I was reading a review of and then tracked down Disease avoidance: from animals to culture this week. Not, I hasten to add, the full journal. PhD I may be but I’m not up to date with current thinking in my own field let alone my specialty and merely picked my way through bits of it. Although, one might argue (and I have myself effectively argued in the past) that diversity of knowledge gathering is important. Anyway, the crux of the topic is of significance interest to social scientists as behavioural disease avoidance is something rooted in our area of cultural consideration and it’s exciting to think about evolutionary effectiveness. It got me thinking about risk. 

As the abstract to the Introduction, Proactive strategies to avoid infectious disease, states: In humans, disease avoidance is based upon cognition and especially the emotion of disgust. Human disease avoidance is not without its costs. There is a propensity to reject healthy individuals who just appear sick – stigmatization – and the system may malfunction, resulting in various forms of psychopathology. At the simplest level, when choosing our mates we take a variety of risks. As the Swedish quartet say, we ask our potential lovers: Take a chance on me.
The song has the fairly poignant lines of ‘If you’re all alone when the pretty birds have flown, honey I’m still free.’ For me this brings to mind someone fighting something her desired lover has intrinsically picked up upon. I don’t think the character is unpretty (sorry, any excuse to link to a favourite song) so much as she doesn’t differ sufficiently from him in ‘antigen-coding genes.’

Ok so perhaps my attitudes could be argued by many as being pre-emptively defensive but I really think unrequited love is unrequited for a reason. Sure we can deny our feelings and perhaps the Fanny’s of the Mansfield Park’s can get their Edmund’s but for the most part I think when we’re attracted to someone and it isn’t reciprocated then they are picking up on something we aren’t.

Significantly, I see these sensitivities to appropriate mates as being wider than just the couple involved; hence the success of many arranged marriages. But it can’t be done on paper, the contact aspect is important.

This isn’t to say the social stuff doesn’t matter. I’ve been attracted to men I didn’t wish to reproduce with (practicing the act sure but they weren’t life partner material for me) and ultimately I settled with the man I was both attracted to and who ticked my marriagibilty boxes. And yet I was happy to take a greater risk on the social elements (being with the husband meant a path towards stepmotherhood, he was still going through a divorce but I fancied the pants off him) than I was on the physical (I briefly spent some time with a British property developer in Thailand who invited me to live in his hillside house with pool but I just wasn’t that into him).

Of course women are crazy and can’t be trusted. There is plenty of evidence to suggest that when we’re ovulating we’re attracted to men oozing testosterone and aggression but later are attracted to more supportive and nurturing men. In short our bodies say screw the guy from the gym but set up home with the guy from the office. No wonder we’re so fussy when it comes to choosing a boyfriend (assuming we aren’t the type to juggle multiple partners!)

Still, love is a risk and arguably, that’s why we’re so hooked on it.

But take responsibility for yourself and be honest about what those around you are really saying:
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The guy you're just casually dating, no matter how complex you like to believe he is.
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The nice guy you have a future with (no really, this is what he's thinking!)
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The guy who is in it for life!
I'd like to dedicate this blog post to the husband:
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True fact xxx
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A fortnight ago I wrote part one of this blog. I wrote about how my trip to Turkey made me appreciate the emotional dangers faced by a girl adventurer such as myself. In many ways I think my emotional journeys have been the most interesting. They have made me the person I am today. When I was writing up my PhD thesis I had to describe how my research had evolved and how my views had changed during the process. I decided to answer honestly and wrote about how my not being at all racist had been based in innocence of the complex nature of race relations and how when faced with the racism of others in Malaysia, I changed. I experienced some pretty awful attitudes and comments from Arabic men who saw me as inferior to their veiled wives, men who viewed me as some kind of animal to be freely abused due my lowly status.

It didn’t take long for me to not be terribly fond of Arabic men. Furthermore I amended by behaviour by avoiding them; refusing to make eye contact and crossing the street rather than pass them (seriously, one once pushed me out of his way quite literally into the gutter).

It’s challenging to realise you are making judgements on race. More challenging to realise that it’s not wholly unreasonable. I wondered how it’d be received but I was commended for my honesty and ability to be self-critical. Significantly, I was able to reread my thesis and ask myself whether what I had written was formed by what were arguably a few isolated events.

Still, when it comes to telling stories the physical stuff tends to be a bit more exciting!

So how did I find myself in the middle of nowhere, alone with a man with a handgun?

It was my first day in Cappadocia. I was staying in a village called Göreme after a twelve hour bus journey extended by four hours due to the bus breaking down. This occurred after I’d got up at 4am and by the time I checked into my hotel I’d been up for 32 hours. I’d taken a couple of valium on the bus but this merely achieved my not caring about the delay rather than sleep. I took a (cold) shower and changed into a sundress. I was tired but also somewhat wired and really hungry. I took a walk around the village then stopped for something to eat.

When I got back to my hotel, the girl who’d checked me in gestured quickly and introduced me to her brother who ran the hotel with her. He spoke English and we resolved the issues with the tour I had missed. He then asked me what I wanted to do that afternoon.

It’s hard to turn down hospitality.

I was a bit vulnerable. I was sleep deprived and had already exhausted what the village had to offer. There were no taxis to be seen. While a tourist destination this was rural Turkey. You stay in a cave hotel, you go on organised tours and then you leave. Head away from Cappadocia and you find a place where women still get stoned to death for looking at men the wrong way. Just because you’re drinking raki in a sundress doesn’t change the fact you are enjoying a pocket of freedom in a Middle Eastern country.

I was pushing boundaries and for the last 34 hours had felt at the mercy of the Turkish men deigning to look after me. Part of the thrill of travel for me is how my boundaries shift and change. I used to struggle to relax in public but in Cambodia I fell asleep on the metal roof of a boat surrounded by people. I woke somewhat startled but only because my travelling companion Trev had covered me in his silk blanket (to protect me from the sun) and I thought I was dying in a hot air balloon which arguably is an easy mistake to make.

I got the next boundary wrong I think. I say I think because I wasn’t hurt and instead had an amazing experience. But it was wrong because it could have gone so horribly wrong.

Did I want to shoot beer bottles? I laughed and said maybe. Did I want to go for a hike and see some temples? I’d just had a cold shower, eaten some flatbread and was thinking I had things pretty good, I’m backpacking on a budget, hell yeah I want to see some temples.

He said to sit and drink some more tea and we’d go in a bit.

Of course there was a part of me with doubts but I was also going stir crazy. I’d been stuck on a bus and was now stuck in a tiny village until tomorrow morning when I was to be picked up for a sun rise balloon tour (yes, this costs over a week’s accommodation in a hostel*).

And the crucial thing was... I like guns. When I was fifteen and an air cadet I got my marksman badge. Thirteen years ago I’d been pretty good and I was keen to try again. And perhaps because I’d handled rifles, I wasn’t overly scared of them. That was my mistake. I assumed we’d been talking rifles.

We went in his car. He opened his boot, grabbed some bottles and headed out to position them. It was hot and it was beautiful. It felt like another planet far far away from the real world and real life. He pulled out his rifle and loaded it. It was gorgeous. The rifles I shot with the RAF were serviceable, black. They were tools. This rifle was a thing of beauty, a much loved and cared for form of polished wood and shining metal. My desire to hold it can only be described as lust. Even now as I recollect it I feel a pull that wishes I owned it, could caress it and could feel it explode in my grasp. Firing that gun was like a hot affair that scorches your soul and demands revisiting in the quiet pleasure of recollection.

I was handed the rifle. Barely had I absorbed its texture before my blood ran cold as my companion pulled a handgun from the car. It was a strange sensation because usually holding a rifle you feel quite powerful. But it is a far inferior weapon at short range. I had said I didn’t know how to shoot because I knew I could use a refresher but the truth was that I had a loaded weapon and knew exactly what to do with it. I also knew just how long it would take for me to move and shoot was it necessary.

Nothing bad happened.

As it turns out I’m still as much a marksman as I was as a teenager. Scared as I was by the handgun, I was seduced by the rifle. My companion was impressed and offered me a go with the handgun.

They’re heavy and the kickback is intense. With a rifle you take it into your body and I have strong thighs; I can take it. A handgun’s kickback is localised and I didn’t feel in control of it. Perhaps I was scared of it. I don’t see rifles as fighting weapons. For me rifles are about target practise and shooting animals (not that I’ve ever hunted myself) but handguns feature in episodes of CSI, they get used for shooting people.

It was an amazing afternoon. I saw incredible private churches off the tourist trail, sights that my companion had discovered himself. He estimated that only a small percentage of Cappadocia’s treasures had been found. But the whole thing was marred by the fear that it was a game, that at some point he’d turn the gun on me and rape or kill me.

Nothing bad happened.

But I changed nevertheless. That afternoon made me realise that not only did I have a fiancée who loved me but that I had stepchildren who were anticipating my return (ok, their presents from my trip). In a way I never felt towards my mum and brother, I felt I had a duty to stay safe for the people who relied upon me.

Three boys with guns. Three boys I’ve eaten bulgur wheat with. Three boys who changed me forever.

I say boys because I’m just a girl. These are just stories (true as they are) and this is just life.

It’s challenging but I’m hooked!

Incidentally, my friend Hussein got in touch after the first part of this blog. He’s invited me and my family to visit him in Iraq. I think the boy’s mother might take issue so my plan is to go with just the husband. One day.

What’s the worst that could happen?

* And I’m pretty flash and have a private ensuite room (albeit with cold water).
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Before we moved (back) to the centre of Gloucester, the husband and I lived in a village on the outskirts which we used to joke was like Wisteria Lane. I wrote about my doubts regarding moving to suburbia (Suburban bliss) for a second time and have now learnt my lesson. Suburbia is not for me. But my reasons for moving there in May 2010 were still valid when we moved on and after a lot of searching, we found a house that met our desire for a family home but within a more cosmopolitan* area. We live in a Victorian townhouse within a very short walk of an industrial estate. I like that mix. I like that while the house next to us and the ones opposite are the same style, the entire street isn’t the same. It’s little things that kill the repetition of our old village; just about every house has been extended or remodelled in some way and each has its own story.

Really we are still living in a suburb. It takes about a quarter of an hour to walk to Gloucester docks and nearly 25 minutes to The Cross. But it feels different to us. For me it’s the fact I don’t have to cross a major road to get into town and that it’s about as easy on foot as it is to drive. We go into the city a lot more since moving.

It’s not our street that is Stepford-like so much as our house. When the remake of the film came out in 2004 I found myself hankering after certain aspects of that life. I loved the light airy houses that were sparkling clean yet looked comfortable and welcoming. I liked the sense of neatness and order whilst still being lived in (cupcake anyone?). I’m also rather a fan of 1950s fashion to the extent that I wore a circle dress with full underskirt when I married the husband.

We had set the target of finishing our house for our wedding reception and while we didn’t manage it, the transformation was incredible. The house we bought was a bit scruffy round the edges with dark carpets and ugly bathrooms. It was warm and welcoming but it was dusty old house cosy and what I wanted was light and bright cosy. I think we achieved it with a cream carpet throughout and a soft palette of duck egg, lilac-grey and off-white. I baked my own wedding cake (plus cookies and mince pies) and I felt fabulous as I descended my stairs in the sudden quiet (my stepsons had left with the husband) of my lovely house.

We utterly trashed it over the course of the wedding and Christmas and as I cleared up I wondered what I’d do next. I guess I had seen what was possible. I found myself on the Good Housekeeping forum on Mumsnet (lord knows how!) and discovered an American website called Fly Lady. The gist is short bursts of cleaning but what seems to work is the desire of the people on those threads (Mumsnet NOT Fly Lady) to live lives that are a bit, well, tidier.

The issue I took with Fly Lady was that it felt like a step back from feminism. It’s all very female focused and while I wanted to live in a Stepford house I had no desire to be a Stepford wife! I am far from alone in feeling this way but I think to end up in a place where you discuss the virtues of microfibre cloths, you’re already at the point of screaming no more and willing to try anything.

So I gave it a go. I shined my sink and slowly started changing my habits. I gave it a few days before I told the husband and after a few more days he remarked on how different the house was looking. It wasn’t that it was particularly dirty or messy before but there were lots of little things that make the heart sink; a pile of paperwork to sort, a jumper that needs hand washing getting in the way and a sink full of dirty dishes.

He’s joined me. He finds it harder to multitask (empty the dishwasher while the kettle is boiling and so on) but is giving it a good effort.

It’s nice.

I mean, I’m not going to pretend that cleaning is something fun but by doing it in short bursts and being less of a perfectionist about it means a surprising amount gets achieved and it is much more relaxing when you aren’t cleaning. So far we’ve only got the ground floor continually tidy and are perhaps two thirds there on cleanliness but I know we’ll have the whole house there in the next month (crucially when the last of the tradesmen have finished).

What I like is that it feels manageable. I think a house that you can’t manage indicates a life that you can’t manage. When I saw piles of laundry it was a visual indicator of where my life wasn’t in control. Sure I have OCD (sadly not cleaning related) but the husband doesn’t and I’ve seen a change in him. He still can’t find anything but he seems less grumpy about it. He’s also more willing to pitch in, I think because the difference is apparent. When the kitchen is almost tidy and pretty clean, a few quick tasks by him makes it look fantastic.

Funnily enough, my concern that this path was counter-feminist was completely wrong. My relationship has improved and I feel that keeping our home nice is something we’re doing for each other. The husband is doing the most housework I’ve known him to and he’s doing more and more without being asked.

All this fits within a wider life change I’m pursuing at the moment. It’s very much about the family I’m trying to create and I’ve decided it’s something I need a separate blog for as I feel this one has started to slip away from wider reflection and I want to get back to critiquing the world around me. The stuff that’ll keep my mind from going Stepford! If you’re interested in following my new blog, you can find it at Highlights and Hunter Wellies.

Next week I’ll write part two of Bulgur Wheat and Boys with Guns. For now I’m off to empty the tumble dryer. Then maybe I’ll read another newspaper because really I ought to be using this column as my soapbox for budget cuts and SOPA, not housework!!!

* By Gloucestershire’s standards.
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I’ve written about Turkey before. When I was there in September I wrote a blog on The Art of Drinking Tea but there is a lot that went unsaid, in particular I needed to confess to my then fiancé now husband and mother.

My mind is on Turkey due to today’s dinner being a soup dish I’ve been reworking for a cookery course I’ll be teaching on Turkish cuisine. Part way through eating I remembered the miniature bottle I’d brought back for the husband and had been saving for when I eventually started cooking Turkish recipes.

I had high hopes of Turkish food and it certainly delivered. There were elements of Greek tastes but for me it took me back to the Iranian restaurants in Kuala Lumpur where I would eat with my Persian friends. It used to surprise and amuse me that these intelligent and cultured men would only eat Iranian food* but it gave me the chance to become familiar with the complexity of Middle Eastern food. Sure there were a lot of kebabs but they were unlike I’d ever tasted and the salads blew my mind.

The surprise lay with Turkish wine. I’d had Raki before and was a fan and Efes the national lager was much as any other lager in a hot country, excellent in chilled glasses and nondescript merely cool. I’d never even heard of Turkish wine. This led me to think badly of it. After all, I’d never heard of Thai wine and that was not a pretty discovery. Turkish wine doesn’t have sophisticated origins and had I known them before hand I may have judged it harshly. For it was only after many nights drinking the stuff that I learned that the grapes grew on public land, were harvested by villagers and produced in factories. I asked somewhat hopefully whether they used casks and got a quizzical look.

Nevertheless it’s lovely stuff and the Shiraz-Merlot blend I brought back was smooth, complex and with perfectly balanced tannins. A look on Wikipedia (I’m terribly glad that SOPA looks to crumble to dust) and I see that Turkey is the world’s fourth largest producer of grapes. I think we’re missing out on something frankly and am surprised there isn’t more on the British market.

But this isn’t a blog about wine, although it is about two men I have drunk wine with. It’s about me finally feeling ready to write about something I have been battling with.

In 2008 I moved to Malaysia. Early on I was approached in the street by a man eager to talk to me. This wasn’t uncommon for me as being Caucasian I stood out somewhat and novelty seems to attract wherever you go. Usually I smiled a no but for some reason I stopped. The romantic in me likes to think I sensed a friendship destined to happen. His name was Hussein and he became my best friend for the few months he was in Kuala Lumpur. It took a while for his story to emerge. His reluctance became clear once I learned it all. Hussein was an Iraqi Kurd who had forged a passport and fled. He considered himself Iranian for that was where he was born and grew up but ones paperwork has the final say.

It all sounds rather dramatic but for the most part we were just two people. We went to the zoo, we drank white wine in touristy bars and we talked about philosophy. He had trained as a cardio researcher and when I told him the far less dramatic story of the breakdown of my marriage he took my hands in his and said that all of life’s answers lay in the heart; that the ups and downs of life were the ups and downs of our heart rate and when the turmoil of joy and anguish isn’t evident we’re dead already.

His plan had been to take advantage of Malaysia’s hospitality to refugees passing through and seek a visa for a new future in Australia. It was rejected and he was deported. I grew up the day we said goodbye. He thought he was going to Iraq to face death.

Imagine my joy then when several months later he got in touch via Facebook. He’d joined the Americans and was pictured in uniform carrying a gun. He’s since disappeared but I’m hopeful that he’s ok.

Between him and Ali and experiencing racism at the hands of Arabic men during my time in Kuala Lumpur I unexpectedly found myself taking sides politically. The Iranians I knew were so charming and educated, they were the good guys right? After all, Iranian Ali said that it was a mistake on the part of his government that the likes of Hussein got sent to Iraq and that Iranian Kurds were his fellow people.

Jump forward three years and I’m making another friend. Süleyman was a Canadian raised Turk who moved back to the country he’d left as a child. A few drinks down and we’re chatting about his early experiences of Turkey. He makes me laugh and as I’ve visited Canada a couple of times and have relatives there, we find a fair amount of common ground.

Except that my teenage years where I played with guns were very different. I shot at targets. Süleyman shot Kurds.

I grew up a whole lot more that night. I learned that I couldn’t travel the world making friends with interesting people without facing up to the complexity of reality.

Süleyman wondered why I was so quiet. I said I didn’t think the Kurds were so wrong and that they surely had the right to live if not inhabit the world in the way the Turkish government saw unfit. A stupid thing to say but then I’ve broken enough laws in Malaysia and I have the bad habit of being blasé. He studied my face and shrugged.

‘Did you know any...’

‘Yes.’ I cut him off.

We changed the subject. We drank into the night until he passed out on the mat we’d dragged to the rooftop.

Only then did I let myself cry and feel stupid for being so ignorant.

Less than a week later I was in the middle of nowhere, alone with a man with a handgun.

* And Nandos. But everyone eats Nandos.

This is Hussein with Josie. I saw Josie at the zoo and got all excited at a pink giraffe so he bought her for me. We called her our baby and I said I should be the one to raise her. Very earnestly he told me that this was not how custody operated where he came from. I try not to think too much about the months we got to see each other whenever we wanted. Right now I don't even have an email address. I'd love to see him again one day. I doubt I ever will.
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This week I read that a great way to get hits on your blog was to put the phrase sugar cube (1) into the title. I confess I read this on twitter and didn’t give it more than a cursory glance but it interests me to contemplate what makes us click on one link over another. The biggest influence on whether I’ll click on a link from twitter relates to the author. If the person posting is it is a friend or someone who has made me laugh or think in the relatively recent past then I’m more likely to click. Then there are the cleverly worded tweets; the ones that perhaps feature a play on an established idea or phrase.

Plenty of research suggests that numbered lists and how-to guides rank highly for people and I suppose I fit this pattern as well with ‘Five ways to creating a magical Christmas’ probably influencing me more than ‘A magical Christmas.’

Not that this kind of thing affects how I title my own blogs. Possibly because I don’t make any money from doing this, I’m not driven towards attracting traffic. It’s nice of course but I prefer one comment to eleventy page views, a reference on twitter to a surge in hits. To be honest I’d feel a bit strange about trying to phrase a title to influence clicks. It’s not that I don’t care - why else would I announce blog posts on twitter? – but that to do so would feel too overtly as though I was working on it and nothing kills joy quite like something becoming work. I love creating recipes but since I’m putting together cookery courses at the moment it suddenly feels far more strenuous and far less intuitive.

I like to go with the mood. Just as I like stories that go off on a tangent and serve little purpose beyond amusing me. For instance, when I was growing up there was a strange cupboard in my room. It was full of curious things my parents had stowed there. For some reason there were sugar cubes (2) and I used to suck them until my mum told me my teeth would fall out. I didn’t really like them but the horses in the books and annuals I obsessed over seemed to feature them a fair bit and I wanted to know what the fuss was about.

In fact the first time I really consumed sugar cubes (3) was last September in Turkey. Wherever I went I was given small glasses of strong tea that needed sugar to make it palatable. They came in large pastel coloured boxes that sat quietly next to computers and phones, as a vital part of conducting any business.

Still on my sugar cube (4) to do list is drinking absinthe because I do love a good ritual...

The classic French absinthe ritual involves placing a sugar cube on a flat perforated spoon, which rests on the rim of the glass containing a measure or “dose” of absinthe. Iced water is then very slowly dripped on to the sugar cube, which gradually dissolves and drips, along with the water, into the absinthe, causing the green liquor to louche (“loosh”) into an opaque opalescent white as the essential oils precipitate out of the alcoholic solution. Usually three to four parts water are added to one part of 68% absinthe. Historically, true absintheurs used to take great care in adding the water, letting it fall drop by single drop onto the sugar cube, and then watching each individual drip cut a milky swathe through the peridot-green absinthe below. Seeing the drink gradually change colour was part of its ritualistic attraction. (Credit)

Doesn’t that make you want to just make like Van Gogh and go chasing after colour and expression, casting body parts as you go?

No? Just me then?

Truly, you don’t what to go crashing into a starry night above swirling olive trees and just lose yourself in an orgy of abandonment in Arles fuelled by mad nights with the impressionists in Paris?

Ok, I’ll let it go.

I guess ritual is the key here. This blog is a ritualistic activity and I play to my own rules. To play out my ritual according to a set of precepts is to deny the very pleasure I take from creating it.

By now you must be wondering about who invented sugar cubes (5) and if you aren’t then I need a fifth thing as I started with my title. The first four free flowed like the bra burning cousin of the cube; the one the family talk of in whispered tones, you know... loose.

Well it was Jakub Kryštof Rad in 1841. He was the director of a Morovian sugar factory and at that time sugar came pressed into cones that you hacked pieces off. Allegedly his wife was clumsy and after cutting herself asked why it didn’t come pre-cut.

True story.

Twitter to horses to see to absinthe to a cack handed wife. 5 top ways to integrate sugar cubes into a blog.
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The triumph of hope over experience was Samuel Johnson’s take on remarriage. In many ways it has been my greatest demonstration that I am truly one of life’s optimists. But really I see optimism all around. Happy New Year, Happy New Year. So many emails, so many greetings. It’s January, so let us start over and start afresh.

I’m not a fan of New Years Eve as a rule. I find that events loaded with expectation rarely deliver. As it happens the New Year’s Eve just gone was probably my favourite to date; the husband and I played board games with my mum, my brother and his girlfriend. It was meant to be a quiet night in but there were impromptu cocktails at a bar that delivered on both concept and glass contents and a near miss as we almost set a footballer’s balcony on fire with a paper lantern (he’s a neighbour of my mum’s, were weren’t roaming the streets of Manchester in search of ASBO’s).

But I love the early weeks of a new year. Optimism is all around. Plenty of us wrangle with self doubt and undercutting much of our ability to step out and be brilliant is our perception of the past. It’s not our fault, we’re conditioned to be nice and to not show off (girls more than boys). When I’m working with my life coaching students and clients I often ask them to list their achievements and qualities without qualifying them. It’s surprisingly challenging.

When I look at my list of the 30 things I hoped to achieve before I’m 30, many seem silly. I qualify them. Take for example my wish to go to Russia. I want to qualify in so many ways to play it down. Firstly, I used to say ‘but it was so long ago.’ What is daft about this is that following my visit in 2002 I returned in 2008, ‘but it’s easy when you’ve been somewhere once.’ I felt that it didn’t count that I was on a university trip (the first time) or that I took a taxi instead of public transport (the second time) and even then was travelling with a group. I berate myself for only knowing the word for thank you and not learning any more.

But I went. As a teenager looking out of a rainy window over the Vale of York, I promised myself I’d go to Russia. That I’d see palaces and have adventures. I succeeded. At The Catherine Palace (summer residence of the Tsars) near St Petersberg I saw a (reconstructed) room with walls of amber which both dazzled me and confirmed my dreams of a world full of wonder. Then, one evening as our fellow students were discussing where to find culture, a guy I had previously not noticed grabbed my hand and pulled me into an alcove. I had been selected by him on the grounds of being the person most likely to be up for a laugh.

We paused at the top of some steps of what appeared to be a bar just as the owner looked out. We were encouraged inside, we saw live music, we made friends and we drank a lot of vodka. We had missed the subway home so got a taxi to a hotel where initially I was accused of prostitution (“if you are students on holiday where is your luggage?”). We headed out early for campus and found ourselves in a square where Goldeneye was filmed. It was deserted and beautiful. Everyone assumed that we’d hooked up of course but we knew we’d experienced something more exciting.

That took effort. It was a challenge to remind myself that I had an amazing adventure in St Petersberg one night. A challenge to remind myself that I can and have realised my dreams. So much easier to play it down, to say I didn’t do anything special and why put myself on the line when I may not succeed.

But in the early weeks of January we are better at being hopeful. While we may berate ourselves for our perceived shortcomings, we often subscribe to the surge of optimism that’s all around and start diets and plan trips. While I make changes year round (my September trip to Turkey was conceived around Easter), I make more at this time of year. My resolutions as they are have been made with the husband (start a joint savings account and see more of our friends).

If you pay attention to the advice trotted out then we want to be making small changes that we can keep, meaningful changes that work towards fulfilling our greater goals and oh I forget, I’m yawning so much.

Don’t be boring. Just because we won’t stick to most of it isn’t a reason to go big, go crazy. I’ve been accused of being flaky in the past because I start lots of things and abandon many. But I finished the PhD, I’m still writing this column, I’ve spoken to the same man nearly every day for almost five years and he’s still my favourite person in the world. I don’t fear getting things wrong or making mistakes. I know I have a wonderful marriage and am confident it’ll last until one of us dies precisely because I got it so wrong in the past.

I am trying with the small changes I admit (I’m dallying with Fly Lady cleaning) but I also mean to go big. In June 2010 I wrote about my 30 before I’m 30 list. Since then I have got a tattoo, bought a corset and taken a horse-drawn carriage ride through Central Park but there are still ten things on my list.

1)    Publish a book

2)    Have a baby

3)    Cook a multibird roast

4)    Go to an airport and take a flight chosen on the spot

5)    Watch a sunset and a sun rise without going to bed

6)    Make a film or documentary

7)    Ride a motorcycle

8)    Take a photo worth framing on a large canvas and hang it in my home

9)    Be suspended by rope

10) Buy an entire animal (eg. a pig) and cook it

Some of these are already being planned. I’m cooking a multibird roast at Easter (done myself, not one of those Aldi jobs) and there is a pig at my uncle’s place fattening as I type. Others I fear are too aspirational but it’s January and actually hope doesn’t need to triumph over experience for experience has taught me that when you really put your mind to it, great things are possible.

Happy New Year, may your dreams come true and your adventures be plentiful.

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I am shallow. In the last week I have only checked the news once and that was to see what the newest Royal was wearing for her first Christmas at Sandringham. Like the Duchess of Cambridge I have just had my first Christmas with my new family but my outfits consisted of pyjamas for early morning (with the addition of a hat from a cracker at the breakfast table) then a wool miniskirt with a jumper and chunky boots for visiting my mother in law then dropping the kids at their mothers. The husband I had a nap after lunch (the eldest was sent back to bed at 4.15am and 5.45am on Christmas morning) after which I returned to pyjamas. The only photos taken of me were by family members.

The Duchess was expected to wear five outfits according to Jean Broke-Smith (according to Wikipedia she’s an English etiquette and grooming teacher which sounds a rather fabulously vacuous career to me) Kate needed a casual outfit for breakfast, a smart outfit - and a hat - for the morning church service, a dress for lunch, a cocktail dress for early evening drinks and a full-length dress for the evening meal. I didn’t imagine we’d get pictures of much – if she’s on Facebook then sadly I’m not friends with Elizabeth II – but was eager to see what her coat would be like. For I love coats and she was certain to need one for church.

It was lovely. As was the one she wore for a walk earlier in the day. As someone who grew up decidedly unimpressed by the royals (Diana and Fergie both struck me as a bit common, a bit slutty and not very princessy) it has surprised me how much interest I now have. I suppose a bit of the glamour has returned with Catherine. She’s classy and elegant and seems very in love with Prince William but crucially, she’s stylish.

We live in a world of overt sexualisation and while I actually quite like Rhianna her videos and many of her contemporaries are excessively focused on flesh. I like sex as much as the next girl but it hardly determines my day and certainly I find little to inspire me in much of the content of modern media with regards to fashion. That’s why it’s nice to have a celebrity that always wears a coat, wears woolly dresses and nice boots.

I always wear a coat. I like woolly dresses and boots are awesome – they keep your ankles warm!

So yes, my foray away from my domestic nest where a fug of mulled wine has been omnipresent was to see what the Duchess was rocking. Come the sales I will keep my eye out for a purple coat with minimal detailing. I’m also growing my hair as I have serious envy there as well.

Something else I’ve been enjoying has been the #whatyourocking hashtag on Instagram. Actually that’s a lie. I’ve only been liking my friends’ pictures. I just Googled it and found that it’s only her hashtag! This is the blog but to be honest while I like her writing, what appealed most was the bitesize nature of the pictures coming via my Facebook stream.

For me, fashion is something I struggle to justify an interest in. Much as I love it, it has been an almost guilty secret. I’ve felt the need to justify my decision to celebrate big moments in my life with designer shoes (I bought a pair of Jimmy Choo’s when I left my ex-husband and a pair of Louboutins when I got my PhD) in a way that I wouldn’t with a piece of art. It was completely without embarrassment that I’ve told people about the indulgence that has been framing my art collection from my travels. Each professionally framed, the exercise has cost me more than the purchase of the original works but seemed a reasonable and mature way to spend money.

It’s not just the big things. My socks are made from bamboo (very cosy) and this delights me no end. I was also really pleased with how my new red jumper looked with my miniskirt and boots on Christmas day. Obviously I liked that the husband liked my outfit but more than that I wanted to share. I wanted to photograph myself and share my cute look. But I don’t. I think perhaps I don’t want people knowing just how much time I spend thinking about clothes, about how what is essentially my uniform of dresses, leggings and boots with scarves is something that has evolved slowly. I wear a lot of colour and this is surprisingly challenging. We live in a world of neutrals. I am a peacock.

The end of the year is nigh and I think that for 2012 my personal New Years Resolution (the husband and I have several joint ones that support the vows we made to pursue a life less ordinary) will be to give myself permission to love fashion openly. I’m going to follow and engage with more fashion bloggers and tweeters, I’m going to make time for girly shopping trips hopefully including one with she of #whatyourocking and maybe even post the occasional picture of something I love.

It’s not a big resolution nor one whose keeping will be noticed by anyone but it’s a step towards embracing the person I am. In 2008 I made some big changes to my life and I’m the happiest now that I have ever been but my increased self-acceptance has highlighted to me the little areas where I’m not ok and I want to get all those i’s dotted and t’s crossed.

I hope you all had a great Christmas and have a wonderful New Year. I can hardly believe it’s already two years since I began this column. Thank you for your support and all the lovely messages.

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Despite a few hiccups (such as the marquee actually blowing away - we were lent another at the eleventh hour), the wedding was pretty damn fantastic. Our plasterer and decorator were our witnesses for the legal bit on the Friday which felt totally appropriate and while the carpet fitter overlapped with my mum arriving, the house looked pretty good.

It was not a classy party. My family joined us for dinner on the Friday evening and plans for a really early night were put aside in favour of making martinis with homemade flavoured vodkas. The small DIY ceremony was lovely but the drinking had begun. The kind of drinking that sees the bride passed out entwined in her best friends arms.

At 9.30pm.

But you know what? It was perfect. There was lots of dancing and laughter. At one point my eldest stepbrother asked whether it’d be terribly inappropriate to ask where we kept the vermouth and soon my brother was spotted sporting a vibrant Appletini which if reports are true inspired a speech by my mate Trev on the true masculinity demonstrated by drinking vibrant cocktails.

Happy times. 
There was the slight unfortunate aspect of my friend Jelly bringing her super cute and rather contagious baby that everyone cuddled and danced with. Roughly half of the guests followed their hangover with a winter vomiting bug. While I battled my hangover to serve a roast for eleven on the Sunday, Monday saw me poleaxed and the first day of our honeymoon cancelled.

But I married a great man and he shrugged it off. Train tickets, hotel and show tickets in the bin and he booked car parking at Heathrow. On Tuesday morning I rallied enough for our flight. And five nights in New York. Which was surprising.

1)    The buildings are REALLY tall. I mean I knew they would be tall but they’re really tall. And there are lots of them. I’ve been to big cities but New York is crazy tall.

2)    You can make a minifig of yourself at the Lego store at the Rockerfeller Centre.
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While there was hair for flowing ginger locks, short and sophisticated salt and pepper was unavailible
3)    It’s not always cold in December. We sat out until 10pm one night at a bar with heaters.

4)    The Statue of Liberty is pretty small. Everything else is massive but she’s pretty dinky.

5)    Chinatown is like being in China when it comes to food. This made me incredibly happy.

6)    A horse drawn carriage ride through Central Park is worth every penny.
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I wish I could go everywhere by carriage and with a blanket!
7)    The piano at FAO Schwartz looks pretty shabby these days.

8)    Tiffany and Co is possibly the most magical shop in the world.

9)    I have a very generous husband!
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I may just wear it every day!
10)  Times Square is as bright as daylight at night.

11)  It smells like pine (I guess this is because the Christmas trees are all real).

12)  It is really backward in some ways; the subway system seems on its last legs, mobile phone coverage is very clunky and things like airport shuttle services are poorly managed (compared to Turkey for example).

13)  There is a Lego model of Captain Jack Sparrow!
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So what is your heart's desire dear?
14)  Californian wine costs about the same as European wine.

15)  The Empire State Building is a right pain to go up compared to the quick and efficient Top of the Rock[erfeller] which has a better view (because the Rockerfeller Tower isn’t much to look at and the Empire State Building is impressive.

16)  Waiters in Little Italy talk like they do in films.

17)  French toast with bacon and maple syrup is genius. Simply genius.

18)  People aren’t particularly impatient (this may say more about me than it does about New Yorkers).

19)  The most popular song for buskers is Oh Holy Night. If I never hear that damned carol again it will be too soon.

20)  Hot Spiced Cider is just hot apple juice.

21)  I shall be making Hot Spiced Cider every December hereafter.

22)  They take their decorations very seriously. The trees in Bryant Park were bathed in an amazing soft light and I couldn’t work out how it was done. The husband was the one to look up and realise they were lit from above from a nearby skyscraper. Impressive!

23)  I like salty popcorn. Kettle Corn NYC popcorn converted me.

24)  The fat Americans live elsewhere.

25)  While most Salvation Army collectors ring little bells, some have microphones and amps and belt out proper songs.

26)  I like my oysters small but I can’t tell the difference depending on where they’re from (ie. East or West coast).

27)  Going to the Grand Central Station Oyster Bar was my best trip recommendation (thanks mum and Bill) and as I was told, have the Clam Chowder as it’s awesome.

28)  “Local” New York is everywhere from diners to street vendors selling Christmas trees.

29)  The tea is better than the coffee.

30)   They do have “cars big as bars” and with that I’ll leave you with one of my favourite Christmas songs...   
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I’ve had a few people ask me whether I’m keeping my name when I get married. I am and I’m not. This blog shall remain at www.kathrynashcroft.com, the cookery book I’m working on will be published likewise and I’ll be graduating with my PhD as Dr Kathryn Ashcroft next summer. With regards to work, I’ll be Kathryn Ashcroft.

But I will be changing my name legally. When I proposed to the fiancé (this is the last thread where he’ll go by that name), it was partly driven by the desire to share a name with him and his sons. My eldest son had done a project on families in the September and we had a number of conversations about what constituted a family. It made me realise that I wanted to be part of his family officially, that I wanted the clarification as to what I was to them as much as he did.

I’ve referred to the fiancé’s kids as my stepsons since we started living together because I felt that that was what they were to all extents and purposes. I was feeding them, cleaning up after them and sharing parenting responsibilities for them. The eldest has responded to the question of who I was by saying I was his stepmother but names are important and I want to share theirs.

Taking a man’s name is a bit contentious in some feminist circles. Because the tradition traces back to women being first their father’s and then their husband’s property, I can understand the issue but unless double barrelling works (sounds terrible in our case) you need to pick one name, or a new name or not share a name. In practical terms I think a woman taking a man’s is as good as any other.

The key thing is what my passport says and that will be Mrs Kathryn -----------

I’ve been pondering my feminist credentials recently as the likes of Mad Men and Pan Am come under scrutiny. There is an argument that by watching these programs women are allowing for sexism in exchange of really great fashion. I find this a bit of a stretch, after all do we take issue with Gone with the wind for glamorising a world with slavery?

I personally think Mad Men and Pan Am can be seen as inspiring. The character Peggy in Mad Men certainly suffers her share of sexism but she also characterises the battles my Grandmother’s generation endured; battles that paved the way for women like me to become copywriters with nobody thinking anything of it. Similarly, Pan Am features a woman who ran away on her wedding day because there was still a world to see. This is a lesson women are still learning and I for one wish I’d had the courage to do that instead of waiting a few months and having a divorce on my hands.

The reality is that feminism’s battle is not yet over. So what is wrong with looking at the journey? If anything watching Mad Men and Pan Am make me appreciate how far we’ve come and how we mustn’t slip back into a time where women were unusual in being self determining. And fancying Don Draper doesn’t mean I’d have any compunction about speaking out against any man that spoke to me like that in real life.

Give us some credit angry feminist types! When I watched On her Majesty’s Secret Service recently I was taken aback by Bond’s knocking out his wife-to-be to shut her up and make her portable in the face of danger. I don’t think exposure to outdated gender roles will erode my sense of acceptable behaviour anytime soon!

Kirsty Allsop tweeted this week in defence of the comfort that some women get from crafts. I’m quite glad that she’s speaking up on behalf of women capable of balancing their ambition with a desire to home make. In the last few months I have been baking a mountain of cookies, mince pies and cakes for my wedding, I’ve made decorations and arranged flowers. I want to make my home warm and welcoming. Throughout this period I have also cooked a roast each Sunday.

I see my desire to bake, to cook and to create a warm and welcoming home as quite unrelated to my career. I’m no less intelligent for appreciating that my Nana handed down her amazing pastry recipe and making mince pies just like she taught me to. I’m no less ambitious for taking inspiration from my mother’s floristry skills and seeking to emulate them as I play with hydrangea heads. These skills I’m cultivating didn’t stop me getting a PhD.

So this week I’ll take my husband-to-be’s name, I’ll relish in providing meals for my nearest and dearest and I may or may not be making a nod to sixties fashion due to my love of Mad Men. Throughout all this I retain the right to call myself a feminist.

I shall be away next week as the fiancé and I are honeymooning in New York. Take care, enjoy your Christmas parties and I’ll see you on the other side!

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My heart sank when I realised it was now December. While admittedly I was tucked up under new sheets, on a new bed in the almost-completed loft conversion and this was considerable progress from a few weeks ago, the house renovation is not going to be finished in time for the wedding.

In eight days my family will arrive. In eight days I will wake up to the beginning of a weekend of family, friends and festivities and while I am excited as hell about that, I’m concerned about the state of the house.

Last night I put up the first Christmas tree in the living room. This room is finished and as decorating it took me about seven hours, it was a big task to get out of the way. I sit here now looking at a twinkling tree but outside the hallway is still not plastered. I have boxes of decorations labelled by area but the window baskets at the front of the house (fresh greenery and gold baubles with storm lanterns underneath) are barely visible for the rubbish the builders are yet to take away.

I’m ok. My dress has been pressed and is hanging in the nursery and a week today I’ll be getting my hair and nails done. The food is ok. The drinks are ok. A million tiny things still need doing in the house and the builders have gone AWOL. I’m a control freak at the best of times but with a houseful of guests imminent I’m rather eager to have the house bathroom finished.

I can accept the painting may not be finished but I need the hand basin mounted! I can live with the plasterer leaving as my family arrive but I want the front garden to be welcoming and my wreath on my door.

I’m trying to stay reasonable and to keep my calm but it’s tough. The project has been far bigger than anticipated with electrical work, complete replastering, dry rot repairs, and rotten window lintel repairs. When I said I hoped it’d be done in ten weeks, everyone thought it’d be done in eight. We are nearing the end of week twelve. There isn’t much blame to be laid, although I’ll probably be complaining about the surveyor. For the most part everyone has been fantastic.

It’s just one of those things.

It makes me appreciate how much I’ve changed over the last few years. A few years ago I’d have been hysterical. In fact, when looking for a wedding related document a couple of weeks ago I found my write-up of my first wedding that I’d put up on a wedding planning forum (funny the stuff that seems to disappear into the depths of your hard drive). Looking back it was so sad; the girl writing it was so desperately unhappy and trying so hard to make everything perfect in the hope that this would make people (her new husband in particular) love her.

I’m not going to play down the importance of marrying someone who is right for you over someone who isn’t but was I the person I am now back then, I wouldn’t have married my ex-husband. Not because of him per se but because you should feel happy about getting married and I wasn’t.

What is keeping me sane is the fact I’m getting married. The fiancé keeps texting me reminders; on Tuesday he told me I was a fortnight from boarding a plane to fly to New York. NEW YORK! I’m going to New York for my frickin* honeymoon! So the bedroom doors probably won’t be painted in time for the reception, I’m going to see the tree at the Rockefeller Centre! And it’s not just the flashy stuff. Amidst the meal planning and organising I’m doing, I realised that we hadn’t made plans for what we’re doing for lunch after our legal paperwork the day before the wedding proper. I suggested Nandos. It’s near the registry office, there’s a car park. Nandos, it’s the perfect choice for our first meal as man and wife in the eyes of the law.

We’re having fun. I love that we’re having a romantic little wedding breakfast for two at an everyday place. I love that there is something just for us before the ceremony for 18 and house party for goodness only knows how many.

What is different this time is that my dreams are not tied up in a day. In many ways what is stressful about the house is that my dreams are tied up in that. It’s our home but hey, it’ll be done by Christmas. I suppose I see the potential for fun in next weekend as being relatively unrelated to the venue being perfect and everything running like clockwork. Whether or not a good time is had by all will largely be determined by the people. Everyone is coming to see the fiancé and me. Sure they expect to be fed (which is reasonable given the wording of the invites) and will need a working bathroom but beyond that, things are just little details. Everything could go hideously wrong and it still be a great day.

A friend (one I hadn’t spoken to in ages and who is coming) asked me today whether I was excited and I stopped enough to realise yes, yes I am. It’s been a tough few months living in a building site but the end is nigh.

It will all come together in time. I could do it this weekend. It’s just putting on a dress, marrying my best friend then making merry with my mates.

Bring it on.

I’ve no intention of getting precious and Bridezilla about things. Once upon a time I went on an adventure to the Far East to find myself and figure stuff out. I became a KL Partygirl and Partygirl’s don’t pout their way to a happy ever onward** they run at it in high heels with a smile on their face!

* I have never used this word before, I’m trying new things.

** The fiancé subscribes to the belief that Happy Ever Afters are stories that haven’t ended yet.

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