Putting the freshness back.....

In an effort to improve my lot ……. and my home….. I have embarked on a house-cleaning program. By anyone’s standards, my cleaning abilities are not good and rarely put to the test: the Hoover fights back and my wipe always turns into a smear. When I was more gainfully employed I occasionally gave myself the luxury gift of a cleaner; a random 4 hours now and then to wrangle the dust-bunnies and unleash the Mr. Muscle. I have friends who employ cleaners so I usually sub-let one of theirs.

But now I have neither the money nor the justification for such luxuries. I hate cleaning so much I sometimes just paint over the dirt instead, as I have recently done with my hall because I found some un-used paint under the sink. However, I am not in a position to paint every room right now and so I broke the work-to-do, down into bite size jobs; one a day. Feeling rather pleased having ticked off bathroom window, my home now filled with the sweet scent of polish, I decided to reward myself with a cup of coffee. I used the coffee pot I was given by my now defunct employer, one of those Italian silver ones that screws together and sits on the hob. After awhile I began to wonder why it was taking so long. And what the smell was. Steam was emanating from the pot but no coffee was bubbling up. And something was definitely burning. Then I realised I had loaded it with coffee but forgotten the water. I tried to manoeuvre it from the gas but the black plastic handle fell off having melted. In an effort to stop the pot toppling over I burnt the tips of seven of my ten fingers, then had to wrestle it to the sink with a smouldering tea towel. I unscrewed it wearing oven-mitts and released the coffee grounds, turned to glowing embers. I’d made a mini-brazier. My home is now filled instead with the acrid scent of burnt coffee and plastic.

Top tip: forget the cleaning, go out for a coffee.

Cherry and Seed Madeira Cake for the menopausal.......

Regular readers might have noticed my enjoyment of baked goods in general, cake in particular. I find cooking quite relaxing too, all the chopping and  mixing and stuff. So, with winter looming and a particularly lovely picture of a Cherry and Seed Madeira Cake in one of the Sundays, it was on with the pinny.

This recipe comes from Lily VaniIli who has a bakery off Columbia Road flower market at 6 The Courtyard, Ezra  St. London E2 7RG. I think it was the word Madeira that caught my eye. That and cherry. I like cherries and believe there a few greater pleasures than a brown paper bag filled with fat, ripe cherries. I think I thought there might be Madeira wine in the cake. There isn’t. Or perhaps I planned to take a glass while making it, who knows. I don’t know enough about baking to know the difference between Madeira or Victoria or Pound cake. I just know I like eating cake. My son likes baked goods too and at times like this, when I have weight-gaining food lurking about, I can rely on him to eat most of it in one sitting, thus removing any temptation from me. So, I set to. However, I did not have poppy seeds as recommended in the recipe, along with pumpkin and sesame. 

But being a menopausal woman I do have bags and bags of omega 3 packed mixes of pumpkin, sesame, linseed, flax and sunflower seeds. So, I decided to combine cake with healthy eating and make a menopausal-mixed-seed-and-cherry-Maderia cake. It worked a treat and was utterly delicious. And I ate half the cake before the son even came home.

Top tip: there are few problems that are not better ruminated over with cake, get baking.

It's not over till it's over.....period.

Gentlemen, you might want to look away now, I’m going to talk about the menopause....…..

The first rule of being menopausal: you don’t talk about the menopause

Weird isn’t it ….I know it's getting a bit more fashionable….but the bottom line is no one wants to be menopausal. And no one wants to discuss it. It’s not sexy, it’s not glamorous, you don’t look good, you don’t feel good….by varying degrees. I had never even heard of perimenopausal until I was. These are just some ….. yes some …… of the symptoms: hot flushes, night sweats, anxiety, depression, mood swings, sleep problems, weight gain, wrinkles, thinning and greying hair, headaches, diminished sex drive, allergies, vaginal dryness, feelings of isolation, bloating, tiredness, and spots. And you lose your mind. Suddenly and without warning. It happened to me. I had it when I came in the house and by the time I’d walked into the kitchen I had no idea where I'd left it, why I was in there, where my keys were or what my name was. Or anyone else’s.

Why?

If you’re in a relationship then just at the point when your kids are flapping their wings, you are morphing into a grizzled-greying-exhausted-fat-sweating-husk of your former self, and your man will probably be eyeing up a Moto Guzzi and or a Ferrari, the twenty-something office temp called Carly, gym membership, chunky-silver-skull-themed jewellery and a piercing....or two. And if you’re single….. well good luck with that. Perhaps it should better be called: men-on-pause.......

Tracey Emin recently said the menopause is the beginning of dying and I have to agree with her, it can feel like that, it is the death of your reproductive years. According to Jill Shaw Ruddock, in her book: The Second Half of Your Life, we are all going to live a whole lot longer so we need to get through it and embrace the new found vim and vigour that could be waiting on the other side. Technically, the menopause is declared ‘official’ exactly 12 months to the day after your last menstrual cycle. The day after that…..you’re post-menopausal. However, the stop/start nature if this imprecise period, usually somewhere between 43-59, means you don’t know which period is your last period until you never have another one. And the symptoms may continue. The typical length of the whole transition is 5 years.

I hadn’t had a period for almost 2 years. Till Sunday. Just when I thought I was post-menopausal……..back to square one. But, oddly, I felt younger.

For those of you who have followed my recent theatrical adventures, thank you for your kind words ....good news, I have tickets for Love, Love, Love next week. Being old and irritable I rang the Royal Court again, to weep and gnash my teeth and the lovely girl said: oh yes we do have some tickets available for people who were cancelled. Really, I said, no one mentioned it before. Oh yes, she said, we didn’t then but we do now…..better seats but you can have them at the same price you originally paid…… result. Sometimes being old and irritable has it's moments.......

Top tip: Tracey Emin: She Lay Down Deep Beneath The Sea at Turner Contemporary, Margate.......go see her work the menopause.

Nothing more than feelings......

The sun is shining when I get out of bed this makes me feel happy.

I leave the house and head for the bus stop. The bus takes longer than the tube but is a much nicer commute: upstairs, at the front if I'm lucky. But I remember I have run out of money on my Oyster card. This makes me angry because I have to go to the tube to put money on it but I also feel relieved I didn't find out when boarding the bus.

The Victoria line is in turmoil. This makes me want to cry.

The journey makes me very hot.

And tiered because I have to respond to an email from the office pig. Responding to emails, I have learnt, is part of being in an office. This is all new to me, it made me feel anxious. It has kept me awake in the early hours all weekend. Feeling anxious.

My travelling companion arrives as I do. This makes me feel very happy. In the office I think I'm having a hot flush. My travelling companion goes into melt down because she's so hot. She is 33. I realise it's not a hot flush. It's just a hot day in a small room. This makes me feel better.

I compose an exquisite email. This makes me feel much better. But still quite hot.

My head phones finally part company from their wires. This makes me feel annoyed. I cannot cocoon myself with Lauren Lavern on 6 Music. This makes me throw the broken headphones on the floor and say:

"It's all gone wrong", quite loudly.

This makes my 22 year old camera boy and work colleague laugh. At me I think, not with me.

This makes me go to the bathroom and cry.

While in the bathroom I notice a spot on my chin. I haven't had a zit since I was 16. Now I have zits. Again. This makes me feel depressed.

I call my friend who has been on holiday in Ibiza and is now back.

"You're back," I say, "was it great?"

"Yes," she says, "It was great so I'm going back, for a week. Or two. Today."

This makes me feel envious. My friend married a rich man. Her second husband had serious money. Then she got a lovely boyfriend. Then she got breast cancer. Then she got better. But how much better? Who knows. I can't feel envious.

This makes me think about my friend who died recently from breast cancer, she's gone. This makes me feel shocked. Again.

I can't find my sunglasses. This makes me feel anoyed. I wonder if I put them on this morning. This makes me feel confused. I never leave home without them, especially if the sun is shining. This makes me feel panicked. They're Prada. Second hand Prada but Prada none the less. I can't stop thinking about my sun glasses. This makes me feel distressed.

I have to go scout a location in Camden. On the tube platform someone steps on my fit-flopped toe. I feel so angry I want to push him on to the tracks. The location has closed down. I feel like I want to scream.

I visit a friend who lives around the corner from where Amy Winehouse lived. I decide to walk past and pay my respects. People are sitting on the pavement in the sunshine. There are lots of flowers. Lots of empty bottles. Cans. Drawings. Cards. I feel weired. In my head I realise I am singing, 'I don't wanna go to rehab....' I feel sad. I hope Amy feels better.

At home my son greets me with a torrent of demands for money and reasons why he needs to go to Sheffield to work in a theatre he can't remember on a show he doesn't know because his friend is. I feel confused. I tell him to talk to his father. He does. He gets angry. He goes out. I feel like a bad mother. He comes back and says he's not going to Sheffield. I feel exhausted.

This is how it feels to be fifty.

Top tip: If you can, go see Beyond the Moulin Rouge: Toulouse Lautrec and Jane Avril at the Courtauld Gallery in London....spell binding...it will raise your spirits as high as a can-can-kick.

Magnetic Attraction

I haven't been sleeping very well recently: waking up in the early hours, brain on spin, wardrobe turned into a monster.....which I put down to the usual stuff: scarcity of work, lack of funds, Christmas coming. But apparently not. Apparently these are all symptoms of the menopause.

When, as a youth, I first heard about the menopause I thought 'whop-di-doo no more periods, bring it on', then I read the small print........... I mean, give us a break: hot flushes, anxiety, irritability, mood swings, weight gain to name but a few of the delights that await the aging woman. It's not enough that your body stars to ache and creak like an old leather sofa, hair greys and skin sags....no, there's the joy of menopause to look forward to, just for good measure. I mean, what's that all about?

I had hoped that by the time it was my turn to get irritable and fat there might be some sort of implant, a chip in your ear that just magicked it all away perhaps, but then I'm still waiting for the much promised silver suit, jet pack, lunch in a pill and the 3-day week.... So, with HRT off the menu due to health and safety, what does one do?

I have a friend who smokes. Openly and with relish. She is 53 and she firmly believes smoking relieves the symptoms of the menopause. She is collecting anecdotal evidence. Well that's her theory so she won't be giving up anytime soon. Another friend advises: wear layers and take Evening Primrose oil. I've tried Evening Primrose oil and felt not a thing. Take it for longer, she said. How long? It's expensive stuff when you add it to the endless carousel of supplements advised for those on the home stretch. Get a magnet, said a third. A magnet? A magnet. A Ladycare magnet, to be exact, is in fact 2 small magnets that fix together, one inside, one outside, your knickers, just below your belly-button. Wear it all the time, she says, it worked for me.

I imagine myself adhered to the fridge door by my pelvis, inexplicably drawn to railings and fast moving cars, cutlery flying round the kitchen like a scene from Carrie. A menopausal magnet? It may sound like pants but I've bought one anyway so we shall see.


Top tip: Put thermal innards in your shoes and make those kitten-heels cosy.