2013-05-20T00:52:30-04:00 BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=britchick-paris Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for BritChick Paris Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3156110 2013-04-25T13:04:33-04:00 2013-04-25T13:04:40-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
When I first visited Dubai nothing was further from the truth.

It is the most delicious cocktail of ancient and modernity, filled with every creed and colour, situated in the belly button of the world. To me the reverse was true. It was a stand out city, that exuded vitality and hope, a far cry from the crisis infused gloom hanging over the West

The land of UAE belongs to the bedouins so underpinning their culture is a sense of freedom and deep optimism. Someone once described how they do business. When the bedouins come across a sand dune in the desert they don't rush to see what is the other side they wait for the sand to blow away. They listen, they observe, they believe in honour, loyalty and exchange of services. The Sheikh is reputed to be incredibly humble, often seen without guard in regular restaurants.

It is in this land of wanderers that over 120 nationalities have settled, making it the most culturally diverse place in the world. You only have to stand at customs to see the sea of faces all coming for new opportunities, to live better lives. Life is just more interesting when you are working alongside a bunch of Lebanese, Indians, Ossies and Europeans and it permeates into art, music, fashion and food. For breakfast you can have an English fry up breakfast, have a Lebanese kofta for lunch, New York cupcakes for tea and Japanese tepanyaki for dinner. At the Dubai mall Japanese designers rub shoulders with Arabian, Brit rock chic blends with Parisien couture.

And the life is truly great. Yes there is sun and sea on your doorstep but the Emirati way is one of ease, comfort and enjoyment. For instance the busshelters roads and metro are as clean as a whistle and gorgeously air conditioned. The service is beyond impeccable, light years away from the Parisien waiter who slaps your bitter coffee down with a grimace or growling New York taxi driver.

The beaches are immaculate, yes yes the hotel ones obviously but also there is an abundance of greenery and space for all. Free or next to nothing parks like the Jumeirah beach one where for a euro you can enjoy beach beds, a leafy green park and a wide open beach for everyone to enjoy.

And it flows through to business and industry. One of the world's leading brands that has defied the stodgey competitors is now in pole position ready to benefit the world. Of course Emirates whose service from economy to first makes you feel special.

UAE are now bidding for 2020 and their expo plans are mind blowing. A whole area devoted to sustainability all house by a beautifully sculpted solar roof. It would be the most culturally diverse expo to have ever been created. You can be sure that the experience here as a visitor will be so much slicker, efficient and futuristic than any other city competing for it.

Fundamentally I have always felt a misfit, being half Greek half English with an Athenian father who grew up in the Middle East and a Norfolk mother who was a nurse in the Sudan. In the UK I constantly missed the Mediterranean passion. In France the negativity and traditionalism got me down. In Australia I just felt too far away.

Dubai allows you to be you. And controversially especially if you are a woman. I'm not the only woman to think that. I feel safer here in Dubai than I do in London or Paris. There is a healthy respect that means you are just left alone, so long as you in turn respect the local values and customs. Also in Europe there is often an underlying chauvinism, that means that men can do it better, hence the paucity of women boardmembers at big Western companies. Here from my experience and that of my entrepreneure friend women in business are admired. I can hear all the cynics ready to wade in but I cannot refute the evidence I have from the last few weeks working here. It has been a breath of fresh air. Not to mention the openness and creativity that comes from a city that is exploding and growing at lightening speed. In ten years it has achieved what New York did in a 150.

For those who still sit on the fence I encourage you to check out the city. Feel the rush of high octane business district, the calm of the Palm, the mysticism of the desert and the majesty of the Burj. This city is rocking its way into the 00s and beyond.

Bring on the Olympics here, I say.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2910370 2013-03-19T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-19T05:12:01-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
As some of you may have read already I have been trying for a baby for a while now. I have had a miscarriage from a blighted ovum that I blogged about at the time. One year later, being considered an 'older' woman (39) I was told I needed fullblown fertility tests as did my husband.

I could deal with the endless bloods, scans and prodding but everything in my body told me not to do anything too intrusive. Cameras through the cervix and dye into the uterus being such treats in store for me.

But I listened to the quacks and the rational side of my brain. Others did it and so should I. I should stop being a crybaby.

I did a test - a hysterogram - to check my tubes and uterus that involved pumping dye into me.

Sadly and ironically the test gave me a bug that may have screwed up what was normal and healthy. A form of pelvic inflammatory disease. I was put on heavy antibiotics straightaway and told to rest. Two weeks later spent in Middle Eastern sunshine I am finally finding my feet. Ironically the only way of knowing whether there was damage is to do the same test again. No thanks.

I went through every emotion afterwards and was blessed to have a doctor in A and E who broke down with me in tears as she had also been trying for a baby for two years.

For years, centuries we looked to the stars, to our own bodies to figure out what was right for us. The Elizabethans used moods to analyse sickness. My recent experience is that western medicine has become totally disconnected from humanity. I was a vessel to be pumped up with iodine. A hormone count to analyse. No one asked how I felt, if I was okay. I have friends going through the same process who have had depression or even split up with their partner due to the pressure. Making a baby becomes functional, desperate, the opposite of making love.

My instinct told me and still does that if I want a baby it will come naturally or if it doesn't maybe it is not meant to be. Others have a different vibe about the whole thing and are comfortable with fertility treatment, IVF or other procedures. But for me and for many of my friends the cost was getting too high. It made me sick, frustrated, anxious and most of all I lost me.

Ironically I just spent my hols with my husband and stepdaughter. Nothing was missing, I was with my family and it completed me. But when I was in the medical baby-making process I constantly felt like I was failing, that I had to have a baby to be a woman. I was jealous of mums with bumps as I waited to be told I had polyps and PCOS and blah blah blah. Our local suburban town screamed with pushchairs and buggies and our spare rooms echoed with emptiness.

Enough.

This is my last blog on trying to have a baby. I am putting it aside and letting nature take it course. "Que sera sera" as my dad said.

For all those women in a similar place, don't listen to anyone else's judgement but your own. Everyone has their opinion about what you should do. Listen but don't do anything that feels uncomfy. If in doubt, don't.

As I have learnt no good comes from something done half heartedly. In fact I am so sure babies only come into this world when the heart is totally full, full of love and confidence.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2660378 2013-02-11T19:00:00-05:00 2013-04-13T05:12:01-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
You try and try and wait and wait. Every month is torture. You have miscarriages and other weird things like a 'blighted ovum' but no good news. Then your doc says it's time to have a fertility check up. That's when the penny drops. Before it seemed a probability now a possibility.

Then you enter the dark zone, the gloomy underworld of assisted fertility. You have to have all sorts of hideous tests that no EVER talks about. Hysterography where they flood your tubes with iodine and scans where they poke round. You overanalyse blood levels and lose yourself in the internet trying to decode it all. Meanwhile preg mums sit in the same waiting rooms and baby envy invariably sets in. They probably got pregnant with one blink of an eye, those fertile myrtles!

I have many friends who have gone through all of this. It is not the tests that hurt it is the way they are handled afterwards. There is a biological reality for us all. I never knew women had a finite amount of eggs nor that we might not ovulate every month towards the end of our fertility. We do need to know this stuff. But the way doctors handle us is atrocious. We become oestrogen levels and sperm counts. We stop being human to them and become the equivalent of fertility stocks and shares. Will they back us and invest in us or will they move on to another more procreative option. I believe no doctor has the right to say it is over, we should shut shop and hand up a closed sign on baby making. Well not until we are 101. There are so many anecdotes of women who are told there will never ever be a baby and a few months later they fall pregnant. So put that in your pipe and smoke Mr ASSisted Fertility man.

Once the news has been digested we head into the hardest phase of all where the ultimate decision is made. Insemination, IVF, egg donors or adoption. All of which are tough and relationship testing. Or no baby which is the hardest thing of all to swallow.

But there is light at the end of the tunnel. I personally do believe that a baby will to come to each and every one of us. It might not be the baby we thought we would get but there will be an offspring. It just means redefining what it is to have a kid. If I look hard at my life it is already filled with children even though I'm technically not a mum.

My husband has three gorgeous children and my sister has two adorable nephews so I have oodles of kiddy cuddles on tap. We also have a kitten that has been the receptacle of so much maternal love. I have also written two books, third one the way, Harry Potter for girls and am about to birth them too. So life has great stuff in store. We will see what happens on the baby front. There are so many options and we will consider carefully each and every one. I am lucky to have a great and positive doctor so I feel nurtured and cared for. I seem to be in the minority and gynae doctors need a wake up call. They should take a spoonful of their own medicine and see how they feel. Negative thinking spreads doom and gloom. Miracles only happen when there is faith and hope. And there is always hope.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2529026 2013-01-23T19:00:00-05:00 2013-03-25T05:12:01-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
I bit my tongue but when she knocked my calves for the umpteenth time I had to say something. She was so surprised that I had dared speak out and immediately went on the defensive, effing and blinding.

I then went to another shop and overheard an old fella doing the same thing to another chap trying to push in. We live in a villagey suburb so cant even blame it on the hustle and bustle of the metropolis.

I think it is a bigger problem than that. We have lost respect for our fellow human beings. We don't respect their personal space, their feelings, their boundaries, them full stop. We have become so self-obsessed we can't see as far as our own nose.

You only have to watch Downton Abbey, the brilliant period drama from ITV to see how it used to be so much more pleasant and not so very long ago. Everyone considers and respects each other, upstairs and downstairs. A curtesy and a lift of the hat, a door opened and even in moment of anger politeness is maintained.

Today we have none of that deference or politeness. We jostle in the street, push in on the bus and shout on the phone in a full train carriage. We check our phones whilst eating, tweet whilst chatting and skype whilst cooking. We have no qualms saying what we want online, rubbishing this and criticising that. We will only too quickly publish intimate, personal info, photos or videos on facebook no matter the consequence. Of course there are positives to such platforms but they are at a huge price.

I noticed this Christmas especially how material pressure is through the roof and gratitude sub-zero. Daddy, I need an iPhone 5 otherwise my friends will laugh at me. Mum, can you tell the family I just want money for new year. Bla bla bla. Then after all the unwrapping the little notes that we used to send as kids have gone out the window. It's either a 'tx' via text or fresh air.

We also happily take from our friends and family, 'drain' them with our needs and problems rather than radiating out good energy and boosting them. How many times has someone called you recently and talk about them without letting you get a word in edgeways.

Worst of all is how we talk to each other. More swear words than ever, monosyllables rule and there is a dissatisfied thread. We have so much yet nothing is ever enough. It all spells one word. Ingratitude.

One of my friends runs a positive psychology program which is all about happiness (rather than issues and drama). Her book is called 3 Kifs Par Jour in French or three things to be happy for, three 'kicks'. As soon as you start looking around and being thankful for the big and little things in your lives the snappy, cynical, selfish tinge disappears.

Imagine if we all started the day thinking about the three things we are most grateful for rather than moaning about being tired, having to go to work or the bad weather. We smile at others on the tube instead of grimace - apparently the Olympics temporarily lifted commuter spirits. We let people in in front of us on the road. We actually chat to people in queues.

2013 is meant to be the year of change, the year of the snake. I'd settle for something simpler. The year of p's and q's, the year of being nice to each other, for a change.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2283944 2012-12-12T19:00:00-05:00 2013-02-11T05:12:01-05:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
Yet a few hundreds miles away everyone has gone Christmas mad and not just before the 25th, probably from mid-November. I went back to London last week and was hit with a festive blast of red and green, utterly merry jollity. I stepped off the train into a simple Costa coffee shop and it could have been Christmas Eve. Frank Sinatra crooning, Stollen bites of cake Gingerbread lattes and baristas with Santa hats.

We all get nostalgic for our Christmas roots but there is something special about a British Christmas. Even my French husband has been lured to the other side, due to all our eccentric traditions and trimmings.

I have done a few Christmasses here and they are nice and all that, but a little well subdued. The Frenchies have their dinner on Christmas Eve which always seems the wrong way round. Then the children go to bed and wake up again at about 3am for presents. So Christmas Day for me is a bit of a let down.

Whereas for us Rosbifs everything is about Christmas Day. On the 24th we join Father Christmas with a mince pie and maybe a glass of mulled wine. Maybe a carol service to get into the spirit. Then for children bedtime knowing that when they wake up and they feel the end of their bed it will be laden with pressies. The excitement is electric and every creak is Father Christmas or scratch is Rudolf. Until the year my mum tripped in my room and said 'Sh@t' and woke me up.

It all means that the 25th has the most amazing energy and as soon as you open your eyes there is an incredible momentum, like being on a train hurtling through Christmas-ville.

Nothing beats waiting up to the smell of turkey in the oven and the vague backnote aroma of cloves. The stockings and sacks are then unloaded. We sit round and watch everyone open their presents over a glass of champers. My French husband couldn't believe how long it took but we savoured. Then around about the same time as the Queen's speech its turkey time. The table is groaning, the 12 apostle bowls filled with sweets and chocs and brightly coloured crackers. It isn't about the cooking or expensive wine it is the cheer on everyone's face as they wade through all the stuffings and condiments. My Dad loved Christmas so much and my most favourite memory of him is chomping methodically through the turkey leg. He always said the same thing "May you always celebrate Christmas and eat together in your own home."

The afternoon is also like a scene out of Love Actually with charades, bad board games and general silliness. I remember trying to play the 'traditional charades' as per the Brit tv show with Frenchies. They just didn't get the whole four words, first word, two syllables thing. They wanted to act out the whole film. I ended up looking like a Pernickety Brit.

The night is capped off with a TV special. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without one. Only Fools, Morecombe and Wise in times gone by. This year we cannot wait for Downton. Then more turkey, cold this time, with piccalilli and maybe some stilton and port.

All in all Christmas is such a jolly affair and it is a bit disappointing that over here in chic Paris it misses the fun mark. It is more about how beautifully elaborate the Buche is, how savoureux the foie gras is and how intellectual the apres diner discussion.

Each to their own I say.

Am sure us Brits could learn a thing or too on finer things in life. It's sometimes so funny to watch my Frenchie family's faces as they observe our idea of 'posh food' on TV. Frozen black forest gateau, sausage rolls and scotch eggs being the some classics. But the Froggies could also do with a dose of our party-itis. Love Actually, the ultimate Chrissie classic, says it all, family and friends, ups and downs, joy and madness but at the end it's always a hoot.

God bless Brit Chrimble.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2098802 2012-11-09T19:00:00-05:00 2013-01-09T05:12:01-05:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
I have lived in France now permanently for three years. Three years of baguette buying, raw steak munching and smelly cheese tasting.

Yet the French touch still remains an enigma to me. It is absolutely fabulous in so many ways yet perplexing at the same time.

These contradictions turn daily life into a rollercoaster - lots of highs but a bit bumpy along the way.

For a start this is the country which invented the words joie de vivre thanks to its sunny climate and azure coastline, yet if you dare smile at anyone in the street it is met with a grimace. Smiling at a stranger is code for wanting something from them.

Or the place that obsesses about beauty and personal appearance but has no qualms to leave their dog's poo on a pavement. The sight of a beautifully manicured old lady in a twin set and pearls letting her pooch do its doodoo and walking off is a common occurrence.

Or the nation where everyone is equal yet everyone is judged by whether they went to a grande ecole ou non. Whatever your background French culture is your birthright. Everyone from a banker to a butcher knows the difference between chevre and camembert. For many Brits it is just cheese. But the downside is that the judgements raise their ugly head when it comes to education. There is little chance of a great job if you haven't been to a business school. What's more you need to make your career choices before you have even left school. In the UK you can muddle through a generalist, vague degree such as English and many jobs are open to you at the end. I know many classicist lawyers or physicist management consultants.

Maybe every country is full of such paradoxes but as Johnny English it is quite bewildering.

Then there is the whole subtext thing. In Blighty you say it as it is or you keep quiet, keep calm and carry on.

In France there is a veneer of words behind which the truth lies. After one
too many lunches where friends have said everything is 'top top top' (brilliant brilliant brilliant) I started to wonder if the Frenchies were super human happy beings. The idea of being honest and admitting that 'life is a bitch' is just not the done thing. This veneer is something they live with also. I have heard many women here say they don't care where their husband is at night so long as he is around the breakfast table. In Britain they would get their breakfast wrapped round their head if they had been out all night.

Brit daily life is also generally pretty simple maybe even simpleton to our Froggy neighbours.

Food is straight up and scrummy. Shepherds pie, fish and chips, crumble. To them it looks like slops. The look of food is as important as the taste. So the pressure when entertaining is unbearable. I break out in sweats weeks before. I will never forget the first dinner we had with my husband's family. I suggested a spag bol. Nothing fancy but wholesome and hearty. You'd have thought I'd suggested serving fried Mars bars. Spag bol was never, ever for guests. Then making salad I was chopping the tomatoes and cucumbers as you do. But heaven forbid I'd left on the skin of the cuke and not de-cored the tomato.

Then there's the French idea of smart and the English one. In the Uk 'I'm popping out for some milk' can be done in trackie bums, pjs even. In the posher areas of Paris you need a blow dry to even face the postman. Once we had a family lunch and I had thrown on leggings and a long shirt. I heard some rummaging in the kitchen and found my husband digging out a dress and ironing it. It goes for heels too. I only ever wore wedges in the UK. High but comfy. Here they are a major fashion faux pas. A heel is a spikey thing that elevates you high in the air. It also should never inhibit life. So heels can be worn to the park, at clubs, for shopping - in other words all the places they hurt like hell.

Then there's the obsession with doctors and medicine. In the UK its the corner shop, post office and fish 'n chippie if you're lucky. Here 'la pharmacie' reigns supreme - it's as common as Starbucks in London. Back home flu is solved by a lemsip. Over here the doctor will give you at least three medications often including a suppository. But I shouldn't complain. There are no queues at the doctor, they actually spend more than one minute on you and there is a brilliant carte vittale that gets you discounts on all kinds of medicines.

But most of all the difference I find most staggering is the humour. I remember one of my first nights out and was doing my usual arms in the air crazy dancing on a podium. It was a giggle. It was irony. But they all took me totally seriously as if I was some kind of dog on heat. Or self deprecatory comments - auto-derisoire in French - just fall flat. They actually take you 'a la lettre' and believe your opinion of yourself. Eg 'I'm such a cr@p cook, I can hardly cook an egg' means - note to self never dine with me. Or 'oh this old thing I just threw it on this morning' means yes I am a haphazard dresser. But in fairness they must feel the same. Their philosophical puns and witty remarks often drawn from deep culture are usually lost on me.

We are close in geography yet in so many respects utterly miles apart. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier settling in Beijing. It is as if France is yin to the Brit yang. Strong espresso for them and milky tea for us. Civilised bistrots versus our pub 'culcha'. Haute couture versus our hippy non conformism. They are defined by their education, we are defined by our accent. Everyone versus the superior one. Jean de Florette versus Downton Abbey.

Life is a challenge here but there's never a dull moment. I'm here so at some level I have chosen the yin for my yang.

One day, maybe just one day, I will ask for a latte in a classic Parisien cafe and they will actually bring me what I want. Instead of looking at me with disdain and say, "in France we drink un creme Madame" - a subtle dig that I am no longer a young thing - and serve me an extra strong espresso with a dash of UHT milk. It makes you wince it's so bitter. The coffee and the comment. But it is sweet revenge for our cheese and pickle and stewed sugary tea concoctions.

Vive la difference, vive l'entente cordiale.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1896467 2012-09-19T19:00:00-04:00 2012-11-19T05:12:02-05:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
So my hair got longer and bushier. Hairdressers would weep when they saw the bird's nest before them and spend hours trying to comb out the tangles.

But the horror factor of staring in front of a mirror for hours has never left me.

A spiritual guru once told me that if you really want to know yourself look into your eyes in a mirror for 10 minutes. You will be able to see inside your soul.

Having to see yourself for longer than a five minute brush and go is a test in self-confidence. Everyone else looks at you all day long but you can avoid your face, your nose, ears, teeth and all other things that you don't like.

One hairdresser friend told me that some people stare at the ground or keep turning their head so I'm clearly not alone. Its as if you can't help see the ugly bits.

As a poodle-haired teen I thought I was bug ugly. I did have buck teeth and pebble glasses but the ugliness I saw was actually from deep within.

It's also true that I wanted the change in hairdo to trigger a change in me - happier, prettier, younger. Cutting hair can shift energy but that's skin deep. What's interesting is how you react to the change on the exterior.

The dynamic between the hairdresser and client (or more often 'victim') also makes the whole experience rather bizarre. I used to find it so hard to say what I wanted and more importantly what I didn't like afterwards.

Before our wedding last year one hairdresser ended up dyeing my hair too blonde and then convincing me that I was nothing without extensions. I looked more like Linsay Lohan.

Or another who was too busy gossiping that he forgot the dye and the crown went so red it looked like there was a squirrel sitting on it. In both cases I said nothing. I felt I'd been wronged but I sat there passively as if I had no voice. It seemed pointless to say anything as you can't turn back the clock, stick cut hair back on or soften the colour.

The final straw was in Dubai when I had the worst ever highlights that that made my hair as stripy as a tiger. Blonde, black, blonde, black. He didn't speak English but he understood once and for all that I wasn't happy.

After that I vowed never to be a sitting target ever again. I realised that I had to stop picking hairdressers who wanted to change me and that I had to stop giving my power away.

Hairdressing is an intimate, personal moment and its also one that defines your look. Your hair frames you and your face. You wouldn't let just anyone change the way your house looked like over night or let any Tom, Dick or Harry cut away at your garden. But somehow we let a random hairdresser chop away at our exterior decor without even thinking.

So I have just gone for the big old chop. I found someone I trusted - at the Ken Club for Parisian readers - and I am now cropped and bobbed. But mainly I like more what I see. Before the 'tadah' moment at the end left me feeling deflated. My ears looked too big, my skin too pale against the darker colour.

Now for haircuts and most things I have tried to adopt the well worn phrase that "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". If your eye is all cynical and negative it won't see much beauty at all. I now stop comparing myself to the models in the mags splayed around and try and see the good stuff. I also ask for exactly what I want. I'd used to laugh at oldies flashing around photos of Jennifer Aniston who wanted that look. But at least photos are precise, and words can be vague. If you let the hairdresser take control they will project their image of you on to you.

Hairdressing is often the opposite of a beautifying moment and rather a minefield of emotions but sometimes very illuminating ones. Next time check out how you feel when you get your haircut. If you don't like what you see you might want to switch the hairdresser's chair for a therapist's.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1845950 2012-08-31T19:00:00-04:00 2012-10-31T05:12:02-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
Then I hit earth with a thud.

I had my first snog. A spotty Harrovian that pinned me against a wall at a school. The washing machine motion made the whole experience decidedly sensual.

Then when I started dating it went from bad to worse.

For a start my vision of perfect candle lit suppers crashed and burned with beer swigging rugby lads who lived in a sea of crisp packets and dirty pants. Sex was also a right off. Ignorance on both sides and too many male hormones led to a lot of grunting and grinding and little mutual pleasure.

Then the long term relationships kicked in. Again more naivety that just because you're together means it will work out or that you actually like each other. Then the disappointment at growing so comfy that you could replace your partner for a pair of slippers and you wouldn't notice. Or the other scenario where egos clash and pull the duo apart. A wise old guru once told me that the common myth was that lovers became one, like two branches intertwining. He said that fusing and becoming one is a denial of your Self. He said the perfect situation was one of the couple to take the lead one week and the other the next. He was 70 and still single with a bevvy of young lovers. I remained on the fence.

I was also dismayed by couples around me. There was more sniping and resentment than affection and tenderness. Separate bedrooms, independent lives and then often an extra portion passion on the side please. The secrecy of an affair according to one breathed life back into their relationship.

But there was the odd couple that shone out in the dark - the ones that often looked alike, that finished each others sentences, that offered a bite of their pudding before they had even started, that had eyes for their one and no one else.

It used to make me envious and after so much un-love I decided to clam up and go the single way. I travelled alone, lived alone and did the no strings things.

Then boom when I was least expecting it I became a love convert. It was a Damascus experience no less. I told him I loved him within days. I moved to France after a few weeks. It was beyond me.

He was very different from me so all my box ticking went out the window. Not sporty at all in fact a real foodie - I think foie gras was the first dish we shared. Not a wry Brit but a warm hearted Mediterranean. Also a Dad (so baggage) and a very important businessman whereas I was in my spiritual 'who cares about material life' phase.

But from the day I met him it worked, it made me blissfully happy and not only that I have discovered so much more about me. I didn't realise that finding your one, twin flame, soul mate means a freedom to be you. Because you both balance each other out so completely you both become stronger. Meeting my love also enabled me to face some demons of the past, to stand in my truth and to pursue my passions. Before I was a worn out marketeer. Now I write with all my heart. I am finishing my first book. He is my muse.

Love is much used word these days. Its a symbol on bbm, a sign off on most emails. But few feel the real stuff. They settle for second best, for an easy life. It is a tragic waste. Love is the highest religion. It does conquer all. Nothing really matters after that.

I dedicate this blog to my one, my beau. It is our first year wedding anniversary in a week and it has been the best year of my life.

In the words of Katherine Hepburn - Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get only with what you are expecting to give, which is everything.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1821241 2012-08-22T19:00:00-04:00 2012-10-22T05:12:07-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
It is a rare thing to go away with friends and have your expectations exceeded. My experience is that you never really know people till you spend 24 hours with them. My first girly trip away to Rhodes ended up with a huge bitch fight. We were all up for partying yet one of us was constantly tired and spent the whole time sneering at our drunken antics. She stopped talking to us half way through and ended up have a luggage trolley fight with one of us on arrival at Gatwick. I never heard from her again.

Then there was the week in Mykonos where I ended up trapsing after my gbffs - gay best friends forever - all week as the token 'Kylie' icon. At least I had nothing to worry about on the nudist beaches. Though I won't forget hearing the sound of jangling keys near my head which turned out to be a man with a very pierced Prince Albert.

Or the dreadful weekends with couples you hardly know that snipe at each other all the time and then try to muffle their full blown row at 3am. You try and make polite chatter the next day but after looking at their watch a gzillionth time you get the message that its time to scarper.

Friendship is a curious thing. It is clear measure of where you are in life. The spiritual world talks about the laws of attraction - you bring people in to your life to help heal parts of you and you can only be friends with people of the same frequency. Birds of the same feather flock together. Most people have a couple of true friends that stick around but most move on. Even longterm friendships can evolve into being more of a dependence or a habit than an active choice.

I did not grasp any of this till very recently.

I had a sprinkling of friends at school so at uni and after I loved being popular. I was defined by the number of friends I had. My birthdays were only successful if lots of people showed up (under 25 was a flop). I did not care whether I felt loved or respected. I just wanted people to choose me. So I became friendaholic. I was the connector bringing people together. I would organise dinners, weekends away and always always be the one to call up.

Yet when I would see friends I would often feel empty or down after. Maybe the odd remark or a general vibe but it did not do me any good. I was too afraid of my own shadow to question any of this.

This was all until my life went tits up and I saw who my real friends were. When disaster hit most human beings scuttle back under their rock. The ones who need you suddenly feel needed so run a mile. Or the ones just like the lighter side of life. Or the ones who have an allergy to problems.

It was time to shed, to cull. Enough was enough. I was calling in the wrong people for all the wrong reasons. They were a reflection of the parts of me that had not been resolved. I got help and worked on those fragments of my Self that were in pain.

I now look at the people around me, the people that were just with me on hols. They are positive, loving, caring and true. They are radiators of life, not drainers. They don't say things to please nor do they bring everyone down with cynicism. They are like family and as my blood family live in other countries this means the world to me. Someone wise said show me your friends and I will see what kind of person you are. I am very blessed to have them in my life.

Thank you les Chatons.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1733375 2012-08-02T11:47:42-04:00 2012-10-02T05:12:06-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
Ibiza is a vibrant island for the young at heart but everyone has taken it too literally. They are relentlessly in pursuit of youth, no matter the cost. Faces are pumped full of fillers, lips with botox and boobs lifted for men as well as women. There is one girl right next to my sun bed. No more than 25. She has already succumbed to the knife. Trout pout, enormous bust and smoothest forehead. You can see she was pretty before but maybe not perfect. Now she is perfect but looks just weird.

Worse still was the vip area of the top clubs. Riddled with wannabes pouting and hoping that wearing as little as possible will guarantee the attention of the rich and famous. After a few hours I got sucked into this vanity frenzy - fretting I wasn't tall enough, svelte enough bla bla.

Throughout time there has always been an obsession with external appearance. We attract like peacocks, the more beautiful the feathers the more virile or fertile the mate. Yet I fear we have today succumbed to narcissism and its full blown effects.

Never has there been more youth enhancing products on the market not to mention the democratisation of cosmetic surgery. Digital has made perfection even more accessible with retouching. The very young now grow up with a diet of stick thin 16 year old blondes as role models. Yet little do they know that live a life of constant struggle with a younger, taller version of them. I covered one of the Paris fashion shows for the Huff last year. The discoveries were staggering. These out of touch specimens of beauty live on a diet of cotton wool (it fills the stomach) and chewing gum.

My question and plea is when is it all going to end.

Education has to start playing a role instead of dogma kids need counsel in self esteem and inner happiness. Parents need to instil a deep unshakeable confidence in their kids, that being imperfect is natural and indeed beautiful. The unique flaws are what make us special and unique.

Governments need to crack down on excessive cosmetic enhancements and divert funds into real cures for illness, both physical and mental.

Dove made a great start at promoting themselves through real girls and women. But they are a lone voice.

I know all about this because I was a victim myself, an anorexic teen and young woman. Then it was an all girls school competition that bogged me down and then magazines full of 80s supermodels. Being thin wasn't my goal but I thought somehow that feeling rubbish about myself inside could be cured on the outside.

I am still conquering my lack of self esteem, goodness only knows how girls of today will turn out. We owe it to them to reverse the trend - let's start the inner beauty revolution.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1719061 2012-07-30T19:00:00-04:00 2012-09-29T05:12:39-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
So we came up with the idea of leap for London. A leap ahead for everyone, for schools, for the community. We also talked about the legacy, brilliant sports facilities for deprived areas of the UK and even a way of shipping stuff out to poorer countries.

Ten years later I wonder if the billions of pounds that have been lavished on the games meant a step backwards rather than forward.

The country is about to hit a double dip recession, mortgage rates are on the up, public services are creaking but instead Brits are keeping calm and partying on so it seems. The ceremonies alone cost 14 billion triple the original budget. Not forgetting the cost of the roadworks for the special vip IOC lanes and the army needed to protect the city and now to fill the empty seats unused by blase/bored corporate sponsors.

We also had one big fat warning sign of what might happen if we overspend. Greece. Their economic situation today is in part due to the pressures of staging the Olympics. The world is looking at you so no penny can be spared. National pride swiftly transforms into international vanity. Athens is now littered with empty stadia and a population too preoccupied with debt to go play sport.

The UK has already had some very expensive parties over the last year. The Royal Wedding and the Jubilee. The Olympics is the cherry on the cake. Nice and sweet but is it all really worth it? I don't think we can be in any doubt of our patriotism after seeing the opening ceremony. But at a time when the world is in financial ecological and human crisis was it all worth it? Will the country yield the benefits of the three headed party beast? I wonder if the Queen should have done the decent thing and waited till the Olympics for her bash. It would have saved the tax payer a bob or two. Not to mention the amount of days off work we have had in honour of these events.

The 2012 Olympics also seems seem further and further away from the Ancient Greek roots. A modest sporting event focussed on human physical and mental performance. Apparently Seb Coe said sport is all about entertainment now. Millions of viewers indeed watched the opening ceremony, a fabulous eulogy to Brit culture, yet sport seemed decidedly absent. Every man and his dog seem to be jumping on the brand bandwagon and the links between sport and sponsors seems decidedly tenuous. My favourite is Coke. Which athlete actually drinks chemical sugar liquid? TV breaks are full of ads trying to make you buy something just because of the Olympics. The rings are everywhere and in danger of becoming wallpaper.

I wonder what London will look like once the party is over in a month's time. Will there be a case of the royal blues as no more upcoming festivities? Possibly a royal baby in the offing but nothing else to gee up the country spirit. Let's hope there is a positive aftermath - great sports venues, motivated youth and some healthy national businesses. I personally would not want to be sitting in the Chancellor of the Exchequer's seat right now. President Hollande must be incredibly relieved not to have the games under his watch. Or maybe I have gone all native.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1698187 2012-07-24T19:00:00-04:00 2012-09-23T05:12:09-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/ Cinderella. Witchy traits and evil intentions. Even the word step mum is loaded. The other mother, the one sitting one the other step, on the ledge. In French it's belle mere - belle being beautiful so more positive in every way though maybe implying that the birth mother isn't that lovely. Either way a step-mum, a second non-mum is an odd but frequent persona of society today.

When I met my chap the first thing he told me was he had three kids. It was like freeze framing Love Actually and the film morphing into Mrs Doubtfire. My fantasy life of romantic life a deux dissolved into a vision of washing up and general mess. Baggage had been a no go in my head up till then. A deal breaker. I had had two boyfriends with kids before and it had been bad from the start. One living in the equivalent of Toyrs R Us who spent all his time coo-ing over kiddie snaps instead of woo-ing me. The other claimed I could only meet his princess when he felt sure about me. Weeks became months and the vote of no confidence was clear.

The difference with my husband was and is I truly love him. Unconditionally. So kids no kids, past no past it is all immaterial. I also adore children. I have lots of godkids and the most darling nephews. I have a very active inner child that little ones seem to relate to. I am more of a kid than an adult most of them time. So I didn't see myself as a another type of mum, but more as a fairy godmother.

But the reality of walking into the lives of three kids and the aftermath of the divorce is something else. No matter how lovely the kids or how nice you are to them. It is one almighty upheaval, but it is not impossible.

If they are babies there is that fine line between becoming a mummy replacement and being the maternal provider when they are with you. That said one of my best friends has a two year old and her new partner is a wonderful stepdad. In fact the litte girl calls him doudou, the baby word for a security blanket in French.

If they are teens you are entering the danger zone, the oedipal phase. Adolescents are wrestling with their own growing pains and angst. Add to that seeing your dad with a new chick or chap cue all kinds of weird feelings on both sides. My parents stayed together until my dad left life. I don't know how I would have felt if he had chosen a new life and one that involved a woman in her prime. I'm sure I would have been jealous as hell. My dad was my hero, my protector and I wouldn't have wanted to share him with anyone.

For me, and in my humble experience the key is taking things very very slowly.

When you fall in love you want the perfect life together overnight. With kids its just not possible at the beginning. Patience is the greatest weapon.

At the beginning I moved into the former family house as we wanted to maintain the status quo as much as possible. It often meant feeling a stranger in my own home. Being told the salt doesn't go in that cupboard and that we don't do put the bread there. But all in all it meant that there was a healthy transition period. I have girlfriends who insisted on moving house and the immediate elimination of the old regime. Change is a good lesson for any child but it can becomes destablising if too drastic.

Holidays are often the crystalisation of transition tension. We chose to go to a familiar place the first year. There was enough shifting around already. I could sense it was hard, memories everywhere but we tried to honour the old haunts whilst creating new opportunities for fun. All in all it was pretty painless. Unlike a friend of mine whose teen kids refused to help out, lazed around and the jealous daughter in a fit of pique through a stone at this head smashing his glasses. That was the end of the holiday and the relationship.

Probably the best moment so far was our wedding. It was a day filled with joy with each of my husband's children playing a vital moment, especially when one read the passage from Captain Corelli in perfect English. My Dad had read that at my first wedding in his thick Greek accent. He died very shortly after I met my husband.

I have been in my beau's life for three years now and he in mine. I am writing this now as we move into our new home in a lovely French market town. Its the first time we have had our own home. I have had a tumultuous childhood living in different countries so having our own pad is so important to me. It means we all are turning the page. For me it is time to stop battling with the ghosts of the past. But for that reason it is also a final moment of mourning for my beau and his family. All kids want their mummy and daddy to stay together forever and there is a subconsious desire for divorced parents to reunite. Our new home is a family one but it is ours, not the former one. It is for my husband's kids and maybe our future ones. It will be a place full of light and love but there is no place in it for sombre energy or negativity. This is the greatest legacy for our children, not the bricks and mortar but the lightness of spirit that the house carries.

Being a stepmum is an incredibly difficult role to play. But if the intentions are loving and patience is on your side happiness will follow. The rewards are immense. Making a stepchild smile is one of the greatest feelings on earth.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1671200 2012-07-13T11:04:09-04:00 2012-09-12T05:12:11-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/ Sex in the City meets Jean de Florette - a modern loft in the heart of a market town.

We have lived in my beau's previous family house for the last two and half years. I have battled the ghosts, reclaimed the space, swapped the energy, burnt sage but it was never our home.

Just before Christmas when I got pregnant I felt the absolute need to create our own nest, in our own pad. I lost the baby but found our perfect home.

It was indeed like a birth and we have thoroughly enjoyed the rosy honeymoon period, visiting it, showing off the photos to friends and buying new furniture.

Now reality has hit and moving has turned out to be, well, a pretty moving event.

First of all I had to deal with French removal men. It was like being Inspector Cluedo. They saw me coming. One quoting as much as a family car for six. The second lot came earlier than the scheduled time when I was mid-shower and hollered it was now or never. Third time lucky we hope, with the cheesily named Challengedemeco. Let's hope there is nothing challenging about their service.

They are supposed to pack and move all but I could not of course let them loose on my crystals or Jimmy Choos.

So this weekend was spent bubble wrapping my amethysts and heels. In fact everything I care about is in two small suitcases. I really couldn't care about the rest. O and my babies, my little sweet pea shoots, my hydrangea and jasmin. My husband is under strict instructions to take them all in the car.

He meanwhile was digging out old papers and photos. Bittersweet feelings. Pictures of his mum who passed over a year ago and his kids who have grown up so fast. Most of my history is in my house in Suffolk but I do have some stuff from my Dad. The pot of lavander balm that he used for his hair, with his finger imprint in it still and some touching letters from when I was at university. I did not spend much time looking at them but somehow they got to me this weekend.

We had put Beethoven on and all of a sudden tears started to fall. I missed my Dad desperately. It was as if moving home was another milestone in between his life and the present. He never knew my home in France and only knew my beau in the last months of his life. Everything came flooding back. His unbearable pain, his haunted eyes that knew his end was nigh and the indignity of the treacherous disease. Yet he kept his spirit up to his last breath, combing back his hair with the balm and flossing his teeth to look ship shape.

Perhaps the most glaring obvious learning is that I am finally growing up. This is the first move I have done with someone I love where we want to build a proper family home. I have always moved into rented places or other people's pads and have tried to make them mine. I failed miserably with my ex-husband who would not let me put one photo up.

This time our home will be equal and shared. For us and for his kids it's a brand new start. No more tripping over the past with comments like "the salt and pepper belong here".

In fact I was bowled over by my youngest stepdaughter who recently texted me that she had seen lovely stuff for our house in a new store. Bless her cotton socks.

They say change is as good as a rest. Energies need shaking up and boosting. Memories and stuff are great but they are all part of the past. We would have sat on the fence had I not been pregnant. Let's hope we are doing things the right way round. Nest first and sproglet after.

To be continued...]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1642196 2012-07-02T19:00:00-04:00 2012-09-01T05:12:12-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
I am not claustrophobic and not particularly neurotic. But all of a sudden everything seems very unsafe above ground. The slight judder of turbulence sets my teeth on edge. Less noise also spells out trouble - did the engines stop and will we drop out of the air? The red light switching on during flight sends signals of something bad about to happen. Once recently I had 'bad turbulence' announced on the tannoy on a trip back from Dubai. I clung to my seat and almost reached for the sick bag, this time because of a panic attack bag. Even on 'mini' European flights I cannot relax until I am back on terra firma.

It all started since my dad died for some reason. His departure opened up lots of past wounds - one of which is this irrational fear.

It is as if I have regressed to being a frightened kid who cannot compute why the plane can actually stay up in the air or what all the strange noises mean.

But it was all so different as a kid. The mere odour of airplanes used to fill me with wonder and excitement. I remember my dad coming home from business travel and his briefcase smelling of a blend of air fuel and the stuffy cabin. He would give me the mini salt and pepper and I began to collect them from all the airlines dreaming of distant exotic countries. They were the equivalent of costume dollies.

We did not do far flung holidays as a family. My mum was a nervous traveller so we stuck to Suffolk and Brittany by boat. I used to travel by plane as a baby but my first pleasurable experience was going to Paris on an exchange. My dad flew with me and I flew back as an unaccompanied minor. It remember standing in front of the old fashioned ticker boards and got literally drunk on the different destinations. I then went further and further afield, USA, Japan and then Australia.

Then I had no problems, jumping on a 24 hour flight in economy with a book and a bag of sweets or doing the fastest ride at funfairs that turned me upside down, high above ground.

So what happened? It only recently became clear to me through some personal development work.

When I was very little we flew back from Greece to deal with family illness. The flight was urgent and traumatic. I vividly remember the panic of my mother. I felt helpless and scared.

After that she never flew again. She even tried a BA 'fear of flying' course but the first flight after she nearly lost it after being in a holding pattern for 20 minutes.

As a three-year-old, I must have absorbed that experience like a sponge. For a while it became an obsession, wanting to get on a plane and go anywhere, but it rose to the surface when my rock, my dad, left me.

Phobias are mysterious and for many difficult to cure. Psychologists say a phobia is not about the actual fear itself - the spider, snake or flight aren't the actual cause. More like the issue they represent or indeed the past trauma.

My innate fear was that someone was going to die and so at a subconscious level, flying became associated with that.

I am also an airy person, a Gemini, and have spent most of my adulthood trying to get a bit more grounded. So perhaps in addition it is like two similar forces that repel each other.

I have friends who developed anxieties later in life. Many say having kids makes you worse, somehow hyper protective. One was in such a state on a recent flight, she accepted a random pill of a fellow flyer. It was more important to take a placebo than to know what was in it. I have others who have tried hypnosis. I am sure this is highly effective but I still think the root of the problem needs to be treated. It can only be fully grasped and healed at a subconscious level.

Needless to say I am writing this as I fly from Nice to Paris. On my own. Without my reassuring hubbie. I keep telling myself that it is better to identify and name fears rather than hold on to them.

What better way of doing this than when experiencing them. I did this kind of exercise during my miscarriage before Xmas and it helped to write out my pain.

I would encourage any airphobics to dig deep for the reason why and then to put pen to paper. Better out than in. I look forward to my next flight to see if anything has shifted.

To be continued...]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1622708 2012-06-24T19:00:00-04:00 2012-08-24T05:12:03-04:00

BritChick Paris http://www.huffingtonpost.com/britchick-paris/
But if you take all these sources of stimulation away and are left just to be, what is left and how do we feel about it?

I cannot stand nothingness - no one around me, absence of things to do, silence.

It immediately triggers a familiar feeling of abandonment that developed early in childhood, switching countries and homes too many times.

I also don't fundamentally trust myself on my own. It is like I am like a kid left in a room by my parents and I don't know when they are coming back. All kinds of infantile fears rise up. Will I be able to sleep? Will someone break in? Will I hurt myself?

It is worse when my husband has been with me and I stay on a few nights by myself. Most people would see this as a blessing, extra rest and downtime. I get rigid with anxiety as soon as his energy leaves the room.

I envy all those people who like going on holidays by themselves or spending all day in their own company. They seem so secure in themselves, book in hand and an air of self-satisfaction.

If I can't spot my husband in a shopping centre for one second I will send out the search party.

This may all sound very neurotic but it is actually a lot more frequent than I realised.

I have intelligent 30+ friends who hate staying in their family home alone or dread taking a plane by themselves. One has to sleep with their dog and another has to take sleeping pills.

It is clear that we have become afraid of silence or non-connection but I think it goes deeper than this. I believe we have developed a basic phobia of being by ourselves.

In times gone by we would have walked for miles to work or ridden a horse and had hours alone. It would have provided such a great soul searching opportunity. Time to check in our subconscious, how we feel about things, to think about the past and anticipate the future.

I know that when alone I initially feel like I have been turned inside out or have totally lost my bearings. It is as if I have to look into a mirror and I really do not want to catch a glimpse.

Then after the inner struggle I feel a sense of relief and acceptance. I can sit in my own energy and it feels okay, even good. Ideas come to me and if I am lucky I will nod off.

But more often than not this inner tranquillity is replaced instead by panic. I do not know what to do with myself, I fidget, I worry about anything and everything and have the worst sleep. I usually end up crying down the phone to my hubbie like a five year old.

Fundamentally I believe that this all comes down to lack self-worth, which I talked about in my previous blog (why not believing in yourself is a self fulfilling prophesy).

I jump at the chance of hanging out with my dear friends who I love and respect. But I just don't like being with me. 'I' has less value to me than 'others'. So I choose their energy rather than my own. It is no wonder that I am left feeling upside down as soon as my own energy takes over. I am a mishmash of everybody else. It is quite crazy. It is the equivalent of going home to someone else's house every night instead of your cosy own one or becoming a doctor even though you're better at the arts. Me phobia is a happiness inhibitor.

I knew that the only way to get over my phobia was to confront me myself and I.

I am now forcing myself to spend time on my Jack Jones as a sort of loneliness bootcamp. I make myself spend nights alone, sit in a room all by myself and travel alone.

I am slowly finding out what the inner me really likes, what makes me feel easy and what doesn't. If I panic I rationally send those childish fears away as my parents should have done.

Why is this all so important to me?

I know that I need to know myself fully to become a mother. If I fret and angst in front of my child I will just transfer negative emotions to him or her. If my foundations are wobbly so will be his or hers.

I heard recently about a child that goes to bed with the house keys. She is so worried that her parents will leave her during sleep-time. All kids fear night time and need total reassurance that sleep is simply a temporary separation. If I have the same anxieties as my baby to be I will fuel rather than stem the problem.

Being happy with me is one of the main keys to getting pregnant. I know that now. If I feel good around me a baby will be a happy addition to my life and not a desperate filler of the void.]]>