Happy New Year!

One of the things about blogging is that you can do this anywhere in the world, ideally on a sun lounger post yoga retreat when you’ve found yourself, or maybe somewhere glamorous like New York, or in the London coffee shop of your choice so that you can fool people into thinking you’re not just checking Tinder (more on that another time) and you really are just writing the final chapter of the novel you have always had the title for.

As I’m about to prove, you can indeed blog from anywhere if your hands are small enough to cradle an i-phone and your eyesight is good.

I’m in the waiting room at a London hospital and I’m going to tell you all about it.

Moving back to London last year was an interesting process and I’ve already sampled the delights of the Royal Free A and E which is the Ritz of healthcare, having just been refurbed.

As it’s January, asthma is back to playing hide and seek and this time I can’t hide. I’ve drained my inhalers, taken my steroids (super powers awaited), and nothing has improved after a day of me wondering if Anyone would notice if I took my bra off at work so I could breathe more deeply. (Fear not, I discounted this idea quickly).

I got here via an admin journey guaranteed to make your eyes prick with tears. First, a call to my GP here (after I spent time on their automated system offering me an appointment next week, who then got someone to call me back, but who couldn’t stick around to see me: “the surgery’s closing”, although I could have been there in 10 minutes. I was told to call NHS 111 and they told me to come here, but that was a while back now. I was “out of the catchment” for another medical centre.

If you ever call NHS 111, you’re in for a maze of questions. This is to check you aren’t having a heart attack or stroke, but if you were, I would worry about your chances of surviving that call. This is before they tell you to sit up straight to help your breathing, and not to take anyone else’s medication. I confirmed that I do have to take steroids, but not for body building.

I was also asked about whether I had had a baby recently and if I was on the Pill. I’m delighted that 111 has a more optimistic view of my personal life than I do and I was sad to say no so many times to the kind man who also asked me if I had a v****** ring as part of the assessment process. First time for everything.

(I felt quite excited at this point, because I thought of party rings, which are lovely biscuits. But alas it was not to be.)

Before I put you off biscuits for life, let me tell you about the waiting room. It’s lovely and clean. You could buy a non alcoholic drink from the vending machine and there’s a sandwich I have my eye on, too.

There aren’t enough chairs for those waiting so I’m standing up because I would feel bad if I didn’t. This has also enabled me to admire UCLH’s core values, displayed behind reception:

Safety, Kindness, Teamwork, Improving.

The pedantic part of me wants to suggest “improvement” as an alternative, but that would be churlish. And as I’m always banging on about Kindness, I’m probably in the right place. I might suggest though that they add “worth the wait” to the sign, though, and check the drinks machine for mixed doubles.

Sipping on a tin of gin and tonic would probably make it worth the wait, after all. Chuck in a bag of crisps and I’ll stay all night, but let’s hold the Party Rings for now.

Happy New Year!

This is an edited version of an article that I was asked to write for the Jersey Evening Post in 2018, which was published following World Suicide Prevention Day.

It was the dauntingly titled “World Suicide Prevention Day” recently – and the theme was “working together”. The then Director of a charity called Mind Jersey, James Le Feuvre, had it absolutely right when he said recently that“there is a significant gap in the provision of support for people bereaved by suicide [in Jersey].” His suggestion of there being provision for a volunteer support worker (or, I hope, more than one) “for relatives and friends following the death by suicide of someone close to them”, came not a moment too soon.

Nine years ago now, I lost my best friend Chris. I miss him still. Sometimes it seems like it was yesterday, sometimes it feels as if it happened a lifetime ago.

The potential for those of us bereaved by suicide to be supported by someone who has also been through it, has made me think about what would really help in the days, weeks and months after the loss of someone you love in one of the most shocking ways possible.

I was very fortunate (and still am), to have family, friends and work colleagues to support me, but many people do not have this. Looking back, it would have been really helpful to have access to services such as those that MIND hopes to facilitate.

At no time will you need the support of those around you (or of a trained volunteer), more than if there is an inquest to attend.

In my experience, these are sensitively done and kindness is at the heart of getting to the facts, but they are still an intense process, often covering a number of happenings within two hours. To have someone to sit with you to help you through the experience (and then to have a cup of tea with afterwards), is invaluable.
Here’s what did help me – and here’s what I think might help you, too, if you have lost someone in this way.

1 Acknowledge the loss
Firstly, I found that it was the simple things that helped, such as receiving cards and the odd phone call from people who cared and who just said that they were there. Ditto flowers. It was these kind gestures and the time that others had taken to write a message that meant so much.

Some people find comfort in public messages of condolence; I didn’t and shut down my social media profiles for a time. I needed to be apart from others’ online opinions, especially if they were detached and critical of the situation (and some were). Do not be this person.

2 Let your friends help you.
My friends feeding me and spending time with me helped enormously – I wasn’t by myself. I went on school runs, shopping trips and drives around Jersey, anywhere they took me. It didn’t have to be anything special, I was glad of the company. The friends who invited me to stay at their house on the day that Chris died made me dinner and just listened. I am still overwhelmed by their kindness.

3 Going into work.
As the Partner who supervised me in the law firm I worked in at the time said: “I don’t care if you come in and sit under your desk, I just want to keep an eye on you.” Employers can make this an easier time for bereaved family and close friends by enabling special leave, even if only for a few days. This is not a time where you want to be begging for a day off, and you shouldn’t have to.

There also needs to be flexibility in the back to work approach. After acknowledging loss, an employer should trust the employee to use their judgement about whether they can face the office, or whether it would be better for them to complete tasks elsewhere.

I shouldn’t have to say this, but employers also need to understand that you may have to make or receive difficult calls about the situation in the workplace.

The situation is not helped by inferences that you are using time to make or receive “personal” calls. I’ll leave it there. You also don’t want to be put in the position of Explainer in Chief – “Why did he do it, then?” It’s real life, not a bad drama.

4 Not going into work.
Sometimes, it all felt too much and it was easier to work from home, or just sit in quiet. I found (and others might too), that I had lost my confidence – and concentration – for a time.
Don’t under estimate the impact that this loss will have on you or your ability to do complex pieces of work successfully. Again, if an employer is willing to be flexible, it really helps.

5 Make decisions – when you’re calm.
I decided to sell my flat and to hand my notice in at work a year after Chris had died, to experience some time out and to be further away with my memories for a while.

In other words, ask yourself what you really want to do – then go and do it. Acknowledge that whilst your own life has turned upside down, you have survived and there is no time like the present.

6 Take a career break.
Think about going away. I had a much-needed career break nine months after Chris died. Oddly, it was being away from Jersey that made me realise that he would not be coming back. It was a difficult realisation to accept, but I had to come to terms with it. Jersey is a wonderful place, but memories are everywhere and never was the need to get “off the rock” greater than then.

I found being physically separate from the place it had happened, an utter relief. On the first anniversary of losing my friend, I was on the high seas, crewing on a Tall Ship and I felt we were both free at last. I could begin to rebuild my own life, with happy memories taking the place of the sad ones.

Despite the existence of World Suicide Prevention Day and increased awareness about mental health, the sad fact remains that some of our friends and loved ones have and will take their own lives.

To anyone else who has suffered this loss, do not be ashamed of how your loved one died, nor apologise for your grief. Do not think, for one moment, that it was somehow your fault or you could have stopped it from happening.

And, to anyone who feels that they have nothing left to offer and no more life to live, I would say this: You are worthy of life, you have value, you must allow yourself to talk about your pain. And I hope you know that you are loved; more than you know.

Thank you for reading.

I always knew that there would come a day when it finally happened and I fulfilled the imagined goal of single women everywhere – I adopted a cat last December.  He has me, as well as my sofas, draining board, and the run of the flat. Considering he is blind, (the science bit is that he has “bi-lateral retinal detachment”) and possesses only one eye, this is to be admired all the more.

Before Inky arrived from the JSPCA, via their Facebook page and a friend who wisely said “You could get a cat” with his green saucer eye (and it doesn’t really work, so he has to live indoors) and black velvet fur, I decided to set down some ground rules.  No climbing, no treats, no taking my food nor sleeping on my bed – and as it turns out, no chance of enforcing any of them.

It turned out that there had been a bit of innocent misrepresentation where Inky was concerned.  “Inky loves cuddles!” extolled the description. I went to meet him, only to be greeted by a quick bite from his sharp little teeth.  “Oh yes, he might greet you with a nip”, I was told. “It’s his way of saying hello.”  And so Inky came home with his exacting claws, jingly toys and love of climbing, despite not being able to see.

At the age of 18 months, Inky helped me to speed towards a rather more significant birthday as he ignored his scratching post, tried to eat my crisps, drank water from a glass I had left for a moment –  and carried mini Molton Brown shower gel bottles around in his mouth.

By adopting him before I turned 4-0 in March, I exceeded my own expectations of when I would fit the stereotype of the single woman living with a cat.  I had estimated that I would turn this particular corner in about five years time, but how could I not have him and run the risk that no-one else would love him?   As the vet warned me before I brought him home, if Inky didn’t thrive with me, they would “have to see about putting him to sleep”. And with that, his fate was sealed  (Inky’s, not the vet’s),- and I became Cat Woman.

Like many members of the male order, Inky does not give much of himself in my presence.  He sleeps as he pleases, he doesn’t communicate much and certainly doesn’t want a cuddle. He enjoys his food. Occasionally one paw will edge towards me though, just to check I am on the bit of the sofa where I am allowed.

Unfortunately though, asthma has intervened on this version of domestic bliss and a halt has been placed on his watchful little presence.  As part of trying to avoid my fifth consecutive year in a row in hospital due to being unable to breathe, I had some exciting tests which measure allergies for everything from paper to horses. As I felt it was unlikely that I would do some origami on horseback  whilst holding a puppy as I breathed in pollen anytime soon, I wasn’t too concerned.

All was well (if you don’t mind having a few needles stuck in your arm and watching the site turn red for a few minutes), until the results arrived. Apparently I am highly allergic to cats, as in off the scale allergic – five times more than the maximum recommended highest reading.  “So”, said the doctor:  “Your rating of allergy to cats was about 1,100 – and the maximum really is 200.”  My highly persuasive non- clinical opinion that four previous asthma attacks had not been due to cat ownership was met with raised eyebrows.

I did with this information what any respecting pet lover would do at this point – I stuck my head in the sand and told Inky that everything would be fine. My health did not matter in the slightest. He could continue to haunt my bathroom and kitchen sinks (he prefers a running tap to drink from), the draining board and the dish washer when it is being emptied. He could help to rip up newspapers and magazines I was enjoying and knock over delicate items. He could shred novels. He could continue to sit on the balcony under my supervision, enjoying the scent of his cat grass and herbs and listening to the bees that he could never quite catch.

But some things have to become more important and I have sent him on a summer holiday (for now) to my  twin sister’s family, to see how we all get on.  He will have his grand tour of a new holiday home and I will get my optimum lung function back, so it seems like a fair swap.

He has new rooms to explore, but, for now, I do not have my Inky boy. I will miss his bravery in using the stairs, despite being sightless, and the precision of his teeth which remind me it’s time to feed him.  I will no longer be woken at 4.00am as phones and inhalers are pushed from the bedside table by a cat-shaped poltergeist, or so it seems in the early hours. The table has long since been used as a scratching post (he didn’t like the one from the pet shop) and served him well.  The fact I hand painted it (and stencilled the damn thing – well, it was the nineties) –  is neither here nor there.

Inky won’t jump into the recently vacated bath each day and I won’t see him balance on window sills as he turns his little face to the breeze and the warmth of the sun, but he will be loved.  He isn’t “just a cat”, but a little being who I took time to get to know and will hopefully know again.  He was my main reason to get up in the morning and to go home in the evening.

I am more sure than ever that animals have souls and that if we can adopt one to give it a loving home, then we should, because they give you so much with their presence.  I am even more sure, that as I sit here with tears running down my face because I miss him so much, that, for a time, happiness was indeed a cat called Inky.

Thank you for reading.

“I’m late. I’m late. For a very important date.”

 – The Rabbit, Alice in Wonderland

I don’t want anyone to get excited, but I went on a date the other week.  A lunch date to be precise, or as I now prefer to call it with the gift of hindsight, “60 minutes of my life that I will never get back.”

To help you all avoid losing an hour in a similar fashion (and we’re down one already now the clocks have gone back), I thought I’d put together some top tips to help anyone considering a similar option to reconsider and either buy their usual sandwich and enjoy the peace and quiet of their own company, at their own desk, perhaps doing some light internet shopping or reading the sidebar of shame on a certain daily news website.

1. Sadly, the premise of “Jolly good fun on WhatsApp” does not  = good fun in person. All the jokes and laughter emojis in the world are not going to make up for the fact that, in reality….they’re just not that funny.
2. “But how do you know this?”, I hear you chorus! “You’re being unfair – you probably just had different senses of humour. You should have given him a chance.” Yes, and I’m a banana.  A banana who does not find men who tell me that they’re….WAIT FOR IT… “Brad Pitt’s stunt double” very amusing. Or at all amusing.  In fact, the laugh that I had intended at this point turned into more of a sob. (THIS IS TRUE, it happened just after I decided to order something quick, which was good in may ways);
3. If  they can’t answer a straight question, walk away.  When I ask someone “What do you do [for a living]?” (I don’t actually say the bit in square brackets, it’s just implied) – and they tell me that they are Brad Pitt’s stunt double (see above), I tend to assume that they are (a) lying and (b) have rehearsed this tired line many times before.
4. By the same token, don’t ask me what I do, let me tell you about it and then dismiss it as a little “hobby job”, with the words: “It sounds as if you like to party”, because I happen to mention that part of what I do is to organise events. Yes, it’s all balloons and streamers, let me tell you.
5. Never trust anyone who drinks Chai tea latte at lunchtime.  Especially when accompanied by soup.
6. As a guide, it’s always best not to go on about your ex, your previous marriage, your divorce and how one of your kids isn’t speaking to you at the moment.  I’m sorry to hear about all of those things, but even sorrier to hear them when I’m trying to sip sparkling mineral water, eat and look non-judgemental at the same time.  The truth is, I did divorce work for eight years, and if I wanted to hear about the relationship difficulties of a man I have only just met, I’d go back to it and (hopefully) get paid for giving advice.
7. Yes, I do know what a Morgan is and it’s lovely to know you have one outside your house. Thank you. I can rest easier in my bed now. Alone, no doubt, but rest I shall.
8. “Shall we split the bill?”  For me, this was the final nail in the lunch date coffin. I tried to pay for us both as, quite frankly, I can’t face dividing a bill under £20 when we are both working (and I imagine that Brad Pitt’s stunt double earns a lot nowadays). This offer was countered with the quickest flourish of a tenner by a man I have ever seen, which was dropped on the counter in front of the slightly confused looking woman (me) and the other confused looking woman (the lady who had brought us our bill). Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised by this in 2018, especially since I was asked out for lunch by a lawyer one time who put down his £12.70 exactly and waited patiently for me to do the same. Happily, I had some change.
9. Don’t then send the lucky lady a message that afternoon saying that you “prefer to go Dutch until we get to know each other better”, as if she is only out for all the baked potatoes she can get from you for at least the next five dates.  She’s not, she was just hoping to meet someone who made her laugh. You may feel £10 down for the rest of your life, but that’s dating for you.
10. Dress to impress.  I’m not asking for a three piece suit accessorised with spats and a cane as you walk in to “Puttin’ on the Ritz” complete with jazz hands, I’m just suggesting that you at least tuck your shirt in and wear decent shoes.  One thing I know about women is that every single (single) one of us makes an effort when we meet someone new.  Lunch, drinks or dinner, we wear something nice. We brush our hair, crack open a new packet of 10 denier tights, put on some lipstick and perfume and hope, for the umpteenth time, that this could be fun.  Or at least better than watching Masterchef again.

Who knows, if it all works out, we may even forgive you the chai latte, AND split the bill until the end of time. Until then, keep smiling my fellow singletons – and always make sure you carry cash, should Prince Charming still want to go Dutch.

“L’enfer, c’est les autres” or “Hell is other people” – Jean-Paul Sartre, (No Exit)

Don’t panic my tens of readers, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just leaving my thirties behind  and so I can’t really call this blog a “thirty-something’s guide to life for girls” anymore.  This is also because I’ve realised this isn’t really a “guide”, but more of me having an online outlet that I can colour in turquoise and use to vent my frequent frustrations about the things that get to us all, some of the time.

So, what is this evening’s topic, after my last supper of 39, which was chicken goujons (the thinking person’s nugget), chips and wine from a bottle that had been chilled for some weeks?  I thought I’d go back to the theme of asthma, because believe me, it keeps recurring  like a bad dream and I’ve had enough of it blighting my winters and making me feel at least double my age during the bad days, or when the steroids make me so sensitive (Moi?! Hyper emotional?) that I cry when someone, anyone, is nice to me.

Asthma has also given me some insight into hospitals, having visited The Chelsea & Westminster last week, where you sit in the same waiting room to see the respiratory consultant (appointment sought as I’m desperate for some clue about why asthma picks me off each winter), as the couples hoping for good news from the assisted reproduction unit, clutching boxes for contaminated sharps.

Anyway, back to Jersey.  Firstly, you have to get admitted. If you’re not sure how to spend your weekend, you could always visit your GP on Friday afternoon, have them pronounce your lungs “a mess” (fair comment) and get sent round to A&E for an X-Ray because you haven’t pressed your chest up against something firm for some time and a metal plate isn’t a bad place to start, all options considered.

Following triage during which a girl with a cat bite was seen ahead of me, I listed my cocktail of different coloured inhalers for the doctor, including the ones I had just paid £240 for in London, and we agreed that some nice IV antibiotics, plus even more steroids could do the trick.  Asked if I wanted to stay in, I said on balance I’d rather not (I had instant mash in the fridge and the TV can be good on a Friday). Still, it’s not often that a man asks me this question and when he said it was his medical advice that I remained in hospital and I realised I had two ID bracelets on my wrists, the deal was done.

It was fair to say that ED (as it prefers to be known), was at capacity last weekend.  I ended up sat in Resus where there was a spare trolley  for a bit, and you do see life. After being x-rayed, nebulised, cannulated, blood tested and ECG’d, I was given some strong antibiotics on a drip and moved on to the Emergency Admissions Unit later that night. And what an eye-opener that turned out to be.

As my Dad said, it was a sorry state of affairs, but if I was living in London I would likely be on a trolley in a corridor. Mum told me not to cry (you can’t beat a Yorkshire mother for the tough love), and was glad  she had brought my clean pyjamas so I didn’t bring shame on the family. And then I lay there, pretending that my big bag of fluids was an IV of gin and wouldn’t that be nice.

EAU is rather like New York, a city or rather a ward that NEVER SLEEPS.  Patients are arriving hourly over 24 hours and those are the ones I could see. Its nature is to get patients who need to stay in for brief assessment out of ED and potentially on to another ward.   However, that only works if the other wards have other beds.  I couldn’t call my insurers and beg for clemency due to the unfortunate words “pre-existing condition”, and even if I had been able to self-fund, there were, er, no private beds.

The medics and staff in ED and EAU do an astonishingly good job.  They never know who will come in, or when, or what their condition will be.  Whilst I was there, I saw them dealing with those who had fallen and were pregnant (not me, don’t worry), those who were very elderly and distressed, patients who had seizures and those of us who needed to start breathing properly again. We all needed our blood taken, our drugs given and observations done. The ward was clean, the food was good, and, if you had the right money, the League of Friends trolley could let you know that they had already sold the last copy of The Times despite you having the coins in your hand.

However, I defy anyone not to crack up under conditions where you have to witness the families of other patients sit round beds for up to 8 hours a day and listen to conversations that would make your hair curl.  Why can’t people just shut up and read a magazine for a bit, or at least look at the pictures and give the rest of us some peace?  I speak from experience and brushed up on Hello!, Look! and other literary treats when my friend E wasn’t talking me off the ceiling because my sense of humour failed in its tracks after witnessing a few too many bodily functions of others. “What do you expect?” asked the Sister on duty that afternoon when I got a bit distressed. “It’s a hospital.” I didn’t really have a response to that one.

Witness too a young woman in my bay of four patients, who  repeatedly enjoyed calling her boyfriend a “fanny”, telling her mum that she was “itching down there”, re-living the details of the incident that had brought her to hospital at least every half hour and receiving back her mother’s loud wisdom that “you don’t need to use soap down there, love, and you shouldn’t spray up inside yourself either, as women are self-cleaning.”  She belched at her boyfriend and all and sundry were treated loudly to the news that “she hadn’t had a sh*t since she had come in.”  And in the best news of all, it was now almost 10.00pm, and they were all going to come back at 8.00am the next morning to talk about it, all over again.  Oh, and they wanted to keep the digestive biscuits, thanks.

When I finally despaired and asked politely if we could now get some sleep, I was told to “do one” and informed that “It’s Saturday night, suck it up like the rest of us.”  I’m not sure quite what I was supposed to do or suck (!) and I’m sure she could have shown me, but there are limited actions one can take whilst on a drip and wearing a mask, unless you’re channelling Darth Vader. Oh, and her drip hurt. As someone once said to me, going into hosptial is a great leveller.  I had no control and at one point, literally no voice.  This will no doubt have been a relief to others around me.

Add to this charming tableau the use of one (clean) shared bathroom between two (mixed) four-bedded bays and it can’t be hard to see why patients are desperate to take their chances and get home if they can. I’m fine getting into a normal bath with a shower over the top, but not everyone is.  I managed two nights of this.  I’m not asking for a medal, but I hope that the staff who run these wards, the medics, the nurses, the healthcare assistants, the cleaners and the chefs, get the recognition that they deserve and a matron  or equivalent who can tell people to clear off before they bring everyone else down with them.

What I am asking, apart from us all to remember the manners we have, is that Jersey is brave and gets building its new hospital, soon. When you have been a patient; private, public (I’ve been both equally over the past four winters), and witnessed everything from abusive patients to end of life care in a six bedded unit, dingy “day rooms” and a hospital that doesn’t have a cafe you can go and sit in at the weekends for a bit of respite, you too are likely to lose your own patience.  Still, it frees up a bed.

Thank you for reading and here’s to the next forty years.

“Something is rotten in the State of Denmark.”

Hamlet, Act 1, scene 4

It’s 2018, but sometimes feels as if it could be 100 years ago. This week marked a century since the passing of the Representation of the People Act, which meant that, finally, some women in England could vote in 1918. Females were given the right to vote, but only if they were over the age of 30, owned property, were a member or married to a member of the Local Government Register, or were a graduate in a university constituency.

In Jersey, things weren’t that simple, either. Single “Jerseywomen” (as they are sometimes described) got the Parish vote in 1919, whereas women over 30 (age does has some benefits) and “wives of qualifying ratepayers” were able to vote in public elections.

The theme of powerlessness has been on my mind this week.  On Thursday, I attended a conference called “Just About Managing”, put together by Brighter Futures, a Jersey charity which supports children and their main carers to have a positive start in life.

The conference was about the effect of poverty and disadvantage on families. It was well attended, but only a few States Members were present. We heard from the recently appointed Children’s Commissioner that there are still some children in Jersey who go to school with obvious signs of poverty that need to be investigated – rat and flea bites due to living in squalid conditions, for example.

Children in another primary school have never been to the beach here.   Brighter Futures itself (you can tell I’m an Ambassador) has its own food bank now, also providing nappies and other baby essentials to parents who cannot afford to feed their families.

There were more examples of the poverty we simply don’t want to face here. One child had never used a flushing loo until he went to primary school, because his family lives in shared accommodation and he didn’t get to use the shared toilet facilities. I don’t know if this is because it wasn’t thought safe for him to, or if there simply weren’t any. Students at one secondary school are provided with clean uniform on a daily basis because they can’t access clean clothes at home.

I was surprised and shocked by these obvious examples of poverty, although perhaps I shouldn’t be, given that sometimes my sister and I help out with another Jersey charity which cooks and delivers meals to families in need.  One weekend, my sister apologised to a mum for making her cottage pie again.  “That’s ok”, explained the lady, who had two young children to feed.  “We’ve been living on pasta with cup a soups all week”.  That insight has stayed with me, and never more so than when I talk about Brighter Futures and Caring Cooks and why we still need charities like them in Jersey.

Unfortunately, I don’t have the answer as to why poverty exists in Jersey to the extent that it does.  I suspect, though, that it’s a number of things. Is it because so many families here depend on inadequate and overpriced “unqualified” housing that may or may not be tied to a minimum-wage job, or because they have to rely on a zero hours contract, or because they are struck down by ill health, or because the support structure around them crumbles without a family network when things go wrong? In some cases, poverty arises through imprisonment or the death of a partner who had helped you stay afloat financially.

I just don’t know, but I do know that while I hear true stories about children going to school with rodent bites, or not going to a doctor because their parents can’t afford it when their children are over five years old, or young people thinking that the Children’s Commissioner will leave “because that’s what everyone else does”, in Jersey, in 2018, it is my job to talk about it and to ask everyone who can to do what they can to support families in Jersey so that they can all have a brighter future.

As I said at the beginning, it may be 2018, but it sometimes feels like 100 years ago. Don’t get me started on our Income Tax laws and the lack of a student loan system so that everyone who is eligible can access further education, whatever their financial background.

I wish it didn’t feel like this and I hope too that, in another five years, we won’t have to attend another conference to hear how families in Jersey are “just about managing”. I hope too that those who have been voted into power will think for a moment about the well concealed problem of being poor in Jersey and acknowledge the work done by charities here to help families.

Poverty is its own form of being disenfranchised and belongs where half the population not having the vote did until 1918 – firmly in the past.

www.brighterfutures.org.je

www.caringcooksofjersey.com 

“When shall we three meet again?

In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

When the hurly-burly’s done.

When the battle’s lost and won.”

 – Macbeth, Act 1, scene 1

The clocks have gone back, and I’m using the extra hour to magic up this post.

It’s almost Halloween, and for reasons I’ll set out below, I think I’m going to dress up as a ghost.  Were I a politician (and some days I’m tempted), I would refer to this as the “third way”, because, as Miranda once said in Sex & The City, there are broadly two costumes widely available to women at this time of year: Ugly Old Witch or….Sexy Kitten.  In other words, trick or treat.

My own affliction last week was wading – through – treacle –  tiredness.  I may not be a parent, have not climbed Kilimanjaro, ridden a bike anywhere (avoided that for years, actually), or run a casual marathon, but I know full-on tiredness when it hits me like a brick through a window. Life seems to be a feast of activity or a famine. One night it’s gin, a fabulous meal and most of the cheese trolley and the next it’s tea and cereal.

As such, I decided to take a week off to recharge my broomstick before my busiest night of the year and do all those things I really enjoy about staycations – making lists, prowling round my flat, watching morning TV by accident, trawling charity shops and having a clear out.  I may even go for walks and head to Waitrose midweek; the opportunities are endless.

As a special treat, I decided to take myself down to the new recycling centre in Jersey.  You may say I am easily pleased, but what a fabulous place. There may have been happier people at La Collette this morning, but they would have been hard to find.  Simply, everyone was loving having a good clear out and the sun was shining as we threw our JEPs to the wind.

With a spring in our step, we all threw paper, cardboard and tins into huge bins  – and very cathartic it was too. There was, however, a tricky moment when my Jo Malone gift boxes got stuck.  I also admit hesitating for a second before hurling my 10 year old law study guides over the wall to be recycled due to a vague fear that someone, somewhere, may yet take my LLB from under my nose if I let them go, but that hasn’t happened yet.

I also got to flatten large cardboard boxes by jumping up and down on them, whilst admiring a whole line of cars far nicer than mine as I did so.  I may have walked casually past a midnight blue Audi S4 a few more times than absolutely necessary whilst clutching empty plastic bottles for the skip.

Something else that I did in readiness for my week off was to take a chance on a networking lunch at the end of last week.  I had seen it advertised lots of times previously and couldn’t think of a better way than to mix business development with eating and chatting to new people for a couple of hours. As I always say, you never know who you might meet, or where your next great connection may come from.

Before you can get chatting, of course, you have to be introduced.  I love meeting people and hearing about what they do, so this had never been a problem before. Neither did I think was it an issue that I was the only female in attendance, until something strange happened – or rather, it didn’t.  I don’t remember applying my special”Invisible Dust” that morning, but either I did or some of the men I met weren’t very observant, because several of my fellow lunch guests completely ignored me.

Picture, if you will, a scene of being in a small group  (as I was), and someone walks up to that circle of people to introduce themselves.  Imagine then being ignored by the newcomer as that person greets and shakes hands with everyone else in that group, but you get passed over.

You’ve probably heard the term “cocktail eyes”, best explained as when you’re at a drinks event and you can see someone looking over your or someone else’s shoulder to see if there is anyone else more powerful / important / attractive they can speak to. Or maybe I’m being cynical and they’re just after the cocktail sausages.   I have seen people scanning other guests’ name badges at events in London and then discounting them, or worse still freezing someone else out of a conversation that did have three people in it, but was “a bit crowded”.  Anyway, back in to the room.

No smile, no handshake, no eye contact – and no reason.  This was not a one-off occurrence and, to be honest, I was stunned.  I wasn’t standing there with a tray of drinks or a plate of canapes, but even if I had been, I would have said and expected a “hello”.  Instead, I was literally overlooked.

Rather than challenge this behaviour, however, I smiled, went to shake hands and introduced myself.  Happily I sat with some great people, two of whom I had met previously, but it was the non-introductions that have played on my mind.  It’s 2017, females are in the workforce and we do BD and networking as well. That’s not going to change. As I said on LinkedIn afterwards, your gender should not render you invisible, nor should it stand in the way of courtesy.  And it costs nothing just to say hello.

As someone who has consciously avoided female-only networking events because I don’t have the time or inclination to “lean in” with only 50% of the working population and perpetuate the division of the sexes and power in the workplace, I also found the whole thing rather confusing.  I was always taught that manners maketh the man (or woman, for that matter).

But where were the other women? It remained a mystery. Were they all busy that day, doing their jobs, then scooping out pumpkin flesh and magicking up a last minute Halloween costume out of an old black umbrella and some pipe cleaners – or had they all just had enough of being made to feel invisible as well and given up?

Whether we’re cast as a witch, a ghost or even a”sexy kitten”, it’s no small wonder that we’re all tired. Tired of the joke that’s on us as we catch our stripy tights on fast-moving broomsticks.  It’s sad that some wizards still feel able to say:  “Abracadabra!” and to make others feel invisible.  The battle is not yet won.

And…just like magic… she’s gone.

This time, I’m going on a course! What could possibly go wrong?

For two days last month, I attended a course.  In hindsight, this may have been a mistake after first scaling the AXA PPP insurance complaint mountain in the same week, which felt something akin to climbing Everest in terms of endurance.

Anyway, in the spirit of Lifelong Learning, off I went with my study guide and a willingness to engage with others. At first I thought I had the wrong room – everyone else seemed very, very young. They had all evidenced this by:

1. multi tasking on hand-held devices and;
2. wearing jeans. In the background, a Spotify playlist threw out musical delights that I was not au fait with.

Secondly, I had made the gauche error of not turning up with a Mac Book Pro on day one – probably because I was the oldest one there, apart from the tutor. Personally, I enjoy a nice seminar with a bacon roll at the beginning and some pastries that you can slip in your bag at the end. Sometimes you even get a certificate for nodding earnestly for an hour or two in the name of CPD and often there’s a cup of tea and a branded pen in it, too.

Education and learning are funny things, mixed as they often are with the gaining of both knowledge and disappointment. 21 years after receiving my A Level results, I still can’t bear to watch students opening the envelopes containing various letters of the alphabet on live TV* and then seeing the photos of excitable girls (who only ever seem to wear vests and shorts) jumping for joy outside their school building. *Last week, I told Twitter that I was starting a one-woman campaign to stop this awful practice, but as I only received two likes and one re-tweet for the post, I’ll leave it until next year.

I also have yet to have anyone in the real world ask me about my dissertation, the catchy title of which was: “The Juggling Fiend – Motifs of the Devil in the Plays of Shakespeare and Marlowe.” So there!

Anyway, back in the room. As with courses everywhere, we had to “go round the room” and introduce ourselves. I stated my job title and said what I did, which was re-interpreted as: “So, you’re in sales and marketing.”  Umm….not really. As professional services firms don’t really like the word “sales”, you never, ever use it.  You say Business Development, or “BD” if you’re in a hurry.

They always say that you never stop learning and I soon learned that nothing sets my nerves on edge like people all typing away in one room, like pixies doing Riverdance in teeny tiny tap shoes.

180 slides over 60 pages also stood between me, the acquisition of new knowledge and a G&T on Friday evening.  I had to focus, and I had to stay sane. I usually do this by obsessively taking notes in bullet point format and being the life and soul of the seminar room when asked a question, but that just wasn’t happening on this occasion.

After some time, I became obsessed with mastering marketing metrics, using imaginary sales platforms, pipelines and plug-ins.  I was certain that, if only I could get huge amounts of money spent on systems like Microsoft Dynamics, Sales Force or Interaction, everything else would be fine and I could just concentrate on remembering acronyms such as ROCE, ROI and PESTELE.

After all, what is life without understanding Porter’s Five Forces, or the 7 Ps? As the tutor said, “You don’t want to be thought of as the colouring in department.” I thought that was a bit unfair, because I’m sure that people think that we do a lot more in BD than that! As one of my friends said to me when I started out in Business Development, “You’re playing to your strengths Sarah – coffees and lunches!”

On day two, I got to the point (the small dog that I refer to as Anxiety was back), where I could not connect the learning from the morning with answering any questions. It was hopeless. I was hopeless. I was thick. However, lots of other questions crowded my thoughts, and very helpful they were, too. How could I think that I was good at anything at all? How did I get here? Why on earth was I studying for yet another qualification? What was the point of it all? Why weren’t there any custard creams?!

I thought of my past failures, not my successes, and I shut my laptop (I had lugged in my old Mac Book to try and look younger), went home, put on my pyjamas and cried for two hours, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Yes, it was late afternoon on a Friday – and I was snivelling under a cushion, wearing my slipper boots.

Happily, my wonderful work friends were not having any of this nonsense and I was asked, then ordered, to join them for drinks.  As I wallowed on my sofa, I was told to come for a drink, just the one, and so I did. I even got changed first – those slipper boots have got to last.

So, after all that, what did I learn? Two large gin and tonics (I’m nothing if not predictable), a burger and some much-needed laughter later, I was ready to face the weekend. You never know, I may yet master those metrics whilst juggling a phone, an ancient laptop and a mini pastry, after all. It’s true you never stop learning, but the lesson here is always listen to your friends when they offer you food, drink and laughter.