of dangerous dad dancing, Lawrence Arabia. At first, their sound seems a bit too large for the venue, but the soundman sorts it in no time and soon we can hear their lyrics about apple pie beds and dream teachers crystal clear, even if we are not sure what they mean.
LA demand attention from the audience, and from the response they receive, anyone walking into the sumptuous velvet venue, with its cool smoking area which makes non-smokers wish they’d never quit would think they were the main act. After insisting we move forward and trying out their new name on us, “Lawrence Arabia And The Bisexuals” they launch into ‘The Beatiful Young Crew’. With lyrics like “We love each other/We hate each other/We’re afraid of each other/Because we want to screw each other”, the track gets a great reception.
Prior to this, the opening act is Kathryn Edwards, who sings with only a cellist for company. It is a shame she struggles to engage those in attendance, as her songs would be better received had she just made more eye contact. Her music is akin to Aimee Mann, and though her voice is as wholesome as the cast of Dawson’s Creek, some of her lyrics are dark and definitely worth a second listen.
Before Cate Le Bon arrives we are treated to a painful sound check where organ notes screech into the PA. It takes so long to get started the magic of the previous acts is broken and people have begun to talk. As she opens the set without bothering to introduce herself or apologise for all the tomfoolery, she seems a little confused at people continuing their conversation, but her stage presence is poor, and though she sings a good song she struggles to bring the throng along.
The whole performance is painful, so the gritty details will be spared, but a few things must be said. For some strange reason, the band spend most of their time facing the back or looking at something fascinating on the floor; there were far too many tune-ups, and at one stage one of them went off mid set to get more alcohol. It wasn’t rock and roll, it just came across as rude.
Though some songs are met with appreciation, the overall impression is of someone who doesn’t want to be here. She swears and spends most of her time flopping her fringe about in an irritating manner which you can only assume is a base attempt to imitate Beach House’s Victoria Legrand. Some people are singers and not performers but when a singer makes this little effort it is hard to swallow.
She ends nearly every track with a keyboard mash which sounds about as good as it did when you did it yourself when you were three. The audience do not call for an encore but she returns to the stage regardless, perhaps interpreting the subdued silence as an audience in awe.
If you do not want to watch a hero fall, stick to listening to Cate on CD, it will be far less painful than watching her perform.
The Miserable Rich -Live
The Deaf Institute, Manchester 07/03/2010
By Elinor O’Neill
Though they hail from the beaches of blighty, with their cowboy hats, deep throat drawls and bare existentialist lyrics you could be forgiven for thinking The Miserable Rich had ridden up outside Trof on horseback directly from the dusty plains of the American wild west.
The Deaf Institute is the perfect setting for tonight’s gig thanks to its sumptuous leather lined, concert-style steps and fabulously over the top décor. The sound engineer is a legend, and each and every word sounds as clear as spring water. Spotlights on the stage look like miniature sunsets, and their warmth ensures a few spooky shadows which add nicely to the mystique surrounding the men of The Miserable Rich.
Sarah Lowes, the support act is an absolute sweetheart who treats us to a six track set. Although she seems rehearsed and relaxed, she is refreshingly appreciative of the audiences applause.
She performs with her husband, also her drummer boy and a talented trombone player. Her voice sounds like treacle tastes, and her performance is a pleasure because she seems so unaware of how talented she is.
‘I Wish’, is a jazzy track which makes one want to jiggle bop, but the best track, ‘Something I Don’t Know’, is saved till the end.
It has a tricky little trombone loop at the beginning but rather than pre recording it for sake of ease their commitment to authenticity means they record the loop live in front of us, even though it takes eight attempts to get it just so.
By the time The Miserable Rich come on, the crowd has increased, but the intimacy remains. At first there is a touch of awkwardness between the stage and audience, which can perhaps be attributed to the lead singer, James de Malplaquet seeming a little too distantly cool with his tendency to stare into space.
He works hard however to hook us all in with his banter between tracks, and with the aid of the accomplished string section by the time ‘Boat Song’ is played the crowd are caught and are clinging tightly to every note.
It starts with an eerie music box wound by the frontman, which plays us the lullaby of our past. The song consists of a role reversal of a familiar childhood scenario in its story of a son tucking his mother into bed at night and singing her to sleep.
‘Pisshead’ is a proper tune which highlights just how brilliant a lyricist their songwriter is. It is sung with such splendour and soaring high notes that it ensures lines like “I feel much better when I’ve had a drink” sound painfully poignant.
Audience participation is encouraged, not only in the standard requests for badly timed clapping, but also by encouraging the crowd to sound out wolf noises prior to the start of final track, ‘Wolf’.
When they return for an encore after a huge applause, de Malplaquet makes everyone giggle by acknowledging the difficult atmosphere at the start of the set. As they launch into their last song, ‘Oliver’, however, it is clear that the only atmosphere which remains is one of deep appreciation.
Day 74 – Generosity consists not the sum given, but the manner in which it is bestowed.
I have become anxious today; the number of dresses I have left to wear has reached an all time low. For the first time I am forced to consider the possibility the project may not be able to run the whole year through. Although I have received many dresses from a number of generous people, both friends and relative strangers alike I have done a count up today and it is not looking good. Even if I wear my ball-gowns, bridesmaid dresses and a couple of jumper dresses which are so short I would be giving the liberal legging lovelies a run for their money in wearing them, I am still left with less than ten dresses. 
This means that unless I find some more and soon, the project will cease to exist in ten days.
If I am being honest I am devastated about it. I am not yet ready to stop wearing dresses and I am reluctant to give up this one creative outlet in my life which I have absolutely loved doing. Admittedly I am starting a new job in just over a week so I had already made a decision to make the posts shorter, but to stop them all together? It makes me depressed just thinking about wearing the same old skirts, tailored trousers and dull old denim and I feel like crying at the though of it all coming to such a sad end. (I do realise I am being a tad dramatic)
Rather than focusing on the sadness however, I have decided to quit my moaning and instead use this post to thank you all just in case this is indeed the beginning of the end. It has been a pleasure to post, particularly on the days when I log on near midnight and notice a sudden surge in viewings has rocked my numbers up high and away off of the chart. . Many of you have kindly recommended me to friends through facebook and twitter which has been a great help and is much appreciated; 
there is after all little point in my rants and raves if there is nobody on the other end of cyberspace reading it and wondering if I might be having a bit of a “mad day”. I also want to thank everyone who has commented, even the charming young fellow who asked me if I was an alcoholic, all of these responses helped me to carry on with what have at times been difficult posts. When I first took the leap and decided to talk more openly on the blog about my troubles with depression and the difficulties I have had with coming to terms with my diagnosis as bipolar II I had expected my numbers to plummet but they did not and the post where I reveal them is actually the most popular.
Those of you who have loaned and given me dresses for the project please understand I have no words to express how grateful I am but thank you, a trillion times thank you. When I returned home yesterday it was to find a dress had been sent to me by one of my old house-mates, CDLAD. 
She is a super stylish chick with an amazing name which I will not share for fear of exposing her too much but she has always been a great gift giver and once sent me a beautiful bunch of flowers to cheer me up when I was having head poorly troubles. The dress is gorgeous a black slinky little lycra number which I will wear tomorrow once I’ve done a few sit ups. Last week when I met my sister for lunch she presented with five pretty dresses to borrow. Although she is my sister so I would have stolen them from her eventually, the sentiment was kind and it did prevent a lot of hassle and the usual, “Mum, she took my dress”. Yes we are nearly as old as the pebbles on the beaches but we still occasionally like to use our mother as a mediator. It just makes good sense and besides it’s fun to wind her up.
KR my best friend has now leant me three dresses, two of which she kindly said I could keep as well as today’s dress which was extremely sweet of her because it is one of her favourites and looks gorgeous on her. AC leant me the two beautiful brown dresses over the Valentines weekend and has opened her closet to me though sadly she can not open the stage wardrobe to me, just think of all the amazing vintage finds, ah well cest la vie.
My other good friend Monica Kenny and her sister leant me an entire shopping bag full of dresses which were all gorgeous and even when I had to come clean and tell MK that her dress had ran in the wash she took it in fairly good humour and didn’t gouge my eyes out as she would have been entirely justified in doing. I have also recieved dresses from my family in Ireland and my fairy God mother which have been some of the nicest I have worn yet. Also last week there were the stunning dresses leant to me by BS who has also promised very kindly with her husband to buy me an extra special dress for my birthday.
I hate to be defeated and failure is not something I like to ever become familiar with but though I might be feeling deflated and depressed, I am so thankful to all of you who have donated or who are in the process of doing so. I know my sister’s friend who is also a very kind supporter of the project, HP (not the sauce), has sent some dresses back with my sister to keep me hanging on. Two lovely ladies in America are sending me some in the post and a couple of people who read the article in the Harborough Mail have come forward with offers to send dresses. 
I wonder if part of the problem is so far I have been unsuccessful in getting shops and clothing companies involved in the project, either through loans or donations. This is my fault really as although I had hoped the Harborough Mail might generate some local business support, nearly two weeks since I wrote the article I have still heard no word. Perhaps I will just have to swallow my pride and go directly to their door to ask for help. I am umming and aahhing about whether or not it is better to write them a letter first and then go in or just walk in without a warning guns a blazin’? If anybody has any thoughts on the best way to approach store managers do please let me know, the future of The Mind Project depends on it. 
- Today’s dress is on loan from KR. It looks a hell of a lot better on her but it is lovely to wear as the cotton feels all soft on one’s skin and it reminds me of being on holiday somewhere hot where man-made materials are not an option unless you lack sweat glands. It reminds me of a skirt I brought in Venice which has loads of different lengths to it which is one of my favourite pieces of clothing and which I missed so much I actually tried it on the other day to see if it would work as a dress. It did not.
Day 73 – A hippy dress or a cunning ploy to disguise myself as a fruit salad
My mother was a fast reader just as am I and she constantly fell foul of a rap across the knuckles because of not being able to bear reading at the level of the class which was always just seven pages too slow. One of her funniest but saddest memories is the fate of her panda bear toy when she was a little girl. Being the kind, generous and caring person that she is whenever a child would get sick at her boarding school she would gift them her panda bear to cheer them up. Unfortunately one of the nuns spotted the link between sick children and panda possession and stole the toy away throwing it on the incinerator as my mother watched with horror. Perhaps it was this story which made me so fond of panda bears. I used to have a ridiculous collection of knitted panda toys when I was younger and believe they are still in storage as neither me or my mother could bear to give them to an unworthy home. I once went to see the panda at London Zoo after hassling my parents for months to take me and instead of russian dolls I have russian pandas.
After attaining an indecent number of As for her leaving certificate my Mummy travelled across the Irish Sea to study at a teaching college. It was during the 70s, thus today’s dress, but free love did not extend to many of the pubs and rental agents round London who displayed an offensive sign in their windows which read; No Blacks, No Irish, No Dogs. My mother was lucky to have friends and family to take her in but whilst she was studying she stayed in Coventry at a girls dormitory whilst studying to teach English to the boys who would soon be out patrolling the streets of her home town as the troubles escalated. It was whilst at college that my mother met the giant. I will save their story for another day but to cut a long, hilarious story short they got married within a year of meeting one another and lived a terribly romantic hand to mouth existence until they were able to afford to move out of their first house which they had hated. My mother fell pregnant with my eldest sister two years into their marriage and had my other sister a few years after. She gave up work soon after she had Catherine but had planned to return to it once they were a little older. They moved with both girls to Market Harborough to what would soon be my first home on Coventry Road
Apparently my mother knew nearly straight away she was pregnant because she had to stop smoking as it would leave her sick, I like to think she would have stopped anyway for health reasons but I am not so sure as the minute we were all born she would return to the temptation and liberation of a packet of Malboro Lights. I remember her smoking when I was younger, in the kitchen only ever at night with a glass of Chardonnay. I would do my homework at the table in between chatting away to her about my day and hearing stories of her childhood and teenage years. The smoke bothered my sister and my brother but I rather liked it and put up with smoke filled eyes because I loved just being in her company. 
My mother has a warmth which surrounds her which draws everyone towards her. One of her friends once got upset because after introducing my mother to her friend who had come to stay for the week, the friend became more attached to my mother than my mother’s friend. It is not necessarily anything she does which makes her so popular with everyone she meets it is I think more to do with her presence. There are few people who are accepting of themselves, flaws and all, but my mother is one of them and it means she is great fun to be around. She will never bitch herself but I believe she secretly enjoys it when I dish the dirt and providing I remember not to swear or be unkind I will avoid her tongue lashing and make her laugh no end. 
I sometimes worry about her kindness as people have let her down in the past and though I am not a particularly confrontational person when it comes to my mother I am fiercely protective and my claws have been known to come out quicker than Wolverines.
I am in awe of what she does and even though I was against it from the beginning because I worried she wouldn’t be able to handle the loss which is a part of the job I am glad she took the job now. Although it breaks her heart every time one of her patients dies, she is able to bring people who are sick and their carers and loved ones some comfort and warmth in what is an impossible period of their lives. It is a testament to how good a person she is that after working at the job for years she has not hardened one bit and is still devastated when they die.- My sister reluctantly leant me this dress as she is rather keen on it and is saving it for the festivals. I do love it but felt like a cross between a pregnant sunflower and a fat fruit salad sweet. I wore it most of the day with a polo-neck but wish it had been warmer so I could wear it with flip flops outside. The photos were taken after a brilliant game of scrabble where we made the board wide open and where I got the highest scoring word of the night but still came fourth because I failed to get rid of my Z. I do love Scrabble but wish I could win just once.
