On the naming of cars.

I am firmly convinced that all cars have names. I don't think I always believed that, as far as I know my father's cars never had names, but all mine have had one. The name reflects the personality of the car; not just the model but its individual idiosyncrasies and history.

The first car I came across with a name was George. An unusual name, I've rarely come across male cars, but it was perfectly suited. George was an old, beaten up Ford estate belonging to a friend of mine when I was at university. As befitted it's name, the estate was an excellent work horse, taking us round the country with huge loads, uncomplainingly and with great regularity. At least in the main; I do remember the odd journey that failed to occur because George needed attention.

When I left University, I joined Plessey and moved into a shared house with 3 other graduates. Of the four of us, only one ran a car – a Datsun Cherry – and he took great exception to my attempt to name her. The others joined in the game, making odder and odder suggestions, until an ultimatum was issued, desist or no more lifts. So with some reluctance I referred to her as Cherie, at least out of hearing of her owner.

To be honest, my first car was an absolute disaster. She was a private sale and I thought my father-in-law knew enough to stop us buying a turkey. I was wrong. A Maestro that didn't drive too badly but kept breaking down, it became clear after a while that she must have been in a minor accident before we had her. But she had real personality and provided me with the ability to escape my hum-drum routine for first time. It did not take me long to discover her name; Matilda. She was titled after the eponymous anti-hero of Hilaire Belloc's poem because she told such dreadful lies.

Poor Matilda was written off in an accident; the other party took the blame, and the insurance payment covered the deposit for a brand new car. In the end, and after much consideration, I chose a Renault Clio. It had come down to a choice between the Renault and a Peugeot 205 junior. The Clio won on styling, or as I put it, because it was so cute. She deserved a name that reflected her French heritage but also the fact that she was little and nippy. I welcomed Chloe with arms open for the relative quality of the drive and the ease of maintenance.

When the time for the final PCP payment came she was traded up for a newer model. The new Clio was a little more powerful and more fully speced. By the way, why is it, every time you up spec a car the salesman feels the need to tell you “a larger engine won't help you pull away from the lights faster”? But still she was every bit a beautiful lady, almost a twin to the previous car, and so she was known as Chloe Two.

And now we come to my current car. When we looked at replacing Chloe (Two) my daughter had grown into a young woman, with the need to have her friends ferried round in a little more comfort than would be afforded by a super-mini. I test drove a Scenic, and fell in love. With the high driving position and massive road presence, she was my tank. I knew her name before she came home: Max. Most people assume that's a male name but, in fact, she's named after comic book character Maxine Manchester. For those who don't know, and it's probably most of you, she's a cyborg, using a nuclear power cell to support some significant weaponry. And she's really more of an anti-hero.

With time, and like her namesake, my Max has been tamed; or perhaps my driving has improved. It's time I start looking not for a replacement car but for a second car. One that reflects the older me. I shall buy a performance car simply for the enjoyment of driving. Who knows, I might even take her on track days. But I tell you what, I shan't be buying any car if I can't determine its name. Am I odd? Surely, but would you invite a total stranger into your house?

Bruised and Bowed

Yesterday was a strange sort of day. Now I know my blog is not normally a diary, nor is it really one today, but I hope this tale of two strange events will give you both something to think about and cause to laugh.

My morning started with a walk into work, as it so often does these days. On the way I have to cross the road junction of the A4 by the HTV studios. This has one of the most complex traffic flows I've ever come across, which is odd as there are only really 3 roads meeting there. I was caught on one of the islands in the middle, waiting for the cross traffic, when I realised that the car turning right had stuck at the lights. As the car behind him beeped and the driver got out of the car, it was obvious some help was needed, so I offered to push.

But where could we move the car, with the traffic flowing all around us? Of course, there was the island I was on, which becomes the central reservation for the dual carriage way. I went to the front of the car, with the driver steering and well as pushing, but a mondeo is hefty without its power-steering. We had to rock it several times to get the rear wheels on the curb. Meanwhile the car behind manoeuvred round us to catch the next set of lights.

But now the car is on a slope; only a little one, perhaps 5%, but it makes pushing it that much harder. We try the rocking routine again, but this time the slope helps the car as it runs forward. Damn, even at 1-2 miles an hour a car hurts when it hits your knees! After the second time I realise that I'm regretting offering to help but I'm not going to do the female wimpy thing and give up. By now the lights have cycled again.

It is only at this point that the guy in the next car in line and the trucker behind him get out to help us. Even with all four of us it takes two or three attempts to finish getting the car on the reservation. But it's done and there won't be any more bruises on my knees. So I set off to work again, having had a cursory thank you. But as I looked back, the driver was shiftily taking a petrol can out of the boot. Really, I can sympathise running out of fuel – I've very nearly done it myself – but what annoyed me was that he'd just driven past a minimum of two garages. Well, his problem, I guess.

Of course, walking into work, involves walking back. Now the clocks have changed, it's all in the dark, but I quite enjoy that, apart from the fact it's very hard to check on the make of any unrecognised cars passing by. By co-incidence I had just crossed the junction where I'd had my adventure in the morning, when I saw what I thought was a broken down car on the other side of the road. I wasn't going to help this time, mainly because, in the rush hour, crossing the A4 at random would be suicidal, but I was intrigued. And this was my downfall, literally.

I was so busy staring across the road that I missed the turning into BKs. My toes caught the curb and I started to fall. I kept trying to catch myself, extending my stride and throwing my shoulders back. However, I wear a backpack to and from work and the weight of this was just the final straw. I collapsed just like a plank, hands first, but they didn't slow me enough to stop my face hitting concrete. There was no-one close by, so I just lay there for 10 seconds to regain my composure before standing up.

But as I made it to my feet, a gentleman caught up with me and asked if I was OK. I assured him I was, that I had just tripped because of my own carelessness. He was quite relieved and said it looked just as if I'd fainted. He was so kind and walked along side me for a minute, to make sure I was fine, before forging ahead – as a short-arse I can only walk slowly.

So there you go, I survived the day bruised, with a cut lip and without my dignity. But I feel the wheel of fate had completed its turn. In the morning I had done my best to be a good Samaritan, by the evening I had relied on the comfort of strangers.

Shopping in the Community.

The district of Bristol in which I live has become a trendy, local arts centre over the last few years. But this is a real change from how things used to be. Twenty years ago there were a few cafes, lots of rather seedy pubs, the housing was becoming run down and the local shopping centre was dying. The shops were closing down or becoming charity shops. There didn't seem to much sense of community – or, at least to be accurate, you only fitted in the community if you had been born and bred there.

Of course, back then I didn't really notice. I was just married, we'd bought our own house and there was a baby on the way. What with a full time job as well, I had no time for forming roots in the neighbourhood. When my daughter was born, things became even more hectic, despite having a nanny. Weekends had to contain all the family activities that for a full-time mum would occur throughout the week, and shopping was definitely bottom of the pile. It normally got squeezed in at a supermarket on the way home from work. Really the only neighbours we knew were the couple next door, who were so friendly.

Once my baby started to attend school you'd have thought I'd manage to start forming local connections. But, when she was too old to be looked after my her nanny, she attended an after school club. I did get to know the mums of two or three of her best friends that she visited regularly, but mainly in a cursory way. Even after the opening of a local community centre, there still wasn't much that we would do as a family, so we still failed to fit in.

Despite working full time when my daughter was little, I did put my career in second place to family. So when she because a latch-key kid at secondary school, I finally managed to find those extra hours that allowed me to develop my career. Unfortunately, because I'd always spoilt both husband and daughter, they never picked up any of the slack when it came to doing chores. My life became very focused on work and family, finally to the exclusion of all else. I even lost touch with the group of friends I'd made at University.

So, you say, what have the last three paragraphs got to do with the theme of the piece? Well, my daughter has grown up. Most of her year is now spent at University and when she comes home, she is now an independent lady. In my mid-forties, my husband and I have regained our independence and it has made all the difference. The area we live in has blossomed all around us while we were so busy just living and it is now a vibrant, active community, in which all people can belong.

The weekends being our own again, we can get up late on a Saturday, having breakfast at one of the many local cafés before visiting the butchers, where we are know by name and they sometimes produce special batches of gluten-free sausages, if we ask. At the deli, they used to ask how the house extension was getting on, and, since one of the owners also has a wheat intolerance, they can point us to interesting new lines to suit our needs. Most of our fruit and veg are collected on a Thursday from the community centre, where a local, organic farm run a box scheme; but we top it up from the high-street green-grocer, who has a fair organic range.

If I don't feel like cooking any night, there must be a dozen restaurants within walking distance where we can eat anything from new English to Indian, Turkish to pan-Asian. There are café-bars as well as the pubs, some of which retain their old character and others of which are marketed at the new set of 'imported' inhabitants.

Every year there's an arts trail, in which you can wander round the neighbourhood and view the work of the local artists, often in their own houses. And over the last few years, I've noticed that we've established contact with more of the people on our street. I've got to own up here and say we're not the drop in drinks sort of people, but it's good that I can stop for a chat in the street and find out what's going on. What a difference a few years have made!

The Water Dilemma

We are all advised to drink a minimum of 2 litres of fluid a day to ensure good health. From experience, I can also tell you that it aids weight loss. So, what should we drink; after all, there's a awful lot of choice out there? We are told that milk, squash, juice and teas are all Okay. But because they're diuratics, some people exclude alcohol and coffee from the list of acceptable thirst quenchers. And as far as I'm concerned, because I'm a fussy so-and-so, that leaves water. All fine and well, I don't actually have that much trouble drinking 2 litres of water a day, or even 3 litres when I've been exercising at lot. So what is my gripe?

The problem I have is with my green concience. You see, the tap water in Bristol is absolutely vile. I know that it is clean and safe; but the flavour of the residual chemicals left over from the treatments making it so is beyond belief. The water board, who for some reason are very proud of what comes out of the taps, advise customers who dislike the flavour to pour water into a jug or bottle, aerate it (by shaking or stirring) and chill it for a couple of hours to allow these chemicals to evaporate. Okay-dokey, but there are two problems with this. First, I only enjoy water at room temperature, or even slightly above during the winter. Second, and this is the killer, it doesn't really work.

I came to the only conclusion that I could; I treat myself to bottled water. Which results in huge amounts of plastic waste. Thanks to the enlightened policies of Blair's Britain, Bristol council doesn't recycle plastics, they are too light apparently. So I take the dead bottles to the supermarket, where recycling facilites are provided in the car park. Now, I haven't done this chore all week, partly due to the fact that I travel by car a lot less frequently than I used to. As a result I am looking at a mountain of plastic and I'm appauled. Just in water there are ten 2 litre bottles and around fifteen 1/2 litre bottles. Surely this is a joke; but if so it is a remarkably unfunny one.

I need to salve my concience and I am trying to work out what to do. Changing what I drink is no good. The only thing that comes out of taps is water; everything else produces waste packaging. I suppose I could try and get used to the taste of tap water - but 20+ years of experience in childhood and beyond tells me this isn't really a solution. I have tried active charcoal filters, and they work for a while, but keeping them topped up never seems to work. And every time you forget, you have to replace the catridge. Work use permanent silver filters which sound like an answer, but believe me, they might as well not be there. Besides, they chill the water.

So I'm looking for suggestions. Does anyone know how to get a decent glass of clean, fresh water without the waste?

There's a rat shaped hole in my life.

Ni, my daughter's rat, has just passed on to join his brother in the sky. Don't try and read anything into the phraseology of that statement – it's just a cliché to let you know that I had him put down this afternoon. But that sounds so cold and uncaring. In fact, it was a decision that was probably 24 hours overdue and had caused much heartache. But that time gave us a final chance to chat and re-assure each other. And I don't mean talking to my daughter, she's away at Uni these days, but with Ni.

Like so many fancy rats, he developed a tumour. It is part of their heritage, as they are descended from lab rats, who were explicitly bred to be susceptible to cancer. The truly amazing fact is that Ni survived over two months with a growth that ended up as large as his head. And, until the last two or three days, he lived a bright and happy life.

His brother had succumbed to a weak heart some 6 month previously, so Ni relied on contact with us. This was problematical at first, as Ichi has been the dominant rat and Ni was shy, declining to be removed from his cage. But he learned to trust us and would come out most nights, when Karen or I fed and cleaned him. He often came out for longer periods, too, and wasn't seriously adverse to being bathed. In fact, he was meticulous about being clean. And when Karen wasn't at home, I gave him his daily chocolate treat during early morning chats as I got up.

And Ni was remarkable in that he could read you mood. Now, I'm aware that the sceptical amongst you will say that I was anthropomorphising. But, more likely, he was using animal instincts to ensure he stayed out of trouble. If I was short tempered he would stay out of the way. But oddly enough he was most likely to want a chat on days I was sad or lonely.

Now he's gone. Tonight I will not have to select some fresh fruit or vegetable to add to his dried feed. His cage, which was just beginning to rust, is in a skip; the bits and pieces that were his living room, bed and toys are all cleaned and packed up. No one will nuzzle my face or clean my hands. I shall miss him.

There will be new rats in the house and this time they will be mine. But not yet. It is time to grieve for Ichi and Ni. In the new year I shall be looking for some kittens and a new cage.

Oh, what a beautiful morning

Over the last month or two, I’ve been boosting my exercise levels by walking into work, a 7.5 mile round trip, which takes about 1 ¼ hrs each way. The route I take was originally chosen because it is the shortest and half of it is on the flat, a miracle in Bristol. But it is all down major roads, most of it the A4 and you’d think it was the most uninspiring walk imaginable. But it isn’t.

I start off along the river and the trees and bushes hide a surprising amount of wild life. At this time of year, the birds are singing fit to bust and it’s fun to hear the odd alarm call moving up-river ahead of you. And thanks to the clocks going back, I am having a second chance to see the sunrise colour the clouds; starting off grey, moving through hues of pink and orange, glowing briefly golden before they transform into their daytime white fluffyness.

Just before I join the A4, I pass Bart’s spices and here is an assault on your sense of smell. The overall impression is usually of curry, because there is such a mix of herbs and spices in the air. But each day as you gently sniff, there is a different predominant odour; today black pepper tickled the back of my nose.

Next I pass Fowler’s – Bristol’s biggest bike shop – and if I have time I can stare longingly at some great machine or other, triggering dreams of riding on a race track. Further up the A4 there’s a second bike shop and on the return walk, some of the big beasts are outside on the pavement, tempting one to stop to find out more. So far I’ve resisted the temptation, but it gets harder every day.

But here the easy walk finishes as do most of the distractions. There are two hills between here and work and mainly Edwardian housing. But by this time the rush hour is well under way. The weight of traffic has increased and the cars are no longer rushing passed at speeds above the limit but are beginning to form impatient queues. And this is the new point of interest.

I have come to the conclusion that there are just too many people with more money than sense, because every day I can spot at least one high performance or supercar – quite often a handful – in the remaining mile that I walk. I know I have every intention of joining that fraternity sometime in the not too distant future, but it stuns me that so many people drive them into the city during the rush hour. Yesterday’s car of interest was a TVR T350 – I’ll have to research the car I drooled over this morning, I have no idea what it was, only that I want one because it was so beautiful.

The last leg of my journey, in good weather, consists of a short hike through a park and field that back onto the trading estate where I work. Some days there’s a horse or two in the field, other days you can watch the birds gather. Today the plants were all covered in rime and looked so pretty, it was a shame to go indoors, despite the temperature.

So, what is the point of this rambling monologue? Well, nothing I suppose, except to say that you can find beauty all around you – you just have to open your eyes to the opportunities.

My name is Soo and I'm fat.

Well, not as fat as I used to be, and that is to be the crux of this post.

I was what was known in my infancy as a “healthy child”; slightly chubby but active. At age 5 I was seriously ill and was put on a low-fat, high-carb diet which accentuated this more. I ceased to be as active and suffered from depression from my pre-teens onwards, due to an early and untreated onset of puberty. Secondary school was all about academic subjects that were vital to my chosen career and during this time my weight became a serious concern.

The only point from then on that I successfully lost any weight was during my courtship. This was one of the happiest times of my life and the depression cleared for a short while. But this was to be short lived, as I gained excessive weight during my only pregnancy and suffered what was diagnosed as post-natal depression. It was, however, just a return to the normal state of affairs. My weight gently climbed and eventually it triggered the onset of type II diabetes.

Eventually, by the beginning of this year, all control of the diabetes had collapsed and, despite my being 7kg less than my heaviest weight, my consultant began to talk about surgical intervention. Now, oddly enough, I had considered asking for a stomach staple as a quick fix solution. But when it became a real probability, I didn't fancy going under the knife. So I buckled down to some serious dieting and exercise for the first time in my life.

And it's working. I've lost a further 17kg, my diabetes is well controlled with fewer drugs than previously. I'm 3 dress sizes smaller and my resting heart rate has dropped from 68 to 60. But recently I discovered the sting in the tail of weight loss.

It appears that all that excess weight was a shield; a way to make myself invisible and undesirable, to hide the real me from everyone else. And, as the weight has gone, I have thrown away that armour and the depression, which had been in remission for several years, has come back with a vengeance. So now I have had to face all the causes of my insecurity and depression. And it hurts.

To discuss these causes now would make this post far too long and some of them have been touched upon previously, but point is this. In all the years the medical profession has tried to get me to loose weight, they never considered connecting the depression and the excess weight. No-one had ever warned me that weight loss might (or should that be will) lead to psychological issues. Without an active support network of friends, the recent set back would have been considerably worse and would have lead to my giving up the diet and regaining the weight.

So, I ask all of you who read this to consider any friends you have that are loosing weight. Remember that they will also have to face the reason for their weight gain and that in most cases it will not simply be greed or ignorance. Make sure that you provide them with positive reassurance and offer them a shoulder to cry on when they get down. We can all do it, but only with the help of our friends.