Random Statistic of the Week...

STRONGER FEELING HAIR*, SHINY COLOUR, WORKS IN JUST 10 MINUTES

Introducing NEW Garnier Herbashine, our first hair colourant enriched with bamboo extract, containing no ammonia and it works in just 10 minutes
Is this range right for me?
- If you want a colourant with no ammonia.
- If you want a colourant that works in just 10 minutes.
- If you want to help cover greys.
- If you want hair that feels stronger and looks shiny.

*87% agreed when tested on 304 women. Strength also measured as resistance to brushing

(Garnier website, 31st March 2009)

Two thoughts. Number one, that means 264.48 (point four eight of a woman could be interesting...?) agreed that their hair felt stronger. With the population of the UK alone being approximately 61,612,300 this would be an interestingly small sample, but on the Garnier website you can choose your location from not one but sixteen countries, including Russia, USA and China. I went to wikipedia, found their best UN population guesses and added them up, making a total population of 2,312,343,413 people. Given they specified 'women', half of that is 1,156,171,706.5 (ish). Lots of them will be kids, I know. But you get the idea. That means, that in order to advertise this product as producing 'stronger feeling hair', they sampled about 0.00002% of their target audience, 87% of whom agreed with the premise that their hair felt stronger*. I'd work that out but I feel my luck on the maths front is running out- where's Nathan when I need him??! Anyway, I wonder if those who participated actually had to buy the product or if they were given it for free? And now I think about it, I wonder about the 39.52 women who said 'No, it's stupid and doesn't make any difference at all.'

Second thought. 'Strength also measured as resistance to brushing'. Who? What? When? How? Where? Why? What colour was the brush? Was it a Tuesday? Is that the hair or the participants strength they're talking about... 'Give me that brush'... 'No, get off'.... 'Give me the damn... blimey, you're strong...'

Adverts. Gotta love em.

I'm not even going there with the bamboo extract...

*All figures are unproven and totally unscientifically worked out. In fact, I got my pet iguana to draw them out of a hat. I don't actually have a pet iguana. Which makes that last bit a lie. A lie is like a statistic, only more honest.

A Smear on my Character...

So, I'm not sure how I got myself into this, but here are my thoughts on smear tests, for Rosie and anyone else who cares to read!

I first had a smear test when I was at university. In those days it was encouraged for all women, not just those over twenty five as the crazy rules are today. It was done by the sister at the health clinic, and whilst not my first choice of relaxing occupation, it was in no way painful or uncomfortable.
You undress, bottom half only (actually, that's the really strange bit, I find- being naked waist down only is an unusual thing! Maybe if I'd had a baby it wouldn't be so odd) and lie on the bed, with your knees bent. It's not a torture chair arrangement like you see on American tv, it's just the usual doctor's couch thing. The doctor will insert the speculum, which is not cold, is round tipped so slides in easily, and doesn't in any way hurt. In fact, I've found that once it's in you don't really notice it, stretchy as us girls are. Just as painless and easy as tampons.
The doctor will open it slightly, just to allow her to see, then will take a swab from inside you using what looks like a long q-tip thing. It doesn't scrape in any way, you don't feel it.
And that's it. Job's done, it's over.

The reason I understand the fear is when I started with a new doctor about ten years ago, she asked me if I'd had a smear before, I said I had, and so she didn't feel she needed to explain what she was doing as she was went along. This would have been ok, but she decided to do a pelvic examination as well, which was not something I'd had before, and apparently is unusual to do with no reason. It also wasn't painful, was more embarrassing, as it involved inserting fingers inside and then pressing upwards and down on the abdomen from the outside. Again, this wouldn't be a problem but for the fact I didn't know it was going to happen!
As a result, I didn't go for a smear test for a long time, ignoring the letters and reminders from the doctors. Pure embarrassment, nothing else.

The thing is though, it could save your life.

It's free, it takes about five minutes, and it really, really could save your life.

By the time you have symptoms of cervical cancer, it's often too late. Screening picks up PRE- cancerous cells, that is cells that may turn cancerous one day but haven't yet. And it's pretty curable. The point is, without screening, you won't know you have cervical cancer until it's probably too late.

Eventually I plucked up the courage and went back. I told the receptionist how nervous I was, and she said she'd not been for ages either, and if I went through with it, she would too. I told my doctor how nervous I was, and she was amazing. She talked me through every step of the way, explaining what she was doing and where she was up to in the whole process. She was patient, understanding, very calm and very practical. It took minutes, and at the end I felt foolish for not doing it sooner.

Our daughters won't have to do this. The human papillomavirus (HPV) that causes cervical cancer is now preventable with a vaccine, and is being offered to school aged girls. Stupidly, some schools are opting out on the grounds that it might encourage the girls to have sex. Don't start me on this topic or this blog post will be very, very long. It's also stupid that boys aren't getting it, because they can be carriers, if not actually falling ill themselves. So, anyway, we're the last generation that will need to go and do this.

But, speaking of our daughters, if we are ever to have any of our own, we need to make sure we don't die of cervical cancer first.

So, top tips.
1. Be seen by a female doctor. Ask when you make the appointment. It's perfectly ok.
2. Make sure she knows you are nervous. She won't think you are stupid or immature, she's seen it all before. Really.
3. Relax. Honestly, if you can face dentists, needles and the Next sales, this is child's play. And the more relaxed you are, the easier it will be.
4. Ask your doctor to talk you through the steps she is taking. It really helps, and can allow you to ask questions as you go along if you need to.
5. Congratulate yourself on how brave you've been- rewards are essential!

I know it seems scary, but once you've done it, you'll realise it's not. At worst, it's a little embarrassing, because we're so English and reserved. And for me, a red face is not a good enough excuse!

Please comment, ask questions, disagree, debate, discuss and encourage. The only stupid question is the one you don't ask. We need to support each other with this. In 2006 (the latest stats) 949 women in the UK died from this. Nine hundred and forty- nine. Let's prevent as many more as we can.

Further information is available here.

Feelings... nothing more than...

This morning I watched Dancing on Ice: The Final, a repeat from Sunday evening. Being pathologically unable to watch television without my laptop in front of me, I'd already seen that Ray Quinn, a celebrity due to his previous appearance as runner-up on the X Factor, having discovered a genuine talent for ice skating through the competition had then won overall. He beat Donal MacIntyre, a journalist, made celebrity due to his willingness to go undercover and put his life in danger, which seemed a little at odds with the neon spandex of his ice dance costumes; and Jessica Taylor, a celebrity due to her previous appearance on the talent competition Pop Stars, a forerunner of X Factor, where she and the other runners up became the momentarily successful pop group Liberty X.
Over the series, Torvill and Dean, famous for being incredibly successful at their sport of ice dance and winning a lot of medals, auditioned amateur none-celebrities (there ought to be a word for people who aren't celebrities now, just to distinguish them. Might I suggest 'ignority', one who is unworthy of notice?) to become their Ice Stars. So, they auditioned a selection of ignorities, all of whom were talented ice skaters, all of whom were wannabe celebrities, and they selected five acts to appear last week, the winner of which would appear live on last night's Dancing on Ice: The Final. The finalists were interviewed, worked with the choreographers from the show, then performed for Jane and Chris, who chose a group of five lads calling themselves The Oxford Freestylers, as being suitably talented but also 'street' and 'out there' for their ignority act. It is important that when sharing a stage with a genuine celebrity that an ignority is either a rough diamond (in their performance, their accent, their intelligence or their clothing) or if showing potentially equal talent to the real celebrities (ie, they've appeared in a reality TV final before as Ray and Jessica had), then they must be only about six years old in order that they will not pose an immediate threat and so that the tabloid press can chart their slow decline into rehab by the age of fifteen.
Am I starting to sound cynical? I do apologise, stay with me, there is a point...
The Oxford Freestylers were interviewed before their performance about what winning Meant To Them. And their youngest member, straight to camera, said that for him, it had been an amazing journey. And it got me thinking... how on earth did a fourteen year old come out with the words 'amazing journey'? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd been listening to Ray, Donal and Jessica for the last hour- 'chance of a lifetime', 'such an honour', 'amazing thrill', 'pleasure to work with', 'didn't think I'd get so far', 'just wanted the experience' almost on a loop, but something struck me about hearing it from someone so young. It's not a natural thing for a teenager to say. And his expression when he said it- so earnest, so serious, so self deprecating- now modesty is all well and good, but I know teenagers, and when they're good at something they like to tell you about it. And I realised, he'd learned it from watching. From our (un)reality TV soaked culture, where every contestant knows that they must strike the right balance between confident and humble, charming and demure, endearing and cheesy, must profess shock when they win and gratitude (and tears) when they lose, must, in short, play the game by the established celebrity rules.
We are reaching a point where our teenagers will expect that when they go for a job interview it will involve a ten minute piece to camera about how much the job means to them, what they will feel if they get it, how much they've enjoyed the selection process, how great it's been to meet the potential employers and other candidates, and a tearful tribute to their nan, who's always believed in them This will be followed by a vote and a prolonged announcement of the winning candidate by the MD. Oh, and lesser jobs awarded for the runners up so no-one feels left out.
I contrast this with three news reports, two from today, one from earlier in the week. In the earlier one, Dr Carol Craig, addressing a conference of Headteachers, warned that the constant drive to build self-esteem in schoolchildren had gone too far, and that we were in danger of creating a society of narcissists, unable to take criticism. 'If we say to people the most important thing is how you feel about yourself, then if a child fails maths and feels bad, it is very tempting for them to blame it on others like teachers and parents.'
The second, from today, was from Childline, the charity set up with the whole purpose of listening to children, and how they feel. They said that the number of children ringing to talk about feelings of suicide had tripled in the last five years, some calls from children under the age of eleven. Tripled. Now this would seem to be at odds with Dr Craig's assessment of the way we manage the feelings of children, were it not for the fact that Dr Craig's job is as chief executive of the Centre for Confidence and Wellbeing.
Now before I get lynched at dawn, please understand, I am a great supporter of therapy, having been in it for several years, and fully support people being in touch with their feelings, an expression which has always reminded me of the old joke about having baths- once a month, whether I need it or not. How do you get in touch with your feelings? By email? a quick call? Perhaps these days a tweet is all that is necessary- in touch in 140 characters or less. And there, in all seriousness, lies the problem.
We encourage children to feel, but then we don't tell them what to do with those feelings once they've got them; how to manage a sense of success and failure, how to form sense of well-being and develop a proportionate response to things around them. We compartmentalise feelings into something you 'do' when a camera is pointed at you, or when a tragedy occurs. We then blur the lines between tragedy, setback and minor disappointment. We set up celebrity role models to show them the correct way to respond to disappointment, the depth of sincerity required to get anywhere ('it means the world/my life/everything to me'- count how many times it occurs on the next X Factor auditions) and the expectation that you too can be Ray, can be Alicia, can be Jade. And I write this knowing the end of that particular tragic drama, whilst already the 'peoples princess' comparisons are being written and the black- edged red- tops tout their particular pledge for a legacy, a tribute, a memorial. We tell our kids that they can have that. They deserve it. And why? Because they're worth it. And then we're surprised when they feel an overwhelming sense of hollowness, of failure, when they wonder what the point of life is and talk genuinely about suicide, and we're shocked by how harshly they judge each other, bully each other to establish the same pecking order that we as the adults show them to be the norm. Dr Craig is right- we have to find a way to teach them what reality is, but more than that, we have to show them some way of handling their feelings in life, and somehow start to realign our culture to promote role models who do that successfully, and I'm not talking about Rooney's little tantrum on Sunday. I'd be willing to bet that the statistics on not only suicide, but also drug abuse and teenage pregnancy would show a remarkable shift if this was our aim, rather than mere A-C at GCSE.
The Oxford Freestylers were fantastic, really, and I genuinely applaud them, the parents who supported them going, and the people who coached them. They were very talented, and their routine was creative and innovative. I just pray that when the lights fade on the Dancing on Ice tour that there is enough satisfaction within themselves to sustain the interest in their hobby, and pass it on to another generation of Oxford skating kids. To find the merit in a journey away from the media spotlight.
Interestingly, the third news item was about a report from Becta, suggesting that parents are beginning to feel left out by their children's reluctance to talk about school and their lives. There's already a psychologist on the case, ready to deal with the anxiety the parents feel about this matter. Maybe we're a generation further in to the narcissism than we thought. How do we teach this new generation of reality culture parents to begin to introduce realism into their own parenting?
Would it be cynical of me to suggest they bought a video camera?

Gone!

The second Nano challenge, title 'Gone!' (exclamation mark optional), genre to be decided by participant (thank goodness), flexible on length (resists slightly risque but obvious double entendre.) Here's mine.

Gone! by Sarah Monteith

As she watched his departing back she tried to recall the salient points of his diatribe but found herself distracted by the tone in which it had been delivered. Yes, it was her fault. Yes, she had had it last, and yes, that meant she was responsible for it, and had likely been the cause of its loss. And yes, when it came down to it, she was the only one who'd been that bothered about it anyway, so, it was unlikely anyone else had done anything with it one way or the other. She'd sighed, and wished she hadn't asked.

If she was honest, she couldn't actually remember when she'd last seen it. She knew she'd had it at Christmas, somewhere amongst all the tinsel and the wrapping paper, but after that... well she couldn't be certain. The days had passed in a blur, and somehow, she just hadn't noticed it was missing. When she realised for certain it was actually gone she'd torn the place apart, going again and again round where she expected it to be, where it was supposed to be, where it ought to have been, checking and double checking, emptying and sorting and searching, manically searching. In her desperation she'd even ransacked unlikely corners, places it would only have been if someone had deliberately hidden it there, delving into the archives of a life, into the boxes of a move, under the floorboards of a rewire and the packaging of old toys. Of course there were references to it in the old diaries, tantalising glimpses, flashes of memory written in carefree hand, its possession taken for granted in her younger years, handled lightly. It appeared in photographs, worn unselfconsciously by laughing teens on nights out. Even on her wedding day... she peered closely at the grainy print, but yes, there it was, clear to see. Shaking albums and envelopes out on the kitchen table was tiring emotionally, physically; she knew it wasn't there, that she was looking in the wrong places, but she was out of options, and she couldn't, wouldn't face the thought that it was... no, it had to be somewhere.

His tone had been... impatient. Yes, that was it, now she put her finger on it. Impatient. As though in his view she had better things to do with her time than all this looking. After the initial patronising cliches, where- did- you- have- it- lasts and I'm- sure- it- will- turn- up- eventuallys, he'd lost his patience. In fact, he'd been so annoyed, the thought had even crossed her mind that he'd taken it, on purpose, to wind her up. She'd dismissed it, but it must have shown on her face, because something had flickered in his eyes, and he'd looked away. He'd walked out of the kitchen at that point, heading out to work, and for a second she'd really wondered... what if he had taken it? And lost it? Not on purpose, not that he'd meant to, but an accident... She shook herself, and tried to move on from the thought. It was irrelevant now. Even if he had, she couldn't blame him. It belonged to her. She should have taken more care of it. He couldn't have taken it if she hadn't let him. Same with the kids. They were kids. They didn't understand how precious some things were. She was the adult, and it was hers. She was the one who should have known where it was.

She allowed herself to stop looking long enough to make a coffee, pouring the steaming water onto the brown granules, fetching semi skimmed from the frost free fridge, stirring tiny white sweeteners in to the insipid milky liquid. She couldn't remember how she'd come to be taking her coffee that way; at university she'd drunk it strong and black, which had the dual effect of keeping her awake in the morning seminars, and saving her from having to buy milk to be stolen from the shared kitchen or develop an entirely independent ecosystem in her room, where the heating was only controllable by taking a hammer to the main boiler. She did prefer it with milk, but the sweetener was a later addition; years of him making it as he liked it and her not complaining had made her immune to the saccharine. She took a sip and wondered what to do.

What if it has really gone? The thought had been knocking at the corner of her mind all afternoon, and she allowed herself to look sideways at it, let it register in her peripheral vision. It was something she'd never considered; for years, even the merest hint of its loss had sent her into panic, left her reeling, unable to breathe. But now it seemed like a real possibility, and she was surprised by how calmly she was able to reflect on it. Perhaps the severity of the situation had focused her mind... or maybe she was in shock. She smiled to herself at that slightly ridiculous suggestion, and set down the coffee cup. Turning back to the table, she collected up the envelopes and papers, and shuffled them together, sliding them back into the box file and snapping them into place, piling the diaries and photographs on top. She closed the lid and looked at the label on the side, pressing her fingers against its corners in a futile attempt to make the ageing glue work and hold them back into place.

She could call someone. Ask for help. This option had taken a long time to come to, and she knew why she'd been avoiding it. Who would she ring? His reaction had been telling; her parents would almost certainly react the same way. And friends? Well, the friends they'd collected over the years would be as unlikely to notice its loss as the kids were... and, if anything, more unconcerned about the consequences. She opened the box again, looking at the photograph on the top, friends from university she hadn't seen since graduation, people who had been part of her life, but were now not known. Her friends. She wondered how they'd come to surround themselves with such self absorbed people, but maybe that wasn't fair, maybe they just had such important troubles of their own that no-one else's... She shut the box again abruptly; this train of thought wasn't helping. Glancing at the clock she realised it was later than she'd thought; they'd be expecting food and she'd said she would cook.
She put the box file on the side and opened the cupboard, extracting the potatoes and carrots that would form the basis of a soup. Taking her rings off she placed them carefully on the side near the empty cup, and tipped the vegetables into the sink, absent- mindedly scrubbing them in the water with the wooden handled brush. She thought again about who she could call, but knew in her heart of hearts that this was her problem, and she'd have to solve it. She was on her own.

She listened to their chatter as she served them the soup, ladled into the warm bowls, chunks of crusty baked bread being torn from the loaf in the centre. She chided them as she heard them tease and cajole, bicker and bitch. The children. Except now they weren't. And in a week they'd be gone anyway, back again to the universe-city all of their own. She was glad for them. She was proud of them. She was breaking up inside. That was the problem with twins, a double whammy for every emotionally fuelled parental moment. She smiled at them and sat, taking her time, savouring their company, just her and them.

They'd laughed at the uni photos, at the hair and the clothes, asking teasing questions about boys and drugs before spiralling out of the door in a whirlwind of see yous and laters, leaving her alone, with the returning awareness of the feeling of loss. She idly picked up one of the pictures and finally knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn't going to find it. Not here anyway. Not in this life, in this house.

Packing a few things into a small holdall she grabbed her keys and bag and headed for the door. At the last minute she stopped and turned again to the kitchen. Taking a piece of paper from next to the phone, she sat once more at the table and wrote.

It's gone!
I know it's my fault, but, I have to find it.
I hope you can understand.
There's soup in the pan.

Setting it on the side, near the kettle, she placed her wedding ring on top of the note, and walked out of the house.

Not My Usual Style...

I'd like to have the time to write an intelligently constructed post about football, the place it holds in our modern day western society, the influence it exerts on culture and media, the money that the industry generates and spends, my relationship with it as a female in a male dominated sporting world, and the James Corden sketch on comic relief, but I don't...

So instead I'll just say... four - one.

:-)

Send in the Clowns...

Today is Comic Relief, and was supposed to be the day we were limerick-ing twimericking for charity somewhere public in Liverpool. I'm tempted to label this post 'procrastination', but in reality, life events took a turn last weekend, resulting in the word 'funny' being buried in the depths of my emotional toolbox, with any potential retrieval seeming distant and unlikely. I'm sure it's not gone for good, but I'm equally sure that the forced effort of writing humour all day would probably have resulted in synaptic meltdown.

Not to say I won't watch it tonight; I will, I really will.

BBC1 from 7pm if you want to join me.

Anyway, enough of the 'woe is me'... I am lucky that my sadness isn't terminal, and that I have sufficient faculties to resolve the situation in due course, one way or another... I just felt that having created 'twimerick-the expectation', some sort of explanation was required.

Also, there's a new writing competition- This Morning and She magazine have teamed up... short story, 1500- 2000 words, deadline 23rd of this month, nice warm up for Screnzy.

Get writing!