Sing a song of substance and get a pocketful of 'why not?'

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2013/may/19/clinical-anxiety-is-becoming-a-worry

Disclaimer: I know that anxiety and depression are no laughing matters, I have been there myself - but they ought to be - stay with me! 

In an article written by Huma Qureshi in the Guardian (20/5/2013), I read that one in twenty adults have GAD generalised anxiety disorder http://www.patient.co.uk/health/Anxiety-Generalised-Anxiety-Disorder.htm. Ye-GAD! Quite a sadistic statistic! Why are we all so much more anxious in these modern, frenetic, non-stop times? I am sure you could all give me a hundred reasons, but let us narrow it down to these three things, of which I shall be the mistress: we do not go to church anymore (less - 'there is something out there bigger than me' - reflective time); we do not say what we want to say (bottling up frustration until it explodes - inside us - making us ill; or onto our spouse or kids - messy); we are not silly enough and are therefore not laughing enough - and more on this topic later.

Depression is different to anxiety, which, according to the psychiatrist, Dr David Baldwin, http://www.southampton.ac.uk/medicine/about/staff/dsb1.page is "characterised by a sense of pessimism about the past, whereas with anxiety, they focus on the future and what hasn't happened yet." Couldn't have put it better myself David. The article points out that antidepressants are being used in a generalised way to treat both conditions when CBT http://www.nhs.uk/conditions/Cognitive-behavioural-therapy/Pages/Introduction.aspx could be used to treat GAD more effectively. Oh GAD. Having taught art and creative writing in a therapeutic context to sufferers of depression, anxiety and other mental health conditions, I understand CBT is very helpful, given its strategies for helping one manage negative thinking, but Dr David Baldwin suggests a very simple 'trick' for anxiety: making lists. 

Dr David says... 

"Start the day with a list of what you have to do and tick them off as you go. It gives you a sense of progress and that relieves worrying. Try to limit your worrying to certain times of the day. It sounds bizarre, but if you only allow yourself to worry for half an hour a day at, say, 8am, you will learn to put your worries to one side and get on with everything else."

Making lists can stop you from listing, in the stopping you from 'tipping over' into being anxious all the time way, but I would like to suggest some further (and more fun!) strategies for those of us who suffer from anxiety:

Emily says...

Empty your head:

In my experience negative thoughts attack us most vehemently first thing in the morning. Keep a notebook by your bed. As a negative thought floats into your thinking like a toxic balloon, pop it by writing it down.

For example, substitute...'I am hopeless at my job, I will never get anywhere.'

For: I am good at tennis and making puddings...or whatever you are good at. If you can't think of anything make some activities up and then imagine yourself doing them.

Screw or tear up the paper containing the negative thoughts and chuck it in the bin, or at the wall, or mirror, or whatever (?!) and pop the good stuff that you have written down, into your pocket or handbag to meditate on during your day.

Sing a song of substance and get a pocketful of 'why not?':

If the thought  'I always screw up', floats into your boat...

Sing (Yes out loud! If your partner or kids cannot tolerate this, do it in the shower, or in the hall cupboard) this: 'I helped my boss Josie fix her bike when she had a flat tyre last 

weekend. I will probably get a prom-o-o-tio-on...'

If you can manage to sing it in a ludicrous comic voice and you get a laugh out of it, so much the better. Consider that career in stand up you always wanted to do. I'm serious.

Wiggle it just a little bit:

Get out of bed and do a silly dance. Imagine the negative words falling to the floor with each wiggle. Chant the good stuff (preferably out loud) as you do. At least think or talk the good 'self-talk' silently to yourself.

If you would like further strategies, or if you would like me to come and do and anti-anxiety workshop with you and some friends, contact me.

Buy one get one free and feel doubly good about it afterwards!

Have you noticed that when you 'buy one, get one free,' at the supermarket, what you get is double produce that is 'on the turn,' for the worse, be they slushy strawberries or soft oranges. The result is that you feel ripped off and possibly sick. Until the end of June I have decided to give away a copy of After the Rains with every copy bought via my shop, with a double donation going to HOPEHIV, Zimbabwe. Simply purchase a book in the usual way (online) here: http://www.emilybarroso.com/shop and I will send you two copies: one for you, you avid book lover you, and one for your booky friend (they will both be sent to the one address). Nothing soft or slushy about it - the book, or the organisation, please see their website for more : HOPEHIV supports kids who have been given the toughest of tough starts. In communities ground down by poverty and shredded by AIDS, a generation of young people are growing up without parents to nurture and protect them. Yet many show extraordinary spirit, resilience and talent. We see that, given the opportunity, they have the potential to change Africa’s future from the bottom up.

http://hopehiv.org/

Tales of extraordinary kindness

Writing continues unabated in my kitchen.
The toothpicks holding my eyelids up have been photo-shopped

A little while ago I lost my baby son's red medical book somewhere between my flat and Bloomsbury. A week or so later, the book was sent to me along with a letter to my son that stated where the finder had found it (Gower street) and suggesting that my son give it to his parents for safe keeping. It would likely be safer were my son to take care of it himself. I was struck by the kindness of this stranger and by his beautiful handwriting. Before writing back to express my thanks, I googled him - he has an unusual double-barrelled name - and discovered he is a well known British actor. Perhaps he was stepping out of RADA when he stepped on the red book. 

There are two Zimbabwean men whom I have yet to meet, who have gone out of their way to help me get my book "After the Rains" to more readers, particularly in Zimbabwe where I most long for it to be read. The first, Roger, works with books in Zimbabwe. He has introduced me to many of his contacts who have gone on to help me and has selflessly dispensed frank advice from his cache of expert knowledge. The second, Jason, runs a Zimbabwean website. He has similarly helped me, with a review and even running a competition for the book. Another lovely Zimbabwean woman, Les, offered to stock my books in her shop in Zimbabwe in order to support another Zimbabwean charity. Given it is a feat similar to roller-skating up Snowdon via Crib Goch to get ones books into Zimbabwe, I was overjoyed by her offer. She too has gone out of her way for me in a variety of ways. I recently met Les, what a hoot, her kindness has led to friendship. 

Six weeks ago my baby son was born. Friends from church immediately offered to help. Two friends, Cleverson and Fatima regularly brought round food to cook for us. Fatima has been coming round every week to cook delicious food. When she leaves, the children rush in to see what delights are in store. Cleverson is very busy running the church venue in Soho amongst many other things and Fatima is in the midst of exams and assignments but they chose to help us nonetheless.

Why am I writing about these kindnesses? Kindness seems to be a rarer and rarer demonstrative gift. So often I am struck by the lack of it: on the tubes and the buses, in the shops where people seem to be impatiently focussed solely on their own needs. On the roads fellow drivers are mostly pushy and selfish. Thus when kindness is demonstrated, it glitters like gold and ought to be celebrated. If only our streets could be paved with it.

Nutty Pesto Pasta (posh version, super posh version and student version)

I have decided to publish a recipe every now and again (I daren't pretend I will stick to some weekly routine) due to friends often asking for recipes after they come round for a meal - yurrer, yurrer, I hear you say, all 'cooks' who publish recipes state that they have been forced to do so by popular demand. Well in my case it's true! I never use recipes in the traditional sense (unless I am baking Mary), rather, I tend to read recipes and magpie bits of them and then make the rest up as I go along. I began experimenting with cooking (amongst other less healthy things) as a teenager and it (and I) grew from there. Our friend Roy, doodler extraordinaire and head honcho from bubble up tv http://www.bubbleup.tv/came round last Tuesday and asked for the recipe for Nutty Pesto Pasta - easier than pie - pasta is always easier than pie. Pie is not easy, never mind the saying. Here goes:

Posh version: Basically you need good quality pasta - I like the giant shells as when you lift one to your ear, you can hear Lake Como calling you - a jar of pesto and some cashews or hazels or almonds. Use about a jar per 500g of dry weight posh-looking pasta - crush the nuts and sprinkle over. Voila! The pesto idea belongs to the Italians, the pasta, the arguably the Chinese and the Italians too. Why not get some Italians and Chinese in a room with some Chianti and whatever Chinese booze and get them to argue the toss? There are three versions: posh, super posh and student, to suit all budgets!

- Boil the pasta until it is el dente (not 'all mental' students, this means cooked but with a little 'bite' in the middle). I don't know how long for, I never time things (unless I am baking Mary) follow the instructions on the back of the packet.

- Chuck the pesto in - all of it. Nothing worse than a mean coating - take note skinny chicks with no hips.

- Crush a couple of handfuls of nuts with a pestle and mortar if you have one, or put them in a tea towel and bash them with a rolling pin until they are partly crushed - not smashed to smithereens like Aunt Agatha's bowl was last Christmas, the demise of which you blamed on the dog.

Super posh version: Make your own pesto!

You will need an electric mixer for this one, plus fresh basil, pine nuts (or cashews)

- 2 good handfuls of basil leaves

- 2 handfuls of pine nuts - or nuts of your choice

- A teaspoon of crushed garlic - or less if you are not so into it/not into it

- Salt 'n pepper 

- A squeeze of lemon juice (put Squeeze on the cd player too - Cool for Cats is the business) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pblSU5M1d1Y

- 3/4 hearty slugs of good quality olive oil from the Tuscan hills (or wherever, Waitrose as we are super posh, will do)

Chuck it all in the blender or mini Kenwood or whatever Delia or Nigella are using and blend until it is smooth but still textured - not so textured as to be like the pebbledash that commoners are prone to coating their bungalows with, but not so smooth as to be like the wallpaper paste that the builders are using to wallpaper the drawing room in that peacock design.

Put several tablespoons of it on your posh pasta. Artfully place a few basil leaves on the top and hey pesto! Have Champagne or some kind or something not too Chablis that has undertones (another blinding band) of gooseberries like cousin Mildred. Students, you must content yourselves with leery undertones but the Undertones are for everyone! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAtUw6lxcis

Student version: It's Friday night, you will have the munchies for whatever reason. Divvy up what's left of your cash after you have visited the student bar. Snaffle some more from your drunk mates. Hit the 24 hour Tesco or Sainsbury's (not literally, try to walk straight). Grab a cheap own brand packet of pasta, ditto a jar of pesto, if you can stretch to it, buy some nuts - you may have to use unsalted peanuts - comfort yourself that now that you are at uni you will have a stab at earning more than peanuts depending on who gets in at the next election. Go straight home, follow instructions above. Try to keep it down, the noise too. Working folk are trying to sleep you know.

P.S Snack time tip! Buy a big bag of cashews and sautee (fry dear students) some in a pan with a slash (not that kind students) of oil and half a teaspoon of salt and pepper each and a good English summer drizzle of honey. Toss well to coat and slightly brown, then turn into a rustic terra cotta dish and serve when cool with beer or wine. You can do this to the nuts before you put them on the pesto if you can be bovvered.

Frazzle-headed looneys

Hello folks. I'm back. For all of you who prayed for me and sent messages of good will, I send you a jolly sackful of goody-gum-drop thanks. I had a ridiculously easy experience delivering number four. It was absurdly easy - by comparison - of course it still hurt like the Dickens but nothing like an induced, days long eek-stravaganzoid. Me, the husband and kids even took the bus to St Mary's - it seemed easier than taking the car and trying to find parking, even with the contractions. As we found ourselves without childcare, the 3 year old and the 1 year old came too. It was over in a handful of hours and the kids and husband went home to bed. I was wheeled to the wards where I was given a bed opposite a lady who spoke 24/7 on a phone and another lady who had a bus load of relations who stayed all night chattering like sparrows, scrap that, like crows. I had a histrionic moment when I demanded that either the relations, the mobile phone or I be moved. Suitably for someone who was showing signs of going round the twist, I was shown to an almost empty ward opposite, where I could not believe my lucid luck, until it filled up with wailing women and screaming babies, including mine, in the early hours. Still those few hours of silence were golden, GOLDEN, like the locks of my other two little ones when spread angelically on their pillows as they slumber, their sweet breath...do they slumber? Am I the Easter Bunny? No one slumbers in this house anymore. Sometimes my husband and I just look at each other over a room that is so messy as to have become unidentifiable as a room of any description at all, while one holds the screaming toddler and the other holds the screaming three week old as we laugh like a pair of frazzle-headed looneys. My husband has become just as forgetful and scatty as me, but together our half brains make some kind of whole. But we feel very blessed, in a slightly maddened, zonked out sort of way. What am I going to do when he goes back to work?

40 tweaks?

Cakes by Cynthia: http://www.delightsbycynthia.com

According to my doctors up at a central London hospital (NHS), I have three days to go until my fourth baby is born. They calculated my 'due' date by asking me some cyclical questions and coming up with answers on a cardboard speed dial date calculator thingy and by giving me a scan at twenty weeks. Neither of these fact detectors strike me as exact science, particularly since, in the past, I've known darned well exactly when I fell pregnant and my date did not tally with theirs by three days. Nonetheless I was subjected to an agonising twenty-four hour induction sans an epidural (too freaky to be paralysed when giving birth) followed by a graphic aftermath that I will protect my male readers from visualising. 

On that, first occasion, the consultants at the Royal Free, who just happened to be trialling a new induction procedure, told me that they would not be responsible for the outcome based on my decision. This sounds reasonable, but they made it clear to me what they wanted me to understand that outcome was to be. Meantime, the midwife urged me not to let the consultants 'bully me' into being induced. The thing is, given that it was my first child, they did scare me. The three-step procedure, (again I will spare you the details) was pretty brutal because my son was just not quite ready to come. On two occasions, things became quite dangerous for him and for me. Afterwards my son and me fell into an exhausted twelve-hour sleep. What newborn sleeps for twelve hours? It took me a very long time to heal from that one and I remain convinced that if they had just let me go another couple of days, my son would have been born naturally. 

Of course I am grateful that the outcome was a beautiful, healthy child, but the point is, I felt I was denied the natural, beautiful experience birth can be, because I was so highly interfered with. At the UCL with baby two and three I was also induced, though with my second, my daughter, I managed to have the serene, quiet, calm experience I had wanted before despite the twelve hour induction that I was again pressed to have. My last experience - nineteen months ago, was horrendous. My second son was on his back and not ready to come. I had a manipulative, bullying midwife who kept insisting that I have an epidural. She kept telling me that an epidural was the only way forward for me. She kept threatening that unless I saw the anaesthetist straight away, he would be in theatre and I would not be able to have an epidural that I did not want. The implication was that things were going to get worse and then I would be without help. 

Twelve hours hooked up to a drip at a forty-five degree angle when you prefer to move around when you are in extreme pain is torturous, but in the end I was frightened enough to agree to the epidural, though even as I was having it, (which was not straightforward) I was thinking, that even though the pain of a back to back labour was extraordinary, I had done induced (artificially induced, and therefore more painful contractions) for hours on end (twelve before, more previously) on two other occasions and if only I had been able to talk to a doctor first, to find out whether I had other pain relief options, I could have persevered. Afterwards she said that perhaps she should not have pushed me into having it. I was flabbergasted. And bloody annoyed frankly. Again, the incompetent aftermath left me with a legacy that I am still suffering with.

Anyway, I have been told at my third London hospital (nameless for now!) that they will want to induce me on Sunday - my 'due' date. I meet with the doctors today and intend to ask for a reprieve of at least a few days in the hopes that I may, just this once, have a natural birth. So far the staff have been lovely. Obviously if they convince me that the baby or me are in mortal danger, I will probably succumb. Meantime, if you are reading this, please pray new little chap arrives without interference! Also, please let me know what you have experienced regarding the forty weeks and induction, I do love hearing back from people.

Peter Hitchens is right...about grammar schools and more

Look away now if you do not want to see me bang on about British education some more. Like my new friend Peter. Peter does not know he is my new friend, but Peter, in this political age of utter nonsense, where the top three parties are a farce to be heckled with, I, like so many others, just look for people who write sense, so that they can not feel so...alone. In a recent blog about the UK school system, I gave an example of a Labour politician I had encountered who had patted himself on the back for sending his kids to state school, when the state in question was not 'in a state' at all as it were - scroll down for Peeing through the eye of a needle...if you did not read it. Now it seems that Nicked Cleggers is clogging down Hypocrisy Road following the directions that Tony Flair (for self promotion and pocket lining) Dianne Abbott (not Holy, but holey in policy) and others have mapped out - that of sending their children to schools that are either private (Di-hard with a vengeance), when they are supposed to be against private education, or state schools that really aren't. It seems the Clegg kids are going to the London Oratory which is about as egalitarian as Cambridge. See Peter's blog for more: http://hitchensblog.mailonsunday.co.uk/

Most people seem to hate Peter Hitchens but I like him enormously because he speaks SENSE and thus, of course, he is not fashionable, like say Sandi Toksvig, who really is a nasty mare in a Teddy Bear suit, but does not realise it because there is so much stuffing in her head. During a recent News Quiz chaired by Sandi Toxic on Radio 4, the education minister was vilified as a foetus in a jar. Pots and kettles rattled. I had listened to this programme and this incident really wound me up, it was just so gratuitously nasty. Peter had noticed too, and blogged about the nastiness prevalent on the left - you'll have to pootle about in his archives for that one - well worth reading some of the other stuff too. This does seem to be the case. Certainly with the BBC who only seem to roll on the left hand side of the bed. Can't folks belong to differing sides (not that the sides really differ much at all anymore) of the political divide and not savage each other? Satire, (what happened to that level of elevated wit?) is a good and necessary mirror to hold up for our politicians and those that are given too much media power that it goes to their woolly heads, but nastiness for the sake of it is just not clever.

The 'foetus in a jar' type of 'joke' (who came up with that tired, base joke anyhow? Note to TNQ: hire some people who can write original funny jokes) espoused by Toksvig, is part of the bullying culture of this country and is particular to nasty public schoolboys and girls - yes you Sandi. Caveat: I am married to a public schoolboy so obviously I am generalising. Another caveat: I am not completely against private education, there are elements I do not despise, but they do not include the buying of places, in various ways, as I have previously blogged. I intend to educate my younger children very privately (at home). Har har! Back to TNQ. When Gove was defended by another guest (can't remember who, but he was most likely seated on the right), he was arrogantly stamped down. Why is Gove hated so much? For trying to reform our unjust, increasingly absurd education system? He was forced to back down on his laudable attempts to do something about our not good enough GCSE system and introduce the more rigorous English Baccalaureate system. So beat him over the head with a skillet! Plain vitriol is just vitriol when not dispensed with satire. 

'http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/tv/news/sandi-toksvig-ruffles-feathers-by-suggesting-duchess-of-cambridge-has-no-opinions-and-is-very-jane-austen-8528900.html

For the sake of your own head turn this woman off unless you are interested in hearing how she fancies Cheryl Cole because she has 'opinions' (on what? Simon Cowell? How bouffant her hair is?) What the L'Oreal is going on out there people? Yesterday we are told that Sandi Toxic does not like Kate because she does not have 'opinions' (or maybe because she does not fancy her?). I am no hot royalist, but has Sandi ever sat down with Kate over some cream buns and chatted to her to find out if she actually has any opinions? Has it entered her head that maybe Kate saves her opinions for when her and Will are taking the mickey out of the likes of her in bed at night because they can't be spouting opinions Willy-nilly given who they are. Duh! Look what happened to Princess Di - who did have opinions. "It's all very Jane Austen," Sandi blunders on about Kate. Pardon? Did JA not have opinions? Did her headstrong women not have opinions? Parp, Sandi. Women (and men) need to stop being so nasty about each other left and right in the media to get attention and start using their heads instead. And yes, I realise I have just had a go at Sandi, but she needs to stop. She's like an out of control cart- horse (see how it's viral?), meanly (and unfunnily) clattering over our nations media. 

Thanks for the antidote Peter.