Size matters

CAN I get all ranty again this week? I know it’s getting to be a bit of a habit- blame the hormones, the pressure to re-edit a book for what feels like the millionth time and the inability to be satisfied by even the largest quantity of chocolate. Nonetheless, I feel the need to let off a bit of steam.
You see Top Shop (you know that shop up the town which sells clothes for impossibly skinny people) have decided to hire a new size 26 model. Beth Ditto, as she is known, is a singer and she is going to model clothes for larger ladies.
I was quite pleased to read of the development; after all it wasn’t today nor yesterday I fitted into a size 14. I was definitely built for comfort and not speed. It is refreshing to see a High Street store acknowledge that not all women are built like Barbie Dolls and offer us some more choice. As it stands in Derry the choice available to larger ladies is laughable.
I don’t really want to dress like my mammy or my granny (no offence intended) but it’s not always easy to find the latest fashions in larger sizes. Admittedly a size 26 is a far from ideal weight and I’m sure even Beth Ditto wouldn’t mind losing a couple of pounds.But this is the real world and why shouldn’t larger ladies get to see someone their size looking and feeling good in clothes designed with them in mind? It seems, however, that not everyone feels the same way I do.
There are those out there who say that Top Shop’s decision to hire a plus size model is glorifying obesity and encouraging young women with weight problems to sit back on their considerable behinds and stuff their face with yet more burgers while enjoying the fact they can now wear fashionable clothes.
That argument saddens me, and angers me. It is tantamount to saying that no woman above a size 16 (and let’s face it, 50% of the female population is above a size 16) has the right to wear nice clothes in case she dares get too comfortable with her size. The sad fact is, you could dress me (as one of those largest ladies) in the finest clothes Monsoon or Principles have to offer.
You can wedge me into control pants and body shaping tights, minimiser bras and corsets of all descriptions but I can tell you now that I will never feel entirely comfortable with my size. And while I’m uncomfortable - while I’m wondering who that day has described me as a ‘grand big girl’ to someone else - I would at least like to wear modern, fashionable and funky clothes.
The long and the short of it (and the thick and the thin of it) those of us who aren’t a perfect 10 or 12 should be allowed to dress well. We should not be forced to wear baggy, shapeless tents of things like sackcloth and ashes with a scarlet O for obese stitched across our gargantuan bosoms. Weight problem I’m not for one second dismissing the concerns which exist with our health professionals about the growing obesity problem in this country.
Despite my own bad example, I hate seeing children with weight problems and I do my best to make sure my wee man has a varied and healthy diet without falling into the same bad habits as his mammy. I also try to make sure he stays nice and active and the boy never sits still. He walks everywhere he can and loves to go swimming. I think all parents should be encouraged not only to try and help their children eat a more healthy diet, and also to stay active. With the risk of sounding about 350 years old, when I was wee there was no such thing as plonking ourselves in front of computers or DVDs for hours on end.
We were out running the streets til night fall. For those of us who have already developed a weight problem the answer is not to stigmatise us further or brow beat us into submission. It is simplistic to say that weight problems are solely related to an over consumption of calories without considering the self esteem issues that surround them. It may well be a chicken and egg type of question (or a burger and big butt kind of question if you prefer), but there is no doubt that people with weight problems are likely to have substantial self esteem issues to match their substantial clothes sizes. Therefore the absolute worst thing you can do to someone who has a weight problem is single them out for scorn and abuse.
With the exception of the like of Dawn French, the majority of us want to change and are actively trying to change. So I’m quite happy to have Beth Ditto model clothes and I’m quite happy to have Top Shop provide clothes in larger sizes so that we slowly start to become happier and more confident with who we are on the outside, which, in my experience, always has a direct knock on effect to how we feel on the inside. And a happier, more confident woman is more likely to be active about getting fit and healthy than one who feels too ashamed to step outside the front door.

A woman's work

THE OLD argument regarding whether or not working mothers are evil incarnate and a drain on the workforce has reared its ugly head again this week.
It was no surprise to me to read that women with young children fare the worst when it comes to career progression. Apparantly those of us with functioning uteri (or is it uteruses?) are a liability in the workplace. We may get pregnant and then, when that messy procreation business is done and dusted, we will no doubt have our mind on the wains and silly little things like calpol, teething, potty training and drool.
When it comes to promotion we are at the bottom of the pile, regardless of our qualifications, experience and ability. You see we working mothers, it would seem, are just not reliable. If our children fall and break a limb we could be so bold as to clear out of the office for an afternoon to take them to A&E and God forbid the wee mites take sick and we need a day off to clean up vomit and crusty snot.
On top of that knowledge that we are now no longer valulable members of the work force, we also have to deal with the guilt at working in the first place. Because those people who don’t think we are rubbish at our jobs instead like to think we are rubbish at our parenting. A woman’s place, did we not know, is in the house.
The ills of society - all those ASBOs and illiterate wains are precisely down to the fact that we women go out and work and leave our children in the care of virtual strangers. It has even been argued that a woman should not have children unless she is prepared to stay at home and raise them. Yes, the working mother is both incompetent AND selfish.
And people wonder why growing numbers of us are beating the Prozac down our necks and taking to drink in the evenings?
If you think I’m exaggerating, think again. Have a wee gander over at the BBC ‘Have Your Say’ website on its news pages. They stop just short of getting the ducking stools out and giving the likes of me a good drowning for my troubles. The thing all these creators of studies and social studies seem to ignore time and time again is that the vast majority of working mothers do so because they have no choice.
Most of us could not keep a roof over our family’s head or clothes on their back without bringing that second income into the house. I for one am certainly not working to finance a glamorous lifestyle where I’m swanning off on fancy holidays or clothing myself in designer clothes while my son sits in a creche pining for some affection. Perhaps, however I shouldn’t be so hard on those people who would have me hung, drawn and quartered.
When I was younger I used to think that having children wouldn’t alter my outlook on my working life one wee iota. I would argue with my mother incessantly that I wasn’t going to university for the good of my health and that there was no way I was going to turn my back on years of study for the sake of staying home up to my eyes in Play Doh and Thomas the Tank Engine trains. Being a stay at home mammy would, I firmly believed drive me to distraction. But then I became a mammy myself and I enjoyed it.
I love spending time with my son reliving those wee innocent joys of childhood and it does at times pain me to leave him. In an ideal world I would be at home reading to him, drawing with him and kissing away his tears when he stubs his toe on a building block. Multi-task But this isn’t an ideal world.
For financial reasons I have to work. (Contrary to popular belief I did not earn millions of pounds from selling my book) but yes, becoming a parent has intrinsically changed my perception of the world. My focus is now very different, but that does not mean I’m rubbish at my job or don’t give it 100% while I’m at work.
Like many working mothers, I have become adept at turning off the mammy head within five minutes of hitting the office and switching into work mode. That’s the thing with us women, we can multi-task. To say we are unreliable as workers is laughable. I’ll guarantee that as a working mother I’m more likely to be at my desk on any given day than single office workers the world over who are sleeping off a hangover or taking a sickie just for the craic.
At least when I’m not at my desk it’s for a good reason. We are masters of organisation, efficiency and the afore-mentioned muilti-tasking. The thing is, give a woman a job - especially a mother, and you can guarantee it will be done.
As I’ve said, it doesn’t surprise me that this argument has raised its head again, but it does disgust me. It’s time we woman stood up to demand an end to this discrimination.

Proper dot com

If the notion takes you, you can now read all about me and my book at

www.claireallan.com

There is a wee blog there too, but it's not as good as this one... honest

Mammy Dearest

THEY SAY it comes to us all and this week I realised I have finally morphed into my darling mother. I’m not sure when or how it started, but the transformation is all but complete.
All that is missing is a wee vodka on a Friday night and an addiction to Corrie. You may asked how this realisation hit me and the answer is simple- it started the day I gave birth and has rumbled on ever since, growing and taking over right up to the point where I am now saying and doing things I swore I never, ever would.
Last weekend I found myself in the middle of a discipline crisis with the wee man. Having walked out in front of a car on Chapel Road and saved only by the grace of God and my (for once) lightning quick reactions, he was already on a warning about road safety. Being three, (although he tells anyone who will listen that he is six) I really think it is high time Joseph was aware that a battle between a young child and car doing 30mph is never going to end in favour of the child. He seems to disagree. He is thran like that. (Takes after his father with the thranness - I am a model of patience and flexibility).
Later on the same day, as we were walking through the car park at Homebase the wee man decided once again to make a bid for freedom and once again it was only the grace of God and my (for the second time ever) lightning quick reaction that saved him.
I was shocked and scared and I’ll admit that even though it goes against my principles as a parent, I gave him a wee smack on the bum and told him he was never to run out in front of cars again. Being at a age where he is prone to over-dramatising things (again a trait he gets from his father- I NEVER exaggerate), he went into fits of tears telling me “Mammy, you made me sad.” And there it was, the minute my mother’s voice came out of my mouth and told him (in as broad a Derry accent as I could muster) “I’d rather make you sad than bury you.”
He looked at me, mouthly slightly agape, not one bit impressed with my excuse and I realised my transition to mammyhood was complete. It had been creeping up for a while. I should have read the warning signs.
Things got a bit suss when, after coming in to the house after work, I found I was no longer happy to traipse about in my fancy heels for the remainder of the evening. I now it find it much more comfortable to sit down and make a soothing “Aaaah” sound as I peel my boots off and slip my feet into my furry slippers.
Then it went one step further. I was no longer happy to wander about the house in my work clothes post 7pm. No, now I put on my jammies- complete with elasticated waistband and relax. Life is too short not to enjoy the pleasures of an elasticated waistband.
Of course my house has also become mammy-fied. I’ve developed a sad little love affair with the Betterware catalogue, suddenly seeing the benefit of all that stuff I’d previously dismissed as a wee bit tacky. I got a great wee broom that fits into corners and tight spaces and I’m very happy with it. My love for it is right up there with my love for my fancy bagless hoover which shows us up for the dirty clats we really are. (Seriously, I’m shamed every time I hoover).
I’ve also taken to wandering around Tesco on a Sunday sniffing the scented candles to see which one would give my living room a lift. When I’m not doing that I’m comparing washing powders and fabric softeners or looking for a decent cut of meat to make a nice casserole with.
In theory I have no problem with turning into my mammy. I quite like her. In fact I kind of love her and I have no complaints about how she raised me. (Well I do in fact have two complaints: the first relating to a miscarriage of justice over who drank the last of the milk and the second over her persistant singing of ‘Who’s At The Window, Who?’ which scared the bejaysus out of me.)
In practice though, the fact that I’m turning into my mother means that I’m becoming a proper grown up. I’ve made my peace with the fact I’m now on the wrong side of 30, but I don’t think I’ve made my peace with the fact that I’m no longer a wee young thing who is down with the kids. It’s sad to think that in terms of ‘cool’ I’m on a hiding to nothing. It’s only a matter of time before I start whinging that they don’t make proper pop songs anymore and opt for a pair of comfortable, flat shoes for work.
That said, my mother- who is now 50- seems to be enjoying somewhat of a second youth. While I’m in my bed for 11 every night, she can sit up yapping with her friends til the wee hours and not die of exhaustion the next day. Maybe if I wait another 20 years I might find that I’ve gone full circle and am officially trendy again. And hopefully when I get to that stage Joseph will think his old mammy is pretty cool.

Why do you have to be a heartbreaker?

THANK CRUNCHIE that Valentine’s Day has come and gone. I can’t stand the utter commercialism of it. I can handle the arrival of Christmas decorations in the shops in September or Easter Eggs popping into the shop windows on Boxing Day, but I have no stomach for the plethora of pink, red and fluff that swamps our shops for first six weeks of each year.
Visiting Tesco last weekend, I found- alongside the rows upon rows of cards to beloved husbands, wives, fiances, fiancees, girlfriends, boyfriends, mothers, fathers and even friends- heart shaped lights, candle sets, heart shaped ice cube trays, chocolates by the bucketloads and questionable thong style underwear; not to mention the flowers (real AND fake) and the food marketed to be a natural aphrodisiac.
I hate to sound like a Valentine’s Scrouge but why, oh why, should we or do we need a designated day of the year to tell someone we love them? And let’s face it the idea of an anonymous Valentine is not as appealing as it once was in years gone by. Fifteen years ago it was cool to have a secret admirer- but nowadays the average single white female might be more inclined to fear a stalker is on the loose.
That’s not to say I’m not a romantic at heart. My idea of heaven is a nice meal out with Mr Allan, followed by a couple of glasses of wine at home in front of the fire while we chatter about everything and anything. In a similar vein I am addicted to romantic comedies.
Forget scary movies and thrillers, give me something with Hugh Grant, Sandra Bullock and perhaps a song on the soundtrack by Ronan Keating and Bob’s your uncle. In fact I have often been the subject of much ribbing in the past because of my penchant for slush, sappiness and hearts and flowers. My back catalogue of tapes (which now reside in my car because it’s so old it doesn’t have a CD player) include choice power ballads from the likes of Mariah Carey and Celine Dion.
Even my very best friend, who probably knows me even better than my husband and my mother put together, was shocked - nay disgusted- to find a copy of Lionel Ritchie’s Greatest Hits in the tape player. I’m a great fan of singing in the shower- of crooning a tuneless rendition of ‘Endless Love’ or ‘Truly’ to my heart’s content. I’ve been known to send the odd romantic text and cry at weddings. But my love for love stops short of over commercialised Hallmark occasions. I think Valentine’s Day makes more people miserable than happy.
Single people by and large spend the day feeling lonely and isolated from some great ‘in love’ club, while those of us who are paired off spend the day jumping at the opening of the door or the clattering of a letterbox waiting for a token of our partner’s esteem.
There is a pressure to be happy and content on Valentine’s Day that is cloying. When I finish work on a Wednesday I don’t want to have dress up to pay for over priced food in an overcrowded restaurant . I don’t want a three course home cooked dinner with champagne and strawberries because I know I’ll be the one doing the dishes come the following morning.
As for making the effort with thong underwear and push up bras- I’ll spare you the mental image and myself the discomfort, if you don’t mind. Give me my furry slippers, my super comfy dressing gown that makes me look like the abominable snowman but feel as if I’m enveloped in a gorgeous big hug. On a Wednesday evening, I don’t want high romance.
I want to sit down and watch ‘Location, Location, Location’ with my laptop on my knee as I batter out another chapter and sip some ice cold Pinot Grigio. And then I want to go to bed- to sleep! I’d rather any acts of romance or affection from my other half where spontaneous and unexpected. I
prefer someone to say they love me because in that moment they really, truly love me not because some company who make a fortune out of our love affair with love tell them they should love me. So this year we banned the big day in our house. There was no talk of flowers or cards- no romantic repast waiting for me when I came home.
We may make it out for dinner at the weekend, if the notion takes us and we are planning a romantic break for later in the year. I’m happy enough to accept that my husband still loves me after 10 years together, and maybe one day in a couple of weeks I’ll get a bunch of flowers out of the blue to prove it. But Cupid can keep his bows for someone else, and someone else can get my card. And as for the thongs, go for it if you feel brave enough.

Amazon woman!

Rainy Days and Tuesdays is now available for pre-order on Amazon!

CLICK THIS LINK!

For a short time only...

Posting this only for Valentine's Night! How excited am I?

Sorry if you missed it! I promise the cover will reappear closer to the launch!

Thanks for the kind words and the page views.

A hard hitting issue

IT’S NO secret that I’m a big fan of Fern Britton. I think the ‘This Morning’ presenter is just so damn likeable that I would love to meet her for a cup of coffee, a glass of wine and good old fashioned girlie chat.

She seems to be quite genuinely happy and content in her own skin and she isn’t one of these celebs who constantly professes to being content with their size and appearance before half killing themselves on a crash diet every six months.

As a television presenter she has a natural warmth and grace which make her very watchable and I can’t help but double over in kinks when she takes a giggling fit with co-presenter Philip Schofield. (My one time obsession with Philip will no doubt merit a column of its own one of these fine days.)

I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m her celebrity stalker, but if I see her on the telly or in a magazine I’ll most probably make a point of checking it out.

It was precisely because she seems a genuinely happy and positive person that it was a bit of a shock to uncover a picture of her displaying domestic violence injuries while surfing the internet this week. The picture made me sit up and take notice- which was exactly what it was meant to do. Thankfully for Fern the images weren’t real.

They were created by very clever make up artists working on the new campaign by Women’s Aid to highlight the fact that domestic violence can happen to any woman, any time and any where. Fern is just one of a number of a celebrities who have agreed to endorse the campaign and raise awareness of domestic violence by allowing themselves to be portrayed with graphic injuries.

Of course the campaign has its begrudgers and complainers. There are those who say Fern and co are concerned primarily with raising their own profiles and that people who are truly affected by domestic violence will not draw any benefit from campaigns such as these. I have to say I think that is a cynical and unwarranted attitude.

Yes, research shows that if a woman (or indeed a man) is a victim of domestic violence it is rare that any amount of prodding from well meaning celebrities or anyone else will encourage them to leave a relationship unless they are ready to walk out themselves. But those facts don’t mean we should brush it under the carpet or steer clear of awareness raining campaigns.

I don’t think Fern Britton clattering herself in make up to look as though she has had the life battered out of her will make an abused woman sit up and take notice, but it might just make the rest of us realise that real and horrifying acts of cruelty are happening right under our noses on a daily basis. I know people who have been subjected to domestic violence. They aren’t always the quiet wee mouse cowering in the corner. Some of these women are beautiful, successful and seemingly confident women who to the casual observer would look as though they had it all.

But domestic violence has a way of seeping into your consciousness or zapping you of the strength to walk out the door and admit that something is very, very wrong. Some women sadly will see the acts of violence meeted out to them by their partners as somehow reflecting a weakness on their part.

For those women admitting that they are being subjected to physical, emotional and mental abuse is admiting a weakness on their part and so it is hushed up. Others, of course, may have become so used to the abuse that dare I say they are almost immune to it.

Sadly abuse can be so sustained and intense that it no longer seems abnormal. Some women will even feel they deserve to be treated that way. Despite figures which were released this week revealing that domestic violence rates have dropped considerably in the Derry area, Marie Brown of Foyle Women’s Aid has said that the majority of women subjected to violence in the home will never report the crimes against them.

We have to wonder why then the issue remains such a taboo that it takes such a hard hitting (no pun intended) campaign to bring it back into the public consciousness. It’s only right that issues such as these are forced upon us- that we have our eyes opened to the reality of life in this city, this country and throughout the world for some women.

We may like to think we live in an era of gender equality and in a place where sisters are always doing it for themselves but the reality is that even in your own street some woman- somebody’s mother, sister, friend, cousin, aunt or granny- is living in a state of fear.

So I applaud Fern Britton and everyone involved in the campaign. If it makes just one person sit up and think about domestic violence, and if it makes just one person say enough is enough then that’s good enough for me.

My Novel Journey

‘JOURNAL’ reporter Claire Allan, in a new monthly column, charts her journey to becoming a published author. Her first novel, ‘Rainy Days and Tuesdays’ will be published by Poolbeg in August 07.

IT’S HARD to believe that in six months I’ll be able to walk into Eason in Foyleside and pick up a copy of my own book. I’m sure I’ll probably be too embarrassed to buy it in case the girl at the till thinks I’m full of myself, but if I wear a pair of sunglasses and a wig I may well just be able to get away with standing and staring at it lovingly for an hour or two.
For me, getting published really is a lifelong dream come true. I’ve always loved writing- churning out tacky short stories and dodgy poetry regularly when I was a teenager.
When I started working as a journalist however I did let my little hobby slide a bit. Having spent all day sat in front of a computer writing news stories, the last thing I wanted to do in evening was switch on my home PC and write some more. But last year, something in me snapped.
I always said I wanted to write and as I was fast approaching 30, I developed a now or never attitude to the process. Stories which had been bubbling away in my subconscious for years started to fight to get out and when I did make the decision and sit down to write I found I couldn’t stop. Words started to spill out. The story started to take on a life of it’s own and I would find myself working through scenes in my head as I drove to work, or tried to get to sleep, or did the shopping. It became a bit of an obsession and an addiction, if I’m honest.
I finished my book, which back then was called ‘This Little Piggy’ last June. Or at least I thought I had finished it. I didn’t realise just what kind of a journey I would have over the following months as I tried to get an agent, worked on her suggested rewrites, submitted it to publishers and prayed someone would believe in it, and me, enough to take me on.
I was lucky by industry standards in that I was picked up by an agent pretty quickly and without having to resort to hysterics, bribery or blackmail.
Being hopelessly impatient that particular process was not good for my general mental health. I became obsessional about checking my emails and each time I answered the phone, I didn’t allow myself breathe out until I had ascertained whether or not the person on the other end had a Dublin accent and could in fact be an agent coming to me with good news.
But that wait was nothing compared to the wait to hear back from publishers. My nails were chewed down to the bone, my nerves were in tatters and I spent an inordinate amount of time promising the Big Man upstairs the sun, moon and stars if only this wee dream were to come true.
And it did. To be accepted by a publisher is amazing. To be accepted by Poolbeg, who publish some of my great heroes, was beyond amazing. Again though, it only marked the start of another journey- one where I have to continually push myself beyond my comfort zone. First of all we had to change the name- which was fair enough because the original title did make me cringe a bit. Then I had to increase the word count by a mere 4,000, as well as set to work on book number two because yes, one book just isn’t enough. I’ve found it when it comes to writing, I’m like a tube of Pringles. Once I pop, I can’t stop.
Now though, it is starting to get really exciting. It is starting to feel real and I’m beginning to allow myself to believe it is really is happening. Last week I travelled to Dublin to meet the team at Poolbeg and the two PR consultants who will be working with me at the time of the launch. I felt sick to my stomach as I got the taxi out to Howth and when I arrived at the Poolbeg offices and saw that famous red lighthouse logo I almost, almost, asked the taxi man to turn back. Of course I needn’t have worried. The team are lovely and I mean that genuinely and not simply in a “I must keep in their good books” kind of way.
We discussed the book, and what press I would be willing to do come the summer. They mentioned possible TV interviews and once the smelling salts had worked, I agreed to do whatever I could to get my career up and running. Although I admit it will definitely feel a little weird to be at the receiving end of a journalist’s questions.
Most importantly I managed not to make a holy show of myself. I have a rather unfortunate habit of unwittingly adopting other people’s accents and mannerisms so I was afraid I would start saying ‘eejit’ and ‘it was gas’ in a thick Dublin brogue and they would think I was taking the proverbial. Thankfully I remained a true Derry woman from start to finish.
And then it was off to a wee cafe nearby for lunch. It wasn’t big or fancy, but the food was great and Paula Campbell, the publisher, assured me that everyone who is anyone in the Irish publishing world has had lasagne and chips from May’s cafe.
If it’s good enough for Marian Keyes, it’s sure as hell good enough for me.

The next step will be seeing the cover of my book. I’ve been told that many authors have a good cry when they see their name on a book cover for the first time- I’ll keep you posted.

Tackfest Tuesday- Whyyyyyyy do you build me up?

I'm in remarkably chipper form today. It's something to do with booking a weekend away with Mr. Allan and relaxing after the boy's third birthday.
My creative juices are flowing with Signed, Sealed, Delivered and tonight I will hit the 50,000 word mark. So all in all, it's a good day.
So today's tacky song reflects that mood. Even though it is actually quite a sad sony lyrically, it always makes me grin like a buck eejit. It reminds me most of all my aunt's 50th birthday party and my own 30th...
So everybody, I give you 'Why Do You Build Me Up?'

Why do you build me up (build me up) Buttercup, baby
Just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around
And then worst of all (worst of all) you never call, baby
When you say you will (say you will)
but I love you still
I need you (I need you)
more than anyone, darlin'
You know that I have from the start
So build me up (build me up) Buttercup,
don't break my heart"

Month 36- All growed up

DEAR JOSEPH,

It is very difficult to express in words just how I feel about you turning three. I'm so utterly proud of you, so completely in love with you and so totally in awe of you.

You rock my world.

You'll forgive my lack of words this month, but here, for you to always see, is what life has been like for the last three years.

I love you,

Mammy

So anyway...

I ARRIVED at Poolbeg yesterday morning and, after freaking at the sight of the red lighthouse, it was actually very lovely.
The team were lovely. They were nice to me. They offered me tea and took me to lunch at a very down to earth and friendly wee cafe and we had a good old gossip.

My one moment of shame came when the publishing assistant (Hi Niamh, if you are reading this!) said "I read your blog this morning. So you're crapping yourself, are you?"

It was quite tricky to explain I meant crapping myself in a nice way.

Anyway, 'Rainy Days and Tuesdays' will hit the shops in Ireland in August of this year. That really isn't very long to wait at all now, is it?

Tackfest Tuesday- the return

In 20 minutes I'm getting in a taxi and going to the Poolbeg offices to meet with my publishers for the first time.

I'm crapping myself, to put it as mildly as I can. But I'm telling myself even big Mazza has done this- walked into those offices as a first time novelist and it worked for them.

So my song for today is Whitney Houston, before she got all haggard, singing step by step. One day (or taxi journey as a time)

Well, theres a bridge and theres a river

That I still must cross

As Im going on my journey

Oh, I might be lost

And theres a road I have to follow

A place I have to go

But no one told me just how to get there

But when I get there Ill know

cause Im taking it...Step by step

Bit by bit

Stone by stone

Brick by brick

Step by step

Day by day

Mile by mile

Go your own way

And this old road is rough and ruin

So many dangers along the way

So many burdens might fall upon me

So many troubles I have to face

But I wont let my spirit fail me

But I wont let my spirit go

Until I get to my destination

Im gonna take it slow

Rainy days and great friends...

Following my 'Five Things You Didn't Know About Me' post this week, I got a parcel in the post from my gorgeous friend Amanda.

Here it is modelled by my very glam assistant...



Sinead Collins eat your heart out!

Five things you didn't know about me

Thanks to the lovely Keris, here are five things you didn't know about me...

1) I used to work in a Pound Shop. It marked my decline in social status as a Saturday shop girl. I started in Dunnes Stores (evil experience it was and all), then moved to What Everyone Wants (which was actually good craic, but jeez it was busy) and finally to a Pound Shop. Except the owner refused to acknowledge it was a pound shop, because some things cost as much as £2 and "we don't have tacky shops like that in Derry".
The shop has now been renamed to 'Pound Choice'- so I guess he fell off his moral high ground eventually.
When I worked in the shop, the biggest laugh of the week was the two wee women who would come into buy holy candles who we nicknamed Beardy and Smelly. One had a beard, the other smelled but much like Ant and Dec or Zig and Zag they were pretty interchangeable.

2) I have a size 12 jacket in my wardrobe which is hideously out of fashion but which I refuse to throw out because it fitted me once and made me feel like a skinny malinky. It is the only size 12 garment I have ever worn.

3)When I was a child my sisters and brother and I would ride to school on pretend horses- which we would tether up at the mucky field at the back of the school and 'collect' again on the way home, where by we would skip and neigh up Broadway in Creggan. I used to believe it made me go faster.

4) I have always, always wanted one of the big umbrellas that covers your whole face and is see through, so you don't bump into things as you walk. Sinead Collins had one when we were in primary school and I was vay jealous at how the hailstones didn't batter off her face as she walked home. (Then again, if I had an umbrella- would I have been able to ride my horse with the same skill? No, I don't think I would. I guess things happen for a reason after all).

5) I secretly fancy David Walliams from Little Britain. I have no idea why, but I wouldn't mind an hour alone with him.

Slow and easy wins the race

I've maintained my weightloss this week- which is motivation speak for "not lost an ounce"- but given the sheer quantity of chocolate that has been shovelled down my neck due to hormonal surges, I'm actually quite happy with this.
I'm used to putting on 3 or 4 lbs this particular week of the month, so yay me!

But the pressure is on. First of all I'm meeting with my PR guru next week and I'm half expecting her to look at me, shake her head and declare that nothing can be done for the likes of me.

Second of all, deadline looms for the measurement date for the bridesmaid dress (or best woman dress as it shall be known). I do not want to look like Annie Apple wobbling up the aisle.

I went to my docs and had a pep talk on Friday. Apparantly I'm fabulous- just have to keep going.
If I can get another stone off by June, I'll be happy. And if I can get two stone off by the book launch in the Autumn, I'll be ecstatic- but boy am I going to miss my best friend, Chocolate.

The most depressing time of the year?

APPARANTLY THIS coming Wednesday, January 24, is offically the most depressing day of the year. Some boffin,somewhere has calculated a due to it’s distance from Christmas, and until payday- combined with the cold weather, dark nights and general bleurgh feeling that seeps into your very pores in January this Wednesday is going to be pretty damn miserable.
Suicides will increase, as will marriage breakdowns. Diets will be broken like never before as we reach for king size chocolate bars to release some endorphins and ease the bleakness- only to have the bleakness come back like a good ‘un once we step on the scales and see the Christmas damage. (Only 3lbs here- something I shall be proud of until the day I die, as it beats my usual 5-7lbs hands down.)
On Wednesday we can expect roadrage to be on the increase and for people to walk around with their brows more furrowed than ever before. Don’t expect any kind greetings or for anyone to hold the door open for you when you are laden down with bags from the January sales.
Don’t expect anyone to let you nip in before them at the check out- even if you only have a carton of milk and they have their week’s groceries to put through. Kindness won’t exist on Wednesday. The world, according to this (probably hugely overpaid) boffin is going to be a cold and lonely place this week. It’s tempting, therefore, to go into hibernation for the day.
Surely the powers that be- those responsible for the business world- could give us all the day off so we could slide under our duvets with a good book, daytime telly and a hot chocolate (one of the low fat ones) for company. Surely they must realise that a happy workforce is a productive workforce? And at the end of the day, who wants to be staring out a sea of depressed faces anyway?
I love that in America duvet days are allowed- and in fact encouraged- by some forward thinking companies. This gives employees permission to take a certain amount of days off each year just because the thought of work that morning is a little too much to take. You know what I mean- days when you’ve been kept awake for three hours the previous night listening to an almost-three-year-old rhyme off the names of all the trains from ‘Thomas and Friends’, or days when your eyes refuse to open no matter how loud the alarm clock beeps. Days when you don’t exactly feel sick as such, but you don’t feel full of the joys of life either. Days when only your bed and a cup of tea will do the trick. Days exactly like January 24.
Much has been written about SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) and it seems almost everyone you chat to these days has a wee touch of it to be going on with. While i’m not convinced I’m a complete SAD-o, I have to say I do generally find the winter months- and January and February in particular- damn hard work. It’s a common complaint but I hate leaving for work in the dark and returning once again under cover of darkness with my only glimpse at daylight being the dash to the shop through the pouring rain at one o’clock.
Because of this I start to obsess quite dramatically about the length of the days. When I left work shortly after five on Tuesday there was a wee glint of light in the evening sky and my heart lifted just that little. It’s a long time coming until the nights are shorter than the days, but I’ll take my jollies where I can them especially with Wednesday’s doomsday prophecy looming. Then again, the upside of this all is that come Thursday we’ll all know the worst of the winter blues are gone for another year and we can start to think that little bit more positively.
Already I’m thinking of the summer months which lie ahead. I’ve started talking to the wee man about all the days we will spend down at Benone or Lisfannon and I’ve even ordered him one of those UVA protective all in one swimsuit efforts so he doesn’t get burned to a crisp when the good weather hits.
I’m considering planning a break in the sun, something which won’t cost the earth but which will top up my natural seratonin levels all the same. In fact I’ll probably spend at least half an hour on Wednesday browsing the holiday brochure which has arrived on my desk even though there isn’t a chance in heaven or hell I could afford the plush resorts featured. A girl can dream, can’t she?

Thirty and bricking it

IT WAS payday today so I treated myself to a couple of new books- among them the short story collection published by Poolbeg to celebrate ther 30th anniversary.

I figured that since I am now an official member of the Poolbeg stable it was worth my while to get a complete overview of the competition in terms of my stable mates. (Not that any of us look like horses, mind.)

Anyway, the whole buying the book process has set me into a bit of a flurry of panic. These women are great- they are at the top of their game and then there is me, with my wee book trying to look and sound like a confident woman of the noughties.

I have to say though I've already started to get a taste of the support network that exists among the Irish authors contigent. I have received lovely supportive emails from Sarah Webb and a couple of lovely kind words from Himself. Along with my Write Words chicks, they are offering buckets of support which is lovely and I'm also spending loads of time at Write On- a site for Irish writers.

Hopefully this is stagefright and it will all ease in time and I can go back to being 30 and fabulous.

Every woman

I’M GLAD to say that even after almost nine years as a journalist there are still stories which have the power to humble me, inspire me and teach me a thing or two about life. This week has been exceptional in that three such stories have landed on my desk.
Each of them feature inspirational women and each of them has helped, in some way, to help me put my life that wee bit more into perspective and encourage make to some changes- big and small- in how I think about life.
And what makes their stories all the more remarkable is that I know that those three women are only a tiny representation of the women in Derry, and throughout the country, who get on with making quiet, unassuming changes to people’s lives but who don’t seek recognition or reward for their efforts.
They made me realise there is a strength and courage in womanhood that we don’t always take the time or effort to recognise because we are so busy chasing our tails trying to keep ahead of the game So it is worth taking some time out, every now and again to sit back and think about our lives, our achievements, our goals and our dreams.
The first story which found its way to my desk was that of 30-years-old Nicky Ward from Cornshell Fields who was killed when she was struck by a car at Ballykelly last week. Nicky was my age. That one thought stuck in my head as I visited her home, and spoke to the people who so clearly loved and adored her.
For all intents and purposes she could have been me. We were born in the same year, would no doubt have shared the same memories of childhood TV, infatuations with music and TV stars. I wondered had she been as nervous about turning 30 as I was.
Nicky, it is fair to say, has put me to shame. She spent a life caring for others, be it the people in the care home she worked in, or the animals she reared from kittens and puppies and rescued from animal shelters. In the end it was her act of ultimate selflessness- her decision to sign the organ donor register- which made her truly remarkable. Even though she tragically isn’t with us anymore, people- perhaps as many as five- will have had a second chance at a healthy life. It made me ashamed because while I’ve ticked the wee box on the back of my drivers’ licence I’ve not taken the time to register.
Or at least, I hadn’t until I left Nicky’s home and came back to the office just in time to hear of the sad passing of Michaela McKinney. Michaela died on Sunday, after tirelessly campaigning to have people sign the NHS donor register. She herself needed a heart and lung transplant, but was too unwell to survive the operation.
In the end, she never got the chance but her dignity- her bravery at speaking out about the reality of her condition will hopefully mean more people will do just what Nicky did- without any prompting- and ensure that should the worst happen to them they will at least help someone else.
I left work on Monday deeply moved and touched by both these stories- so much so that I made the effort (and trust me it was no effort at all) to register for the donor list online. In addition when I walked through the door of my house that night, I held my son that little bit tighter and even told himself (the grown up one) that I loved him. (Even though he was clearly doing my head in by leaving his washing all over the floor). I realised in that instance how lucky I was and yet how much I take things for granted.
But just as I was about to start beating myself up for my inadequacies, I met with Helen McDonnell on Wednesday- a lifecoach setting up sessions for women right here in Derry. Helen and I sat and had a wee natter about her new venture, and a bit of gossip about life in general and one of the key messages I took away from meeting her was that the past is gone and it’s the here and now that really matters.
Yes, our pasts shape us but we shouldn’t let them hold us back. To put it in the simplest terms I can think of, there is no use crying over spilled milk. I may not have signed the donor register before I wrote about Nicky or Michaela- but I have done now and I’m determined as much as possible to be that little bit more positive throughout the day.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not planning to become some maniacal Pollyanna because let’s face it, the only thing more annoying that a misery guts is someone who grins like a buck eejit from morning to night with no good reason. I’m going to find my happy medium and try to remind myself as often as possible just what I have to be thankful for and just how much of a difference I can make just by quietly doing what I’m doing.

Two pounds down...

Well 2lbs down- not bad for a week when the chocolates are still hanging about from Christmas and the cold winter weather has had me reaching for comfort food.

It's only five and a half months now til bridezilla's wedding and a mere six weeks til my first fitting for my best woman's dress. I've made peace with the fact I'm not going to be the eeny size 12/14 babe I'd hoped for but I could do worse than look like yer wan here- plus size model Charlotte Coyle who also hails from Derry.

Charlotte is a 16- 18 and in my opinion looks amazing- healthy, happy, curvy and sexy. (And I say that in a totally non lesbian way.)

Anyway onwards and downwards hopefully. See you next Sunday.