London four-piece make convincing return with single ‘Eat, Sleep, Wake (Nothing But You)’.
It’s been five years since Bombay Bicycle Club released the Mercury Prize nominated number 1 album ‘So Long, See You Tomorrow’, ten since their jangle-rock debut ‘I Had The Blues But I Shook Them Loose’. So when the four Londoners teased their return earlier this year after a long hiatus, the music world sat up and took notice.
Expectations were high, the bar had been set by the glorious synth-extravaganza that was ‘So Long’.
“Our new single, Eat, Sleep, Wake (Nothing But You), is now out. We’re so excited to be sharing new music after five years away. Recording it earlier this year reminded us all of the joy of working together on something we love.”
Produced by John Congleton, ‘Eat, Sleep, Wake (Nothing But You) is a star spangled joy-ride across buoyant waves of pop and through shallows of pulsating thrum. A compelling piece of indie pop fusion it lures the listener in with its rizzled guitar lines, minimalist sticks, and nuanced vocals, all held in check by some well scored lines of low-lying bass.
Commenting on their impending fifth album the band said “We’re going away next week to finish the rest of our record, so it’ll be out next year”
Bombay Bicycle Club returned to the live music scene earlier this Summer playing several shows across Europe including one at the Cork Opera House at the beginning of August. The British quartet are set to play a series of sold out dates including London’s renowned Brixton Academy on 8th November. No ticket? Bring a stool.
‘Eat, Sleep, Wake (Nothing But You)’ is available to stream and download now, and you can watch the official video for the track below,
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
Come write for our blog; you’ll get great exposure and a myriad fridge magnets!
It’s a mug’s game that writing for blogs malarkey.
Oh, you’ll get all the free mugs in the world, but you’ll never get the price of the coffee to put in them. You will probably get a nice coaster though, and possibly a fridge magnet with a snappy one liner to which you can turn for comfort each time you open your bare fridge to look for milk to put in the coffee you’ve had to pay for with cold hard cash down at the local cheapomarket. Won’t that be nice?
Yes, your name will be added to plenty of guest lists; mainly those for bands whose gigs are free entry anyway. But hey, you’ve been given a guester … get you!
“You’ll get great exposure!”
As for reputation. It’s going to magnify a zillion times through all that exposure!
Ooh, think of that HUGE industry-wEYEd rep you’re gonna have from writing all those reviews n news features about countless next best things. Golly, you must be salivating at the thoughts of Laura Snapes positively tripping over herself to snap you up before the guys over at Best Fit bag you for themselves!
Or Jessica Hopper right? I mean, the blog does get worldwide exposure doesn’t it? There is a chance she just might like you know, check out random articles just for a nose. To see what the competition is doing, yeah? Cor! You can just picture it can’t you? Little ole you flying high around the globe, interviewing Jack White over breakfast in Berlin, or cosying up with Lizzo on the Iberian leg of her album tour! Living the dream right?
Wrong! So, so wrong. In every aspect and respect.
Asking people, especially young ‘uns, to write for free either for a blog or in any other situation, is just plain wrong. Oh, they might tell you that they’ve no money, that it’s a big co-operative thing and everyone does it for the lurve of music. But at the end of the day, the people that get the big interviews, the good guesters, and the masses of free shit, are the self-appointed editorial team, ie the person who started the blog and their commissioning editor sidekick.
When the free trips to EP or Latitude are being handed out, you’ll never be at the top of the queue. Oh, you might bag that away day-trip to the back end of Mayo to capture all the zazz on that up coming New Age Sustainable Folk Festival that no-one is talking about, but only ‘cos Mary of the green geansai is currently laid up with that dose she picked up skinny dipping with hippies in Cape Clear last weekend.
And you’ll get plenty of experience alright, but nothing you can’t pick up yourself, or by doing a one month internship with a reputable publication. Anyone can set up a blog. Anyone with a bit of a savvy, a nose for good music, and a friendly personality and inquiring mind can write reviews, interview artists, and latch onto the latest trends and techniques.
If you want to be a music journalist, do a course in journalism, get yourself some ‘work experience’ and get out there networking and doing the rounds. Go to gigs, talk to up and coming bands, get to know who’s who in your local scene and then take it wider. Start up your own blog focussing on the genres of music that appeal to you. Study how the others do it then replicate the style that best fits your own, until eventually you find your own ‘written voice’.
PRs love bloggers because let’s face it, we provide free advertising for the artists on their roster. With the basics covered, they only have to focus on skinning the bigger, more elusive cats like radio producers and TV researchers. Once you get on their mailing lists, you’ll have access to pretty much most of the releases and news from their stable. Forget trying to bag that elusive Radiohead interview. Thom’s days of cosying up over an herbal tea in the student canteen are long gone. Big names play with big players. The likes of Foo Fighters and Radiohead are great aspirations for your blogging bucket list. Most likely they’ll remain unticked!
That’s not to dampen your spirits. You can reach for the middle ground. If you spot an artist that you know is going to make it – and gut will tell you more than any amount of hearsay (worked like magic for me with Sam Fender) – go to their gigs, hang back, get talking to them, ask for a quick interview with the offer of a free pint, and get it out there on your blog. If they crack the scene, you’ll be on their radar and more likely to bag another interview or guester now they’re swimming mainstream.
Plus, it’ll be a wow reference when you go for any paid writing gigs in the future.
The Don’ts
First and foremost, don’t write if you can’t write. If you don’t have a natural talent for wordsmithing, forget it. Writing isn’t something you can learn like basic secretarial or how to mow a lawn. It’s like music, you either have it or you don’t. Simple.
Don’t write about music you don’t like – your enthusiasm won’t shine through but the stiltedness of your words will. If it’s a labour, move on. Same with any other subject. If your thing is GAA don’t write about Soccer. The text won’t sparkle.
Do write about music you love – whether or not its popular. Your love and passion will draw readers to your site. No-one wants to read mechanical fodder – and trust me, there’s already plenty of it out there. Don’t write positive reviews for the sake of keeping in with either artist or PR. If you genuinely don’t like something you’ve two choices – you can say it – politely – or say nothing at all. The choice is yours.
And never, ever let yourself be leaned on by anyone from a PR agency. It’s their job to get the info out there and stir up some fizz about their artists. It is not their job to hound people into reluctantly writing good reviews when they have neither the time nor inclination.
Whatever you do, be true to you and the rest as they say, will be history, of some ilk or other.
Ditto, don’t sell yourself cheap or your words for free. Builders don’t lay bricks for free, carpenters don’t saw wood for free, and PRs don’t rep their roster for free, so why should you provide free copy/content for A.N.Other, especially any site making money or turning over a rake of freebies/promos/festival passes that will never see the light of anyone’s day other than the editorial team.
Trust me. Been there, done that, wrote the reviews, and never got offered even as much as a beer mat.
You want to write for free? Write for yourself. Anything else is a waste of time, and will certainly do nothing for your global reputation.
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
With a head more full of chatter than a chimps’ compound, I need to find a way to silence the monkey mind.
There’s so much going on in my universe right now that my personal space feels cramped. With each passing day it’s becoming more difficult to silence the mental chatter. High time to muzzle my monkey mind.
If you’re new to the blog you won’t know the detail so to quickly summarise – I’m a stressball with a mind more active that a beehive full of bumbles.
I’ve been seeing a kinesiologist once a month for over a year now. We deal with things, tackle issues. Finally, we’ve arrived at that point where get to address the chattering classes of my cerebral cortex.
How?
By both practicing controlling the mental chat and being mindful during my waking hours – what I do in my sleep is my business!!
Being mindful at all times simply means being fully conscious throughout the day. Being cognisant of not just my thoughts, but of my actions, emotions, opinions, perceptions, vocal expression – everything. So, if I find my mind going for a wander while I’m working, I need to practice bringing it back – kicking and screaming – to the task in hand.
Or, if my ‘monkey mind’ decides to have a natter with its alter ego, I need to rein it in forthwith. No more sitting in judgement; the time has come to park all prejudices and wipe my critical slate clean. Like dust that clogs corners, all negative thoughts must be swept away.
If I do find myself sitting on the throne of judgement, favourite cushion and hot drink on standby, I must immediately acknowledge what I am doing and in atomic fashion, turn my electrons into protons. By turning negative into positive, I’ll be openly accepting the fact that what I’m thinking / feeling / doing is neither helpful, nor loving, nor constructive.
In so doing, I’ll be setting the intention to learn from my mistakes, do better next time, and move forward in a new way.
Speaking of intentions.
At the start of each day, I must practice setting my intentions, road maps for where I wish to go in life and how I’d like my life to be.
Without intentions there is no road map, so I’ll continue on the road to nowhere.
Intentions need to be things I believe in, things that matter to me: I intend to listen without prejudice; I intend to work for an NGO; I intend to promote sustainability; I intend to laugh every day; I intend to take responsibility for my actions. They also need to be positive. Two key objectives for me – and intentions which will help support my current situation – are positivity and self-belief. Going forward, one of my mantras will be,
“Today is a great day. I have the consciousness required to surpass any challenges that lie ahead of me”
Tomorrow is monkey mind management and intention setting work day 1. I should start to see positive results within a matter of weeks. Here’s hoping I’ll be able to silence the internal naysayers, quieten the mental chatterers, and calm emotional storms. Wish me luck. I’ll keep you posted.
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
It’s 5.30am and I’m sitting in the living room drinking Pai Mu Tea and feeling a little worse for wear. Weary before the bustling grind has even blinked an eye or scratched an itch.
In three hours, I’ll board a plane to London, forecast to be a hot and heavy 29 degrees, the type of weather that drains. Whatever gas is left in the tank will be well and truly gone by the time I step on the return flight twelve hours later.
I’m currently listening to Radio 4 which is reporting that 750,000 families in Britain have had to fund the care for relatives living with dementia. That despite repeated promises, the British government has failed to provide the additional funding required to support these families. The irony is that if those same relatives developed heart failure or cancer, they’d be looked after by the NHS, but because they’ve developed dementia or Alzheimers, they’re refused any assistance. How wrong is that?
However bad the situation is in the UK, it is ten times worse in Ireland. There is nothing here but lip service for those with elderly parents or dementia sufferers needing care, respite, and/or assistance.
But enough of that for today.
If I sound a little negative, it’s partly because I’m tired, and also a little hungry. In the main, it’s because at 2.35am this morning I received yet another phone call from the Gardai (Irish police) advising me that my elderly father had fallen in his apartment and asking if I either had keys to let them in or knew the combo to the outside gate. Same phone call, same questions, different month.
This is the sixth time in as many months that my dad has fallen in his home. Always in the middle of the night, always with the same results.
The question is, what to do about it?
Who am I to interfere with another adult’s life and yet, I feel the burden of responsibility to a man now well past the prime of life. Becoming increasingly fragile, he is almost a danger to himself. His confidence has been knocked by a recent theft, his legs are seizing up, and apart from a few neighbours in his gated community and the odd ‘auld lad’ in the pub, he’s pretty much alone.
Don’t get me wrong. Where he lives is safe and secure. Everything is provided from orthopaedic beds and chairs to extended hours of home help and public nurse visits. But it’s the nights that are proving the problem. He is tripping over himself with tiredness or sleepiness, and there is no-one there to help him up. Powerless, he resorts to sounding his personal alarm, which in turn alerts the Gardai, setting in motion a train of events that inevitably result in his being hospitalised.
So here I am. Sitting on the sofa wondering what to do. I’m practically a full time carer to my dementia-sufferer mother. I don’t have the ability to bi-locate. There are only so many hours. There is no-one to ask. No-one to help.
Again I ask, what to do?
There has to be an answer, somewhere, because this situation cannot go on indefinitely.
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
It’s only Day 1 and already the battery has gone dead. Instead of feeling all light and airy, I’m as flat as a pancake.
Half way through day one and a dead head/sluggish bod combo are nailing me to the floor. My legs feel leaden, my bones are aching. One minute my head is as light as a feather, the next it’s a ton weight on my neck. If this is how I feel and I haven’t yet reached the end of the first day, how the hell am I going to last one full month?
I’m constantly trying to foist cups of caffeine on my mother so that I can do some deep inhaling of the fragrant scent of fresh ground, or china leaves. Without the usual toxic levels of caffeine and sugar my energy has slumped to an all time low, my concentration levels have flatlined, and I’ve a headache on the brew that I know is gonna be a killer.
Restless and lacking any kind of focus, I’ve turned into the human incarnation of the fidget spinner. I’m not down when I’m back up again, moving things from there to here, and schlepping around looking for inane things to do to pass the time because work simply isn’t happening right now.
In an apparent act of self-kindness, I’ve made myself some gently perfumed Bee Kind tea from Neal’s Yard. On any other day this would be a welcome treat, but today, as my body slowly expunges all known traces of toxicity, it’s redolent of drinking slightly lukewarm perfume, albeit one that’s floral and organic.
Be that as it may, I find myself squeezing the last honeyed drops from my little white teapot. Anything to create the illusion of drinking ‘real tea’. However much it gnaws away inside, I know this feeling is only transient. In a few days it’ll be gone, along with the bloating, the cravings for stodge, and the quiet screams for sugar. It will, won’t it?
I’m not hungry as such. It’s the lack of ‘chewing’ that’s posing something of a challenge.
Is it all in my head? I really don’t know. Truth be told it’s currently all in my mouth as I crave something to get my teeth into. Activated nuts are allowed in small doses so when my chomping on the bit got so bad that I was in danger of it becoming a permanent thing, I smugly reached for my little pouch of Himalayan Salted Almonds. Six months out of date almonds! What’s six months to a woman desperate for something to bite down on, or for a morsel to chew.
A small handful kept the toothy wolves from the cupboard door so to speak.
As for the juices themselves?
Thus far, I’ve imbibed five, consuming a total of 450 cals. This excludes the 100 odd cals I consumed by way of the almonds. Tummy rumbling much?
The morning kicked off as usual with a Synergy Pro-Argi drink. This was followed by step one of the cleanse in the form of Water + activated Charcoal. It has a little lemony kick with a floral aftertaste courtesy of the addition of lavender. This was quickly followed by a bottle of the Cacao Nut Milk, which while it looks more chocolatey than it tastes, is pleasantly satisfying nonetheless. The Easy Green and Clean Carrot drinks are juicery par for the course; the former is a not unpleasant green juice while the latter is a standard ginger zinger albeit of bitesize proportions.
Fifth in line is an odious concoction called Lean Green. It’s made predominantly from vegetables, meaning it has that sharp, almost ‘green’ taste otherwise known in my book as pondweed. Made from ginger, lemon, romaine, cucumber, kale, spinach and celery – it’s the celery that’s the bugger – it lacks the light sweetness of Easy Green, and is an altogether more difficult drink. The proof of the pudding is in the fact that there is still about one fifth of it left in the bottle. If you do ever indulge in a PRESS VC, hold your nose for this baby.
With five hours to go before I throw myself into bed, I’ve the Clean Beet, Vanilla Nut milk and Water + Blue Spirulina drinks to go. Be still my beating heart! In desperation, I’m currently chewing the knob of a carrot, tongue firmly in cheek.
I know the worst is yet to come. Cooking and serving my mother’s dinner, not to mention the post-dinner clear up, which is foodie dynamite for the Queen of Pickers. It’s going to take all my inner stubborn mare not to bow to the Devil’s call – the fresh vegetables, dauphinoise potatoes (it’s the sauce, not the spuds that’s on my radar), and leftover flakes of honey roast salmon. Oh God, I’m already salivating. Be still my hungry heart!
Derv
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
As VC-Day approaches, I don my needs-must hat, pump up my long deflated bravado, and neck as much caffeine as is physically possible in one day!
Tomorrow is VC-Day! Yes folks. After months of the down three, up five, I’m taking a cavernous plunge into the world of hardcore cleanse.
To bring an end to the long running ‘plateau show’, it was necessary for me to make peace with myself. This involved acceptance that the ‘eat today, gone tomorrow’ policy of yesteryear which had served me so well for so long, had failed to transition with me into ‘middle earth’.
Yes scores of hours – and euros – spent on personal training have given me a six-pack – somewhere, I can feel it, I swear – and while I have developed well-honed, chunky munky arms, I’ve struggled to drop a full dress size. There’s only so much sweat I’m prepared to ooze without seeing any ‘real results’. Only so much money I’m prepared to invest when there’s little or no return.
Enough is enough. It’s time to bite the bullet and go full weightloss commando. The time is now for ‘diet delivered to your door’.
‘We understand that asking you to give up caffeine for a month probably isn’t realistic so we recommend cutting down and having a maximum of one or two cups a day’ … ahahahahahaha-ha
As a men-o-pauser, I’ve been fighting the Battle of the Bulge for nigh on two years. I’ve tried countless iterations of vegan, vegetarian, and freshairian, all to no avail. Following various restricted diets – carb free, low carb, high fat, eleven day, suck your thumb, you get the gist – initially with some success, ultimately proved frustrating. No sooner would I lose three or four pounds than I’d hit the wall as they say. Trust me when I tell you that nothing is more of a motivation mauler than the needle sticking in the groove.
So here I am, on VC-eve, driven by desperation, frustration, and determination in equal measure.
“Drinking water to stay thin or is it to purify?”
“What does VC stand for,” I hear you cry – you are crying aren’t you, probably with laughter?
VC stands for Virgin Cleanse. Yerp. Tomorrow I will offer myself up on the altar of PRESS Londonwhen I lose my cleanse virginity to their V-Juice plan: “the perfect introduction to cleansing, sweet and simple”.
What does it entail? For their chosen number of days, not exceeding five, the virgin cleansee downs a bevvy of nutrient-packed bevvies including juices, nut milks, and waters. The eight cold-pressed juice and drinks daily diet consists of,
Activated Charcoal Water (stop sniggering)
Cacao Leche Nut Milk
Easy Green Juice
Clean Carrot Juice
Lean Green Juice
Beet Juice
Vanilla Leche Nut Milk
Blue Spirulina Water
The liquid-only diet can, in cases of complete desperation, be supplemented with a few activated nuts or a little raw veg. Neither caffeine nor alcohol are allowed, but herbal tea is permitted and water consumption is encouraged. (Brings to mind those lyrics from the MSP track You Stole the Sun from my Heart, “drinking water to stay thin or is it to purify?”
So dear people, this will be my dietary life for the next two days. I’ll probably be gnawing my knuckles by tomorrow night, but only time will tell.
Oh, and just because I’m a complete all or nothing masochist, the VC is only a precursor to the big event. Yes folks, for the next month, you’ll get to join me while I glug and slug my way through the PRESS Fab-In-4 four week diet plan, more of which anon.
Tune in next time when I’ll be in the throes of cold turkey in the hope of not just finally ridding myself of my caffeine/sugar/gluten/solid food addiction, but of shedding some excess Derv. Fingers crossed, may the force be with me.
Derv
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
A post in which I reflect upon being told that contrary to popular opinion, you are indeed too old to learn!
“You’re never too old” or so the saying goes. Well, not according to my now ex-driving instructor. It would seem that I am of an age when it is nigh on impossible for this old dog to learn new tricks.
Iho there is an age when we must accept that we are too old to learn, and I’ve reached it. This sagacious pronouncement came after a particularly traumatic second driving lesson in which I was shouted at, ridiculed, and had my hand slapped. Distressed much? Just a jot! Confidence battered to within an inch of its life? Pretty much.
To explain.
I don’t particularly want to learn how to drive, I need to. While the youthful enthusiasm I had for driving has long since dissipated, I’m not exactly apathetic. It doesn’t bother me one way or another. My approach is practical rather than exuberant, that ship has long since sailed.
To bring you up to speed, I had driving lessons many moons ago. I wasn’t bad, had smooth clutch control, could easily handle a three point turn, and didn’t break a sweat negotiating hill starts. However, when my second licence expired meaning I had to apply for the test, I jacked it in, mainly because I felt that not having a car to practice in, I was at a serious disadvantage.
Fast forward seventeen years.
My parents are now quite elderly and need to be ferried here, there and so on. The taxi thing is becoming a pain – not just in terms of the financial implications, but also because one is reliant both on their availability and punctuality.
Ipso facto, it’s time to take the bull by the wheel and steer my way into a less costly state of self-reliance. The theory behind taking some initial lessons in West Cork was that it would be calmer and quieter hopefully leading to a relaxed me and thus a positive driving experience. I’ve been the front seat passenger in two bad collisions – one head on – so my nerves being a little bit shot, it was thought best to ease me gently back into driving in an area noted for its super-slow pace and relaxed attitude.
Cue drivezilla.
Of the three local driving instructors that were recommended to me, only the third was available during my stay. I booked an initial lesson for the Tuesday, and while there were some signs that I was potentially putting myself into the hands of not the most patient person on the planet, nonetheless as it went quite well, I thought “ok, let’s go for seconds”.
In hindsight, all the early signs of drivezilla were there during that first lesson, but,while the lack of a calm, professional approach ie the shouting, the leg grabbing and the sighing, did dent my already weak as water confidence, I put it down to mea culpa and promised myself it’d be better the next time.
While I am “of a certain age” (her words, not mine), I like to think that my memory is still pretty sharp and from what I can recall of my original lessons, I do remember the order in which I was taught certain things.
Things like checking the mirror and that the gears were in neutral, going though the various hand positions for changing gears, applying clutch/brake to stop, and going up and down between first and second gears were all gone through in detail. Only then was I encouraged to take my first tentative steps towards driving on a quiet road, never exceeding 30 m.p.h. as it was a built up area.
Follow your instinct.
You know don’t you, when something doesn’t gel. When you don’t click with someone. It’s not right at ‘my ripe age’ to feel afraid of someone, or to be stressed going into any kind of a lesson. So when my heart began beating rapidly at 11.55pm today I should have made up some excuse, given the instructor half the agreed fee and beat a hasty retreat to the terrace of the hotel to indulge in some sun and serenity.
I should have followed my instincts. Instead I went forward, where even the fearless fear to tread and ladies and gentlemen, it was an unmitigated disaster. I won’t bore you with the details but riddle me this! When you’re asked to clutch/brake when in third gear, and thereafter you’re told to find the bite and continue without any mention being made of changing back into first, all hell will break loose, yes?
Well, that was the tipping point. Was it too much to expect to be guided through every stage of the drive with patience and encouragement? Instead I was expected to drive in third and fourth gears on both major and narrow, winding roads having gone up and down through the gears not more than twice during the first lesson. Is it me? Am I a bit dim?
With the tension rising up through my arms and a headache pounding on the door, I pulled the car over, and said “that’s it, no more, you take over”. There is only so much abuse – physical and verbal, ridicule and rubbishing I’m prepared to put up with from anyone. Angry screaming is not conducive to calm driving. Neither is expecting the learner to fill in the blanks.
To drive or not to drive that is the question.
Parting is such sweet sorrow, except when it comes to an abusive teacher. Her final words to me were, “If you DO decide to continue, you’ll come to realise after a time that it’d probably be best if you go for an automatic car”.
So, the decision that now lies before me is whether or not to continue.
After what I’d previously been through, it took every ounce of my strength to once again sit behind a wheel. Now what? Is this a ‘forever fear’ or was I just unlucky? Only time and another attempt will tell. But when that’ll be, well, that’ll require a bit more inner strength than I’ve got in the tank just now.
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
The menopause journey. With no clear start or end point, odd diversions, and an estimated time of arrival that can span years, menopause is certainly a trip, and then some, that requires some turn-by-turn directions.
Nobody tells you what the menopause is like, or how bad it is.
My mum never discussed it. The reasons for that were probably twofold. One, she is of a generation that invariably struggled with ‘taboo subjects’, often finding broaching them embarrassing, impolite even. Two, she never went through the menopause, having had to undergo an hysterectomy in her late 40s. Today, mum’s a lot more relaxed about discussing certain topics, gynaecological and sexual included. However, as she’s clueless in the menopausal department, there’s little point in broaching the subject with her, as it’s an experience about which she remains oblivious. Lucky her!
Experience – did I just call the menopause ‘an experience’? Well, what do you call it? A condition, a situation, a phase, a bloody pain in the arse? It’s not an illness, although many women suffer excruciatingly from its symptoms and side-effects.
menopause
noun
the ceasing of menstruation.
the period (haha, lexicographer’s comic irony) – in a woman’s life (typically between the ages of 45 and 50) when menstruation ceases.
Anyway, getting back to the point, rarely are women told in graphic widescreen, dolby surround sound detail about the menopause. A high level overview, as they say, being the best we can hope for. Why? Probably because we women are still too embarrassed to a) admit that we’ve arrived at the ‘biological downturn’ commonly referred to as ‘change of life’, and b) discuss the finer details of hot and cold running sweat fountains and the resultant boggy bra and very public perspiration patches, middle-aged acne, and morphing into Fatzilla, queen of the middle-aged spread.
While many arrive unexpectedly at the menopause – “Surprise, surprise. Hello, it’s me, Men O’ Pause. I’m here to change your life completely, let’s get this party started!” – it’s also fair to say that most of us will reach that point with little or no clue of what’s about to happen to us.
Now don’t get me wrong, we women know the basics, no need to be ‘splaining us thank you. The problem is that no-one talks openly about the menopause, so pre-Perimeno (and when did that become a thing?) most of us truly don’t know how bad it is, or rather will be.
So, how bad is it then?
For some, lack of sleep is the worst. Annoyingly, it doesn’t necessarily come with the onset of menopause. Instead, sleep disruption, like a spot on the face of hopeful innocence, can pop up at a time of its own malevolent choosing. Poor sleep mixed with night-sweats is a fate you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. Not that I know first hand per se, but I do suffer from random bouts of insomnia and have borne the brunt of hot flushes, and they ladies, and gentlemen – if there are any of you actually reading this – are no bloody picnic!
Hot Flushes: Menopausal Woman’s Bane – Sounds like, giddy middle-aged embarrassment; Feels like, being slathered in molten lava from the décolletage up to the crown of one’s head.
Seriously, no words can describe the combination of shock, confusion, and heat that hit you the first time you have a hot flush. It’s like being ducked into and held down in boiling water for a minute plus, and then left dripping in rivers of rapidly cooling hot sweat, cue the shivers, while your armpits are like two perspiration filled paddling pools cosseted within the sleeves of your now seriously soggy jumper/blouse/tee-shirt.
Anyone who has experienced a heatwave, sat at length on a packed bus/tram/train on a hot Summer’s evening, run for more than 30 minutes, or been cooked in an oven at 180 degrees, will know only too well that the afterglow soon turns to ice cold sog.
Rank isn’t it, burning up until you think you are internally combusting and then having to sit or stand around in clothes wet with cold sweat? Now, times that x five and instead of a running track or bus, place yourself sitting in the middle of a business meeting, surrounded by a few colleagues, mainly men.
It’s your turn to offer up some suggestions on an upcoming project but … oh dear. You’re overcome by a wave of heat of equatorial proportions, beads of sweat have broken out on your brow (oh Jesus, can they see them?) and the floodgates have opened up under your clothes. Your train of thought has run out the door and in a two-fingered salute to your now drenched upper torso and reputation, your tongue is as dry as a camel’s hoof.
That’s a hot flush for you.
The big problem with flushes is they can happen any time, any place, and in any situation, and they recur with irregular frequency. Five in a row can be followed by an hour’s downtime before being followed by a series of anything up to ten in quick succession. I sat crying on the sofa one night as I experienced flush after flush after flush, again and again until I could take no more, ran upstairs and jumped into the shower.
Having broken all possible records by having eleven in forty minutes, I spent most of the following day on Google search seeking remedies (HRT had already been ruled out – that’s for another post). Finally, I found the saviour of my menopausal world – Sage – bought a bottle of Menosan in the chemist, and never looked back. For the next six months, the Sage drops eradicated all traces of hot flushes, after which they started come and go intermittently, a shadow of their former selves. Certainly nothing of the epic proportion I’d previously experienced.
True story– I actually have the ability to bring on a hot flush. If I focus really hard, I can make myself so hot that I can draw on a flush. Another tip – embarrassment is a magnet for hot flushes, so if you think you’re going to feel a bit bothered in a public situation, try to calm yourself (Bach’s Rescue Remedy is a great calmer). Hopefully you’ll fend off the flush.
When I started writing this post, I didn’t envisage going through the granular ins and outs of the menopause but as the late Magnus Magnusson used to say, “I’ve started so I’ll finish”. But not today
To recap. Hot flushes are like flashes of feeling incinerated from the boobs upwards. They last about one minute during which you’ll be drenched in sweat and your concentration temporarily wiped out. They can occur once, twice, thrice, multiple times per hour. Every hour. 24×7. They can’t be stopped by iron will or fresh air.
They can be stopped by HRT if you can tolerate it, or more holistically by taking Sage tablets or drops. You’ll pick up sage in its various forms in pharmacies and health shops. Sage won’t eradicate flushes completely but it will minimise the impact. If there are other remedies, I’m unaware of them.
You’ll still suffer from over-heating particularly during exercise including walking. You’ll need to prep for sweat in places it never was before. Keeping a supply of tissues in your pockets helps. Always keep travel deodorant in your bag. And, if travelling, bring a spare top.
You’ve probably got the gist of hot flushes by now but don’t run away, there’s plenty more crapola where that came from.
We’ll see you back here for the Menopause Manual p2. You never know, if some feminist movie producer happens upon my blog we could end up with Menopause Da Movie! Now, unlike the meno, wouldn’t that be fun!!
Derv
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
Bees have always held a childlike fascination for me.
It’s their furriness, and those bright neon yellow stripes, and the constant bouncing around and grappling with flowers. The cuteness!!
It’s always worth hitting the pause button ‘to stop and stare’. To immerse oneself in the deep, wondrous pleasure to be had in watching a bee flitting from flower to flower before coming to land on a nearby purple patch, expanse of echinacea, or flock of fuchsia. Becoming ever more rare, these joyous occurrences should be savoured, each and every moment of them.
When a boisterous and buzzy bumble got stuck into a lunch of lavender today, I could not but be enthralled. This chubby little ball of coloured fluff hovered and capered, buzzed and bumped, foraged and probed.
He suckled and excavated a myriad floral honey pots, and when his nectary need was more than sated, flew off to another world, another floral universe.
So, when is a bee not a bee? When it’s a wasp. Hymenoptera Apocrita Vespidae – are neither bee nor ant. While the vast majority of wasps have no hand, act or part in pollination, a few species can effectively transport pollen and pollinate several plant species. Considered pests, especially in late Summer when they down tools and come a lookin’ for high GI sugary foods wasps will, like fraudsters, sting anyone that gets too close to them.
I’d take a bee over a wasp any day of the week, wouldn’t you?
🚨
Late addition. I’ve just come across this on Twitter thanks to Luke Turner of tQ. Wolfgang Buttress is showing the most sublime installation at the Greenpeace area at Glastonbury. If you’re there, please support art, the bees, and the environment by connecting with this immersive multi-sensory experience. If like me, you can only watch from afar, here’s a beautiful video soundtracked by the most delicious pastorale. The sculpture itself is accompanied by soundscapes by BE along with contributions by Kelly Lee Owens, Daniel Avery, Camille Christel , Spiritualized, and Coldcut. 🙏
Derv
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
Brinsley MacNamara’s take-down of Irish small-town life and human nature in general is sadly still as pertinent today as as it was when it was written.
A century on, Irish windows still squint, and often in both directions.
Valley of the Squinting Windows has become a stock-phrase implying nosey neighbours twitching their curtains, usually in small communities. In MacNamara’s fictional village of Garradrimna, almost everyone is beastly: begrudging, hypocritical, mean-spirited, malicious even.
We have a serious dose of the squints in our boutique cul-de-sac, our very own private Garradrimna – without the privacy. Curtain twitching and window peering abound in equal measure.
The strange thing is, that the people who think nothing of staring into neighbouring windows have not just built ‘fortresses’ of trees, bushes and porches around the perimeter of their own gardens, their windows are perma-clad with net curtains, blinds, and super-thick drapes. No chance of a cheeky gawk there, I can tell you!
They’re also the very people who in the past have baulked at anyone espying their less than exciting daily grind – not the mine is any more exciting mind. Cue several hastily planted bushes and a fence being plonked on top of a party wall at 7am, without so much as a by-your-leave.
If I’m honest, I’m probably one of the least observant people you’ll ever meet. Apart from a cursory sweeping glance when I go outside to perform mundanities like putting out or taking in the washing, I rarely look up at other people’s houses or windows for that matter.
I look straight ahead when I walk, my mind usually in some bubble of thought or planning. I rarely gawp or gape at other people’s houses unless checking out their flower garden or something stand-out catches my eye.
The truth is, I have little or no interest. I’ve enough to be getting on with thanks.
Others, however, obviously have less mental processing or daily busy-ness to keep their thoughts occupied and so throwing the side-eye, casting a peripheral sweep, or simply just playing at ‘to stop and stare’ has become part and parcel of their daily routine.
A few weeks ago, I pulled back our downstairs living room curtains, situated at the rear of the house facing onto a tree-lined, fenced garden, only for my eye to be drawn upwards to a neighbouring bedroom window, wherein the man of the house was standing half-hidden by a curtain, staring down at me. He continued to do so until he realised I’d seen him, when he quickly disappeared with a flurry of vanilla material.
Mind you, ogling and nosing is par for the course with this guy. In fact, I’d go so far as to call him a voyeur, and I don’t so lightly. I don’t know how many times I’ve caught this man peeping through his bathroom window at my sunbathing self, or gone out to do something at the line only for him to magically pop up at his wall, like some geriatric jack-in-the-box, by the way fiddling with his green bin whilst peering through the cracks in the bushes.
Unfortunately for us, his house overlooks ours. Luckily for him, ours doesn’t overlook his (our houses are perpendicular to each other).
And it’s not just him invoking Nosey Parker.
We have our resident ‘stop and stare’ merchant. Armed with the pre-requisites – baby in a buggy plus additional roaming toddler for that extra straying power – she is quite adept at scaling driveways, mounting pop-up surveillance, and scoping out areas you’d never think possible! A one-women wonder of espionage, she’d give M16 a run for their money.
Yesterday evening, whilst sitting on my bed chatting with a client, I turned around to find another one of the neighbours staring up at me while walking past our house. Did they wave, nod, smile, or salute? Did they heck! They did the same thing this morning. I was searching my mother’s dressing table for something, and pulled back the curtain to throw some light on the subject only to find them stood at their shed staring up at me. Hence the Valley of the SQ springing to mind.
Funny thing is that people seem to think it’s okay for them to stare in at others, but not ok for others to look out at them.
For instance, the rent-a-spy buggy lady’s house is a closed shop, in a permanent state of ‘dropped drawers’ and closed blinds. Similarly, there’s the young man whose house is in a constant state of shutdown; blinds drawn, curtains closed (except for the three inches that allow for peeping out – one rule for one etc), windows opened to a minimum, completely surrounded by high trees and bushes.
A couple of years ago, Mum, who as you know has dementia, was sitting in the spare room looking out the window. She used to do this not just out of boredom and loneliness but primarily because she was waiting for me to come home. Pre-retirement, pre-dementia mum was always too active and occupied to bother with looking out windows or the comings and goings of our small community.
The particular young man in question – who I might point out, never speaks or says hello to anyone – came down the road, obviously caught some motion out of the corner of his eye, and walked up to our gate. He stood staring up at my octogenarian mother until she got up and walked away.
Stood staring at an old woman looking out of her own window. Doing no harm to anyone. Such a lack of charity and humanity is sad in one so young don’t you think?
Of course, the irony of a curtain-twitcher taking issue with an elderly woman sitting looking out her window was doubtless lost on him.
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.
The Valley of the Squinting Windows is alive and kicking in our village community. Sadly, human nature doesn’t change!
Derv
PS I’m dedicating the Smith’s This Charming Man to my devoted voyeur. If only he could show the same dedication by cutting back the tree that’s now grown over five feet into our garden.
*If a little of what you fancy appeals, and you’d like to have my #dailyinspo365 posts appearing in your inbox, I’d love to have you along for the joy, the bumps, and more importantly, the company. You can follow along by clicking the ‘Follow DervSwerve’ link on the right!
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