And so the Nomad returns to her blog with no definitive reason to suggest to you all that she is no longer a Nomad other than her sense of belonging has fattened up since we last talked. With sadness and uncertaintly comes the inevitable scurrying out of the hole via whatever method carries you through until clarity and, finally, FINALLY calm. That is me now...a big ball of warming satisfaction. Calm nerves, but i'll take calm in whatever way it presents itself to me after the tumult of that awkward and wearing time of feeling delicate and undecided.
Our house, our little nest in England, is on the market. And this time, with our heads out of our anxious backsides, my husband and I are letting nature take it's course; give them what they want to get what we want. To get rid. Here, have a bargain...we're sure that some money-hungry, lip-smacking, purse-shaker will devour our steal with a lick of the lips and eat that house up whole, every last penny's worth of it. And now that we have come to the realisation that this will happen, that the Pilkington Palace of days gone by will no longer be ours, and that we will no doubt be losing precious pennies on the place, we have at long last settled into a tranquility that comes with letting go. Just letting go. A raw feeling of recompense will be virilant in my whole self as whoever gets the house glows with as much happiness with their cut-price purchase as we will for being free of the noose that keeps us dangling back and forth, without a true sense of home.
So, before any deal is even done with the raveonous investor or timid new home owner, my little lot and I are basking in a warmth created by a tiny but confident little voice of reason that has always been there but which we forced a hush upon with our blind worry. 'Voice' is no longer begging for ears but is simply whispering 'time to move on', and with our new emotions of excitement and desire for the future, we can hear it loud and clear without so much as a strain of the neck or whince of an eye.
So, back to the drawing board we go, spurred on by the assurity that our visions of being free from the old; I am revelling not in new plans set in stone, no rush to meet self-imposed expectations to acquire more of...anything...to fill the void. In no particular rush for anything. What a wonderful, liberating feeling that is.
Just me, my beloved, my little ones. And what we have already plus a few dreams chucked in for good soulful measure.
That's what i'm excited about today...in a nutshell, a whole lot of nothing is everything to me on this sunny Thursday in march. Love the simple life, it brings with it a simple smugness.
Thursday 31 March 2011
Sunday 20 March 2011
The Simple Sunday.
My Sunday is usually governed by how the emotions of the week that preceded it. And what a week I have had; it began wth a tidal wave of something verging on despair as the truth behind my title of Nomad made itself apparent to me. Today, if i had chosen a certain course for last night, could very well have been tainted by the heady mixture of guilt, remorse and self-pity caused by an excessive taste for wine. This can be borne out of upset or a lust for life, gone awry. But, when it comes to the week that I've just had, I believe wholeheartedly that when we reach that desolate place, whether it be grief via death, being destitute, loneliness or just a straight-up awful chemical imbalance in your hormonal existence, we reach out in our own way and, YES: the only way, my loves, is UP.
And so my own way up and out of my sadness was, unlike the wine efforts of latter days, found in the pages of books. And the words that I read leapt out of the leaves like my nanna's hugs at the most needed moment: 'Sorrow fully accepted brings its own gifts. For there is an alchemy in sorrow. It can be transmuted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness'.
Pearl S.Buck spoke to me.
I confided to you already that I have spent the week nursing my mind and body and now, as we sit here together on the Sabbath day, I am at relative peace with all that I felt was wrong. My parents, my grandparents, my cherished old friends ARE going about their own Sunday on the opposite side of the world but I do not feel lonely without them. Nope, I am revelling in the lazy early hours that I spent in bed this morning, quiet but for our gurgling baby in her room, ready for mummy's milk and the warm satisfaction that would be served to us both from it, and a mischievous 4 year old princess reading books to my husband and I in our bed. We have chatted and cuddled over breakfast and have had a wonderful time at a cheap but amazing leisure centre's swimming pool. My little lot are, as we speak. getting overexcited on the Wii and little baby girl is playing with her hair. She's tired. A chicken is roasting in the oven. I can smell asparagus steaming.
None of this is profound but in it's simplicity it is abundant. I am the mother, the wife behind this family and at the end of a long, sometimes difficult but mostly insightful week my nurtured body and mind feels rested, recuperated and responsive to the very things in my life that are constant and pure. I am needed and it does not do for me to be needy for things that are simply, practically out of reach and insignificant.
Sarah Ban Breathnach has helped me in more ways than she can ever imagine this week, from the honest memoirs and reflections that her writing has put in front of me. When she whispers to me that 'there is really only one wat to deal with Misery. Accept her presence.'
Yes, Misery, I accepted that you were here. I saw you off on your way. Glad to see the back of you....i'll deal with you another time.
Happy Sunday to us all xox
And so my own way up and out of my sadness was, unlike the wine efforts of latter days, found in the pages of books. And the words that I read leapt out of the leaves like my nanna's hugs at the most needed moment: 'Sorrow fully accepted brings its own gifts. For there is an alchemy in sorrow. It can be transmuted into wisdom, which, if it does not bring joy, can yet bring happiness'.
Pearl S.Buck spoke to me.
I confided to you already that I have spent the week nursing my mind and body and now, as we sit here together on the Sabbath day, I am at relative peace with all that I felt was wrong. My parents, my grandparents, my cherished old friends ARE going about their own Sunday on the opposite side of the world but I do not feel lonely without them. Nope, I am revelling in the lazy early hours that I spent in bed this morning, quiet but for our gurgling baby in her room, ready for mummy's milk and the warm satisfaction that would be served to us both from it, and a mischievous 4 year old princess reading books to my husband and I in our bed. We have chatted and cuddled over breakfast and have had a wonderful time at a cheap but amazing leisure centre's swimming pool. My little lot are, as we speak. getting overexcited on the Wii and little baby girl is playing with her hair. She's tired. A chicken is roasting in the oven. I can smell asparagus steaming.
None of this is profound but in it's simplicity it is abundant. I am the mother, the wife behind this family and at the end of a long, sometimes difficult but mostly insightful week my nurtured body and mind feels rested, recuperated and responsive to the very things in my life that are constant and pure. I am needed and it does not do for me to be needy for things that are simply, practically out of reach and insignificant.
Sarah Ban Breathnach has helped me in more ways than she can ever imagine this week, from the honest memoirs and reflections that her writing has put in front of me. When she whispers to me that 'there is really only one wat to deal with Misery. Accept her presence.'
Yes, Misery, I accepted that you were here. I saw you off on your way. Glad to see the back of you....i'll deal with you another time.
Happy Sunday to us all xox
Thursday 17 March 2011
And so, the clouds have lifted. The tinge of parody that gave my smile a distant glow has given way as my expression once again becomes illuminated by authenticity.
I am enpowered by the cathartic efforts of my training regime; encouraging my muscles to work until they are exhausted has somehow stretched the exertions of my mind. I train, I eat, I feed my little ones, I read, I sleep.
I am nurturing myself.
Just as in the role of Mummy, when I revel in the emotions of comforting and caressing my children, I am going back to basics and ministering, nourishing my own self from the deepest abdominal muscle that I (or my instructor) can force me to find right to the cerebral core as I delve into subjects such as Buddhism and other matters that are far too intense for me; this is what I need. When I feel like I am breaking, losing myself under pressure, the challenge to my mind and to my body is the confrontation that I subconsciously require to get me back on track. It's most probably the narcissist in me...I need to prove to myself that I can fight the face-off. And win.
Anyway, I'm enjoying myself. I'm speaking with friends who are positive...I am surrounding myself with that which I wish to be. My friend Debbie: inspirational. My friend Christie: honest. My best friend Sarah: mischievous and perpetual. I will always be Sian Marie and Sian Marie's pretty damn ace when she gets her head out of her arse and halts the occassinal worry/wallow fest. But, there's nothing wrong with bettering yourself and being your better self more often. The way things are going, it's highly likely that this time next week I may just be the best thing since sliced bread...a body of sculpted abs, organicly fed, with profound buddhist conviction...
Nice idea but i've learned this week to be true to thyself. And the former, though it may be one persons ideal, and maybe even my ideal (today, anyway), this would never be me. So i'll see you after my glass of wine when the belly is a touch paunched but a smile- a genuine smile- you shall most certainly see.
TTFN :) xo
I am enpowered by the cathartic efforts of my training regime; encouraging my muscles to work until they are exhausted has somehow stretched the exertions of my mind. I train, I eat, I feed my little ones, I read, I sleep.
I am nurturing myself.
Just as in the role of Mummy, when I revel in the emotions of comforting and caressing my children, I am going back to basics and ministering, nourishing my own self from the deepest abdominal muscle that I (or my instructor) can force me to find right to the cerebral core as I delve into subjects such as Buddhism and other matters that are far too intense for me; this is what I need. When I feel like I am breaking, losing myself under pressure, the challenge to my mind and to my body is the confrontation that I subconsciously require to get me back on track. It's most probably the narcissist in me...I need to prove to myself that I can fight the face-off. And win.
Anyway, I'm enjoying myself. I'm speaking with friends who are positive...I am surrounding myself with that which I wish to be. My friend Debbie: inspirational. My friend Christie: honest. My best friend Sarah: mischievous and perpetual. I will always be Sian Marie and Sian Marie's pretty damn ace when she gets her head out of her arse and halts the occassinal worry/wallow fest. But, there's nothing wrong with bettering yourself and being your better self more often. The way things are going, it's highly likely that this time next week I may just be the best thing since sliced bread...a body of sculpted abs, organicly fed, with profound buddhist conviction...
Nice idea but i've learned this week to be true to thyself. And the former, though it may be one persons ideal, and maybe even my ideal (today, anyway), this would never be me. So i'll see you after my glass of wine when the belly is a touch paunched but a smile- a genuine smile- you shall most certainly see.
TTFN :) xo
Tuesday 15 March 2011
Bleughhh clouds.
I'm having a bleugggh day. Yes, it happens; not often, I might add, but when the bleughhhh cloud appears, it doesn't sprinkle a few raindrops, it pours a flood.
Reason? The clue is in the title of my blog: Nomad. I have been a Nomad for far too long, although the effects of having ever-evolving dwellings has until now been an aspect of my life that I have been comfortable and happy with. Greece: for a few summers. Leeds: for 3 years. Norwich and Australia: 1 year each. And now Canada. In each place, in each new 'home' , I have managed to find a grounding and a sense of belonging so that, despite these locations being devoid of family and old friends, I have made memories with new connections and have thus looked back on each living quarter with fondness. I fail to remember the times that I have been lonely, sad, sometimes inconsolable due to being without my mum and dad's affections, my nanna's sparkly blue eyes and my the knowing giggles that my brother and I share as we retell secret jokes. I fail to remember them but I know they were there; i just don't have the willpower to face the demons when there are angels to converse with. I like the sparkly, happy times in life. Don't we all?
But for the first time EVER, I feel homeless. I don't know how, for technically we have two homes: the house that we own, the building that we chose and watched grow from a shell to a shelter at the same rate as my tummy swelled for the first time with new life. The home that we walked into, bursting with the pride of becoming first-time homeowners AND first-time parents.Our new 3 day old baby girl nestled into my neck; the aroma of fresh paint, clean, cushioned carpet and the honey-breath of baby made it 'ours' in that instant. It was a marriage of everything new, that house. But we walked away from that place in search of pastures new. Canadian pastures whereby the grass was not expected to be greener but vaster.
We reached the vaster plains of North America and here we have the rented Palace; The Fort Of Canada, the house that marked our 1st year as immigrants and as owners of fresh, new, beautiful Pilkington skin; a 7 week old second daughter helping us to christen the place, to make it our own, make it family territory, make it a place for making memories.
But, as we struggle with the same financial fight that exists the economy-unwise-world around, neither place is nurturing. We are living in Limbo. We cannot seperate ourselves from England, a tie that we hoped to sever in our embarkment of fresh starts in Canada: the house that was once a source of memories made of baby milk and the buds of family life is now being riddles with the weeds of worry. Our home here, although thousands of miles away from it's English counterpart, is being diseased by the same anxieties; my husband and I are responsible for the upkeep of both nests but, in the grand scheme of things, we want neither. We want to plant our roots and watch the branches of our family grow upwards and outwards, strong and agile, but presently the small little blossoms of our children are being kept warm and dry but are hardly flourishing with all of the plans that their parents wish they could be sure of.
I am truly a Nomad for now. But, there's therapy in the written word and as I type, as I sit at my desk and hear my baby upstairs, gurgling and giggling at her Moomoo that lies next to her in her crib, it dawns on me that consistenvy, continuity, can help. Flourisment will come as the water subsides but when the bleugh- cloud pours what matters truly is that my babies are kept safe- just kept warm and dry. Wherever that baby girl may be- she will have Moomoo. Wherever my older little lady may live, she'll have her baby sister and her parents. They're safe.
And you know what? Wherever I may be, i'll have them. I'll be able to nurture them regardless of whether the abode around us is as stable as the arms that I can envelop my children in. I can wait a little longer for the Nomad title to disperse. I guess i'll just spend that time making memories.
Bleugh....be gone.
Reason? The clue is in the title of my blog: Nomad. I have been a Nomad for far too long, although the effects of having ever-evolving dwellings has until now been an aspect of my life that I have been comfortable and happy with. Greece: for a few summers. Leeds: for 3 years. Norwich and Australia: 1 year each. And now Canada. In each place, in each new 'home' , I have managed to find a grounding and a sense of belonging so that, despite these locations being devoid of family and old friends, I have made memories with new connections and have thus looked back on each living quarter with fondness. I fail to remember the times that I have been lonely, sad, sometimes inconsolable due to being without my mum and dad's affections, my nanna's sparkly blue eyes and my the knowing giggles that my brother and I share as we retell secret jokes. I fail to remember them but I know they were there; i just don't have the willpower to face the demons when there are angels to converse with. I like the sparkly, happy times in life. Don't we all?
But for the first time EVER, I feel homeless. I don't know how, for technically we have two homes: the house that we own, the building that we chose and watched grow from a shell to a shelter at the same rate as my tummy swelled for the first time with new life. The home that we walked into, bursting with the pride of becoming first-time homeowners AND first-time parents.Our new 3 day old baby girl nestled into my neck; the aroma of fresh paint, clean, cushioned carpet and the honey-breath of baby made it 'ours' in that instant. It was a marriage of everything new, that house. But we walked away from that place in search of pastures new. Canadian pastures whereby the grass was not expected to be greener but vaster.
We reached the vaster plains of North America and here we have the rented Palace; The Fort Of Canada, the house that marked our 1st year as immigrants and as owners of fresh, new, beautiful Pilkington skin; a 7 week old second daughter helping us to christen the place, to make it our own, make it family territory, make it a place for making memories.
But, as we struggle with the same financial fight that exists the economy-unwise-world around, neither place is nurturing. We are living in Limbo. We cannot seperate ourselves from England, a tie that we hoped to sever in our embarkment of fresh starts in Canada: the house that was once a source of memories made of baby milk and the buds of family life is now being riddles with the weeds of worry. Our home here, although thousands of miles away from it's English counterpart, is being diseased by the same anxieties; my husband and I are responsible for the upkeep of both nests but, in the grand scheme of things, we want neither. We want to plant our roots and watch the branches of our family grow upwards and outwards, strong and agile, but presently the small little blossoms of our children are being kept warm and dry but are hardly flourishing with all of the plans that their parents wish they could be sure of.
I am truly a Nomad for now. But, there's therapy in the written word and as I type, as I sit at my desk and hear my baby upstairs, gurgling and giggling at her Moomoo that lies next to her in her crib, it dawns on me that consistenvy, continuity, can help. Flourisment will come as the water subsides but when the bleugh- cloud pours what matters truly is that my babies are kept safe- just kept warm and dry. Wherever that baby girl may be- she will have Moomoo. Wherever my older little lady may live, she'll have her baby sister and her parents. They're safe.
And you know what? Wherever I may be, i'll have them. I'll be able to nurture them regardless of whether the abode around us is as stable as the arms that I can envelop my children in. I can wait a little longer for the Nomad title to disperse. I guess i'll just spend that time making memories.
Bleugh....be gone.
Monday 14 March 2011
Clarifying Monday.
Monday; my favourite. A day of organised quiet, a hush after the rush of the weekend and the challenge that I unconsciously pose to myself each week to fit in as much activity as possible. I clean the house, I drink green tea and chamomile tea all day, I shower for longer than the hot water will last and paint my toenails whatever colour I feel will lift my spirit. It is a day of sanitizing; the house, my mind, my body. This, dear listeners, is why I love Mondays.
Today is no exception. The havoc of the past 3 days has left me with a swollen, brusied face after a disagreement with the ice outdoors rather than a maniac husband, as the raised lump on my right cheekbone may have others whispering. I am suffering from the sugar hangover, administered by the anti-medicinal portion of pudding that my disagreeing tummy was introduced to yesterday afternoon.
I awake late, dishevelled and ready for order to be restored. Leftover Lemon Meringue pie sits invitingly in the fridge but that, too, has to go in accordance with the scriptures of Sian Marie Monday which states that all and any sorts of temptation must be removed from her vicinity. Goodbye Meringue, have fun in the trash with your predecessor, Roast Dinner Remains.
I hear so many complaints of the return of each and every Monday. And I never understand it. This weekly gripe that so many people voice is as inevitable as the return of your next birthday, it happens as the Planet makes it's usual route around the Sun. Mondays will not fall from the Calendar lest you decide to hibernate for a whole 24 hours per week which, in the case of a busy mama who has too much to see and do, would be quite unacceptable. And after discovering that a man, a friend of my parents, of seemingly healthy nature passed away suddenly over the weekend at the age of 54, it gives me just another small nudge towards remembering that the passage of one week and the introduction of another is as much of a blessing as your next breath. Bruised face or not, i've been awarded the fortune of more time.
I love Mondays. I love that I have found a way to utilize them, to use them as a stepping stone to an inner-peace and tranquility that I can find only from a cleansed body, mind and house.
Of course, there'll be a day when Mondays no longer mean a day of cleaning house, home, person...one day i'll be back to the grindstone, employed by company rather than family duty, with lthe sight of my ittle girls running off to school becoming synonomous to the start of my working day. I wonder if i'll love Mondays so much then...
Today is no exception. The havoc of the past 3 days has left me with a swollen, brusied face after a disagreement with the ice outdoors rather than a maniac husband, as the raised lump on my right cheekbone may have others whispering. I am suffering from the sugar hangover, administered by the anti-medicinal portion of pudding that my disagreeing tummy was introduced to yesterday afternoon.
I awake late, dishevelled and ready for order to be restored. Leftover Lemon Meringue pie sits invitingly in the fridge but that, too, has to go in accordance with the scriptures of Sian Marie Monday which states that all and any sorts of temptation must be removed from her vicinity. Goodbye Meringue, have fun in the trash with your predecessor, Roast Dinner Remains.
I hear so many complaints of the return of each and every Monday. And I never understand it. This weekly gripe that so many people voice is as inevitable as the return of your next birthday, it happens as the Planet makes it's usual route around the Sun. Mondays will not fall from the Calendar lest you decide to hibernate for a whole 24 hours per week which, in the case of a busy mama who has too much to see and do, would be quite unacceptable. And after discovering that a man, a friend of my parents, of seemingly healthy nature passed away suddenly over the weekend at the age of 54, it gives me just another small nudge towards remembering that the passage of one week and the introduction of another is as much of a blessing as your next breath. Bruised face or not, i've been awarded the fortune of more time.
I love Mondays. I love that I have found a way to utilize them, to use them as a stepping stone to an inner-peace and tranquility that I can find only from a cleansed body, mind and house.
Of course, there'll be a day when Mondays no longer mean a day of cleaning house, home, person...one day i'll be back to the grindstone, employed by company rather than family duty, with lthe sight of my ittle girls running off to school becoming synonomous to the start of my working day. I wonder if i'll love Mondays so much then...
Thursday 10 March 2011
A smile.
As usual, I sit here aprés porridge-and-toast-time with my little ones. The elder princess runs off to hoist Polly Pocket out of her house ready for the fun and games that said daughter has undoubtedly been planning since last nights dream and I set baby princess down amongst pillows and toys. She is going to explore her own interesting world of textures, shapes, noises and funny stuffed faces.
It's as i'm carrying out this everyday task that I see it. Baby Princess, or Booboo as we named her in utero, shifts her enormous blue eyes upwards. Looks at me. Smiles. Not just with her pretty little gummy grin but with her eyes. No biggy, hey? 8 month old babies do smile, rather frequently. But she is showing me appreciation in it's truest, purest form. No hint of deceit or deception is lurking behind this toothless expression. She is thankful for what she has: a mama who can provide her not just with her favourite playthings but who delivers constance, continuity, security in the inevitable. Unlike the 'necessary' social pleasantries that are exchanged daily, she is genuine. A rarity.
It's got me. In such a small, usually somewhat unrecognised gesture, this little character has given me a heart full of admiration and she has taught me my lesson of the day: smile, smile, smile. You can't melt away the evils of the Earth but you can sure give a little love to the average Joe, the miserable old git who doesn't return your smile when you wander past them for the umpteenth time this month on your usual route. It doesn't make a difference if THEY choose to grin or sneer- what is going to make a difference to your own life is which of those assertions that you decide to distribute yourself.
I was once taught 'fake it til you make it'....it works, sometimes. I've tried it many a time, usually when hungover at work and merriment has been feigned to get me through the hours, and it's been relatively successful. But, today attempt to be innocent. Yes, be honest. Make like Booboo, get back to basics and be happy with your lot if only for a minute and when you're right in the midst of feeling the love (yeah, mannnn), just do it: Smile.
Wow, what a lot a little baby can teach us all. By something as simple as a drooling, dribbling, but bona fide beam.
And now my firends, I'm off to brush my teeth before the world and it's wife sees my inner Cheshire Cat coming out....
It's as i'm carrying out this everyday task that I see it. Baby Princess, or Booboo as we named her in utero, shifts her enormous blue eyes upwards. Looks at me. Smiles. Not just with her pretty little gummy grin but with her eyes. No biggy, hey? 8 month old babies do smile, rather frequently. But she is showing me appreciation in it's truest, purest form. No hint of deceit or deception is lurking behind this toothless expression. She is thankful for what she has: a mama who can provide her not just with her favourite playthings but who delivers constance, continuity, security in the inevitable. Unlike the 'necessary' social pleasantries that are exchanged daily, she is genuine. A rarity.
It's got me. In such a small, usually somewhat unrecognised gesture, this little character has given me a heart full of admiration and she has taught me my lesson of the day: smile, smile, smile. You can't melt away the evils of the Earth but you can sure give a little love to the average Joe, the miserable old git who doesn't return your smile when you wander past them for the umpteenth time this month on your usual route. It doesn't make a difference if THEY choose to grin or sneer- what is going to make a difference to your own life is which of those assertions that you decide to distribute yourself.
I was once taught 'fake it til you make it'....it works, sometimes. I've tried it many a time, usually when hungover at work and merriment has been feigned to get me through the hours, and it's been relatively successful. But, today attempt to be innocent. Yes, be honest. Make like Booboo, get back to basics and be happy with your lot if only for a minute and when you're right in the midst of feeling the love (yeah, mannnn), just do it: Smile.
Wow, what a lot a little baby can teach us all. By something as simple as a drooling, dribbling, but bona fide beam.
And now my firends, I'm off to brush my teeth before the world and it's wife sees my inner Cheshire Cat coming out....
Wednesday 9 March 2011
When people say 'I'm just me...' An Inquisition.
It's one of those turns of phrase that I've always been apt to question: 'I'm just me, take me or leave me'...really? REALLY? Wouldn't the world be a wonderful, calm and peaceful place to be if every time that somebody uttered that phrase, they truly meant it. Maybe people do; as it happens, if that were me saying it, I'd be a downright liar.
Because, like a lot of folk, I enjoy the feeling of others enjoying me: my personality, my humour...me. But I am well aware that this is not always the case. Take Simona for instance, a girl who hated me from day dot for no other reason, it seemed, than her object of affection at the time appeared to have taken a shine to me and my pert 14 year old frame. Ah...how things change...but back to the point, I am (on my nomadic route to goodness knows where, 'fulfillment', I think), frequently approaching challenges that have me questioning how and indeed when I will be happy to say 'take me or leave me'. Will I suddenly forget that in spite of myself, I yearn for that celeb litheness? And shall I laugh in the face of everybody who wishes that I never achieve this celeb-body status lest it make them feel worse about themselves?
You know what...maybe I'll teach myself a lesson. Maybe i'll just attempt to have fun being Sian Marie for now. And revel in the fact that my 8 month old daughter adores my bosom for what it is to her: a treasure trove of milk rather than the slighlty dishevelled shell of what was not so very long ago a treasure chest.
Because, like a lot of folk, I enjoy the feeling of others enjoying me: my personality, my humour...me. But I am well aware that this is not always the case. Take Simona for instance, a girl who hated me from day dot for no other reason, it seemed, than her object of affection at the time appeared to have taken a shine to me and my pert 14 year old frame. Ah...how things change...but back to the point, I am (on my nomadic route to goodness knows where, 'fulfillment', I think), frequently approaching challenges that have me questioning how and indeed when I will be happy to say 'take me or leave me'. Will I suddenly forget that in spite of myself, I yearn for that celeb litheness? And shall I laugh in the face of everybody who wishes that I never achieve this celeb-body status lest it make them feel worse about themselves?
You know what...maybe I'll teach myself a lesson. Maybe i'll just attempt to have fun being Sian Marie for now. And revel in the fact that my 8 month old daughter adores my bosom for what it is to her: a treasure trove of milk rather than the slighlty dishevelled shell of what was not so very long ago a treasure chest.
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