Yurt life

Last week I stayed in a yurt. What's that you ask? A yurt. Need further explanation? Well, a yurt is essentially a Mongolian home.  In fact, the literal Mongolian translation for yurt is 'home'.  Made of wood and felt you would be right in assuming that it made for an extremely odd choice of holiday venue.

As my boyfriend and I both run our own businesses it can be pretty hard to take time off, virtually impossible really. This was our first week off since Christmas and our first mini holiday together (despite being together for 10 months and actually living together).  And in my 10 months of being with him I have come to realise that we don't tend to do things that make much sense.  Perhaps because we both run our own businesses we have very different takes on 'normality' or maybe it is because we are just generally odd? ... but less of that and more, yurt.

So, what can I tell you about yurt life then?  Well, for a country bumpkin like me it was utter bliss.  As someone who is on my phone and laptop for around 16 hours a day, barely having signal and leaving my laptop at home was what made it a proper holiday. Like a mini brain holiday too, I found I could almost actually switch of from the world of emails, tweets and skype calls.   No Facebook updates, no work emails (well, that's a little lie) and no constant text messages or calls.

Our yurt was quite simply in the middle of nowhere.  The nearest pub was a good 4-5 mile round trip and it took a long and windy lane to get you there.  But, the view was nothing short of amazing.  Tucked away in the South Downs our yurt overlooked rolling hills.  It really was as pretty as a picture.

Once inside the first thing you saw was the wood burner.  As it was a cold September day I was pretty sure that even though I had brought every item of winter clothing I own (which was a lot, far too much for five days away) that I would still be frozen, and probably quite miserable.  This did not bode well for our first week away.  I am a seasoned camper.  I love a tent and a good camping holiday, I am not someone who demands five star luxury and roughing it is usually my idea of a good time.  But, when you have not been off work for 10 months there is a limit.  But boy was I wrong.  Once that fire got going there was not a woolly jumper in sight.

Proper beds, a roaring fire, wine and card games.  What more could you want? When it rained we stayed in, told stories, drank wine and played cards.  When the sun shone we walked, we ate out and aimlessly wandered around.

At night you could hear nothing but the sound of the fire... and although the mornings were pretty chilly, once you got that fire going even a morning person would struggle to get out of bed.

Yurt life is pretty basic overall.  Basic in comparison to our usual daily lives. No TV, no laptop, no mobile phones, no Sky Plus, no central heating.  Our yurt did have electricity though which sort of felt like cheating, but was vital when you needed a cuppa in the morning.  Although on one particular evening as we got ready to go out for dinner we had a power cut. I didn't think too much of it until I realised I had wet hair and I couldn't blow dry my hair.  Pathetic, huh? The issue was quickly resolved once I sat near the fire. It also meant that we had to shower in the dark, with candles, which sounds far more romantic than it actually is. Fire burns, kids. (Omission of grammar there and that sentence could have meant something different entirely).

For some it would be their idea of hell, including those that hate a creepy crawly (there were hundreds in the toilets) But for me it was pure and utter yurt-loving-countrified-bliss.  Five days was too short, I reckon a month would be too short!  I love my home and a few home comforts but yurt life had everything I needed.  Throw in a bath tub and my cats and I would have stayed there indefinitely.

So, if you fancy getting away from the stuff that stresses you out I would firmly recommend staying in yurt.  Grab your wellies, get yourself down on that farm yurt and light that fire. It can't yurt! And, if I ever disappear, you will know where to find me.

Nothing quite like a nice cup of tea...

I have referenced a 'good cup of tea' in many a blog or two.  I am usually drinking one when I am writing and have even branded my copywriting business around tea.  It is safe to say that tea is an important element in my life.

When I was younger I never really got the whole 'tea' thing.  My first trip to Ireland at 15 was met with more tea than I knew what to do with.  Everyone in Ireland appeared to be a relative of mine and not just any relatives, but ones who come armed with more tea than you could sink a battle ship with.  As an unsure, gawky, 15 year-old I was never really sure what the appropriate response was, 'Erm, I don't drink tea'.  When uttering these words they were usually met with a really confused look quickly followed by sympathy, tea and sympathy.

At uni I became a coffee addict.  I would sink multiple cups of strong, black coffee.  Until one day I went to the Doctors after experiencing terrible stomach pain.  He told me to give up coffee, that 6-8 cups of strong black coffee a day was not an ideal diet, and that perhaps tea would be better.

And there it began, my love affair with tea.  I am not quite sure what it is about tea that makes me smile.  I guess it goes back to being a lover of the little things in life, but it is a core part of my day.  I am currently sat writing this whilst watching Victoria Wood's aptly titled documentary, 'Nice Cup of Tea'.  And it really got me thinking about how crucial tea is to our society, our lives as Brits and what is deemed as quintessentially English.

Tea is personal.  It is not just about whether you like it black, white, with or without sugar.  It is more than that.  Do you drink it from a mug or bone china?  Do you like a strong cup of tea or a milky one?  And what times of the day does one most enjoy a cup of tea.

I have had many a conversation with my boyfriend about this.  It took him four months to make me a cup of tea, during which time I had made him many.  However, the war only really started once he made me the first cup.  It was brought to my attention that he had a few issues with the way I made his tea.  I believed that my tea-making skills were second to none.  A wee bit self-assured and probably a bit premature, but I was going with it.

The war went on.  Constantly trying to out-do each other in the tea-making department.  Trivial, yes, verging on banal even, but such are our lives.  Until I realised just how personal tea actually is.  You see, people may view my cuppa from afar and see it as weak.  But my tea is far from weak.  I love a strongly brewed cup of tea, in a large, heavy mug, with a big handle, with plenty of milk and no sugar.  He on the other hand likes a strong cup of tea, probably couldn't give two hoots what mug it was in, with a splash of milk and a sugar (or two).

You would think that my tea-rant would end there.  But you would be wrong.  There is then the action of drinking the tea.  I would often sit there and look across thinking 'Git, I made him a cup of tea and he hasn't even drunk it.'  Until I realised that he likes to let it cool before gulping it down.  Me on the other hand, well I have an asbestos mouth and can't abide a cup of tea that is remotely lukewarm.  Years of tea drinking has enabled me to gulp a good cuppa down in mere seconds.  He also drinks coffee too which perturbs me slightly. How can one mix and match?  Surely you either love tea OR you love coffee?

He drinks coffee in the morning and tea in the evening.  I drink tea in the morning, mid-day, lunchtime, afternoon, evening and so on.  I could no more get through a day without a cup of tea.  OK, well I tell a slight fib, I try not to drink mountains of tea in a day... but I do have to check the fridge the night before to see if there is enough milk for my morning cuppa.  No one wants to greet a Ciara who has not had her tea in the morning.  Not only am I not a morning person, but lack of tea first thing gives me a headache that gives me the appearance of a grizzly bear.

I could simply talk about tea all day... as one builder on this fab documentary has pointed out, 'It is a long day without a cup of tea'.  He couldn't be more right.  I have even become a tea snob.  I buy the same tea bags now, Twinnings Everyday Tea, and am pretty sure that I will drink this brand of tea till the day I die. Maybe as I have gotten older I have developed more defined taste buds (I highly doubt it), or maybe I just have a very dull life and need to fill it with tea to simply get through.

In my eyes, there is nothing that good cuppa can't sort out.  Tea and sympathy, tea and a cuddle, tea and a good cry, tea and a mountain of cake, chocolate, biscuits or whatever is your 'cup of tea'.  It is liquid wisdom, it is happiness in a mug and it is pure, liquid gold.

Right, that's enough tea talk for one day... I'm parched.

Why is patience still a virtue?

The expression, 'Patience is a virtue' is one that causes me no end of confusion.  And, after much thinking, I have come to the conclusion that the phrase must have been coined in a far, far simpler time. One where people didn't have a full time job to complete, followed by spending an hour dodging idiots in Sainsbury's who can't seem to make up their minds about what to have for dinner, and who appear to insist on blocking every aisle.  Or a time when sitting down to that first bite of dinner meant that the telepathic sales people would call asking for 'Just 30 seconds of your time'.  A time where Sky didn't choose your busiest deadline day to cut your internet and keep you on hold for 45 minutes.  Or a time where you couldn't order something online, pay extra for next day delivery, only for it to turn up two days late.  In moments like these, why is patience still a virtue?

Perhaps if I had children and a husband this concept would be even more infuriating.  At which point I am grateful, that for now, I don't.

But seriously.  Why do we still deem patience as a virtue?  Because by being patient with people who clearly need a rocket up their arse it appears we are a nation of frustrated, hot headed morons.  By allowing patience to become a virtue we have allowed incompetence. We have encouraged lazy idiots who think that they have a duty to 'take their time', to 'forget about manners' and to simply 'wind us up', to continue in such an infuriating way.

I saw this recently... and I laughed, out loud (no, I did not lol, I do not lol, you will never catch me lolling).  It is true, right? I am not one for aggression, and I try to be as patient as I can, when I deem it is appropriate.  But when it comes to normal, every day matters, why do people have to really try you?

One thing that literally drives me up the wall is my name.  Don't get me wrong.  I love my name, I love my heritage and despite hating it as a child, I have grown to accept that it is different.  But seriously, when I have to spell my name out for the 18th time, phonetically,  and I am still being referred to as Miss Cara Sharkar, then yes, forgive me if I am a little frustrated.  And then there is the annual issue with the DVLA.  After amending my SWORN documents, that arrive every year, without fail, addressed to a Miss Gara Sahara, despite my best efforts to inform them, then again, forgive me if I sound irritated, annoyed, even stroppy.

Today was the best one so far.  I know my surname is Indian, and yes, we are renowned for our curries, but calling and asking for a Miss C Masala is a sure fire way for me to simply hang up on you.  If you plan to sell me a service or product that I don't want or need, at least have the decency to get my name partially right.

Patience needs to stop being a virtue.  Being patient with an incompetent person who simply can't be bothered to try, is not a virtue.  A virtue is a good trait, moral excellence, a beneficial quality if you like.  Well, I think what would be most beneficial, and thoroughly morally excellent, is if we stopped being patient with those who come in and out of our lives who really could do with a metaphorical kick up the backside.

I try really hard with the guy at Sky, who when my internet cuts out for the tenth time in a day, and he spends 10 minutes asking if I have pressed the reset button, to not yell, and scream, and shout and have a full on paddy down the phone.  Instead, I say in an ever-so polite tone 'Yes, thank you, Gary, I have tried that, I really have tried everything, is there nothing else you could do to help me? Please'. Do you think he would understand better if I screamed? It isn't in my nature to be rude.  But ignorance and incompetence are two things in life that I simply can't abide.

I am not for a second implying we should all just scream and shout just to get our own way.  But as a reserved nation, heading for a generation of incompetency, do we not owe it to ourselves to point out these matters?  To try some light motivational tactics or to encourage that teenager in your local Homebase to help you carry the 12 litres of paint you are so carefully trying to balance on the new lamp you have just purchased?

Next time you feel your patience being tried, offer a few words of encouragement, refer to the person by name (if they are actually wearing their name badge), make informal chat... and if all else fails, well, then I'm sorry, my patience doesn't stretch that far.

50 Shades of...shite

I know that this is a bit 'behind the times' but I have been meaning to write this for a while.  In fact, I actually read the first book ages ago. Long before it hit the papers, the major reviews, and before it became a cult read.

When it comes to cult reads, cult movies, cult whatever, I usually like to have a watch, a read or a listen before I make up my mind and, well, trash it.  So, currently I am finally reading 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. A book that is deemed the 'second book to read before you die', second that is to the Bible!  So, when I heard about 50 Shades, I decided to have a read.

To be honest, when I first heard about it I didn't even know it was erotic fiction and now that I have read it I, well, I quite frankly don't know what all the fuss was about.  The first erotic fiction novel I ever read was when I was quite young. Funny story actually but it was bought by my Irish-Catholic Grandmother who didn't have a clue what she was buying me.  It was one of those books that enlightens you, and soon became a hit with my 14 year-old male friends at school.

I digress...back to the cult phenomenon that was, sorry, I mean is, the 50 Shades trilogy.  To me it was 50 Shades of pure and utter shite.  I hate to say it, as I know it has had such a huge following, but I don't get it.  The story isn't believable, the situation is laughable and let's just say, the first few 'erotic pages', totally and utterly unrealistic.

More to the point, the writing was dreadful.  After a while I stopped paying attention to the story and was more engrossed at how a book with zero editing ever made it into the hands of readers. Outselling Harry Potter, it has topped more best-seller lists than most books that pre-date it.  How I ask?

But what I find bizarre is that E.L James, author of the 50 Shades trilogy, gained her inspiration from the Twilight saga.  Books that I have to say, I am a huge fan of.  The Twilight books are a guilty pleasure of mine and I was devastated when I reached the last page of Breaking Dawn.  Sad but painfully true! But for those of you who haven't read the Twilight books, seen the movies or have been living in a cave for the past three years, they were written by Stephanie Meyer, a mormon.  Writing the vampire-based novels Meyer was very careful in how she portrayed teen romance and sex, with Bella and Edward waiting till their wedding night to, well, you know! So how 50 Shades of shite in all its Mummy-porn glory can be based on the true love of Edward and Bella, I have no idea.

I never made it to the other 50 Shades books...I simply couldn't get past the poorly-written-trash-littered-with-British-idioms-in-an-American-novel, that was the first book.  Sorry.  And don't even get me started on what it does for a post-feminist era. Did Sex and the City teach women nothing?   So, as the rest of the 50 Shades fans settle down to find out how Anastasia is 'freed' in the final book I will return to my four trusted friends, Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte, to find out about true female emancipation.

'That' business of show...

On a bleak, damp and rather grey Monday evening I was fortunate enough to head to the theatre. Not my normal haunt, you can usually find me in old man pubs, gig venues and wine bars, but not usually the theatre.

However, tonight I was off to see my mystical and magical friend, Neil.  Ever since I have known Neil (around 14 years now, yes Neil, we are getting THAT old) he has been a true magician.  I have seen him perform magic at school, college, in plays and even on stage with another crazy friend of mine, Owen. So great are they together that their shows at the Edinburgh Fringe were a sell out!

Tonight's intriguing title was 'Around the world in 80 secrets'.  So as I took my seat in the teeny-tiny, intimate venue that was the Chesil Theatre, next to Neil's fab Mum and Dad, I was not quite sure what I was in for.  It turned out to be a night of secrets, laughter, tricks and musings.  As Neil took us through his love of magic and art, entertainment and showmanship, it was amazing to see how his magical mind worked.  At some points even I had to gasp for breath as the fast-chattering one-man show led us through the secrets behind many of the worlds greatest, yet truly under-stated, tricks.

Neil's magic is beyond incredible.  Even showing us the simplest of tricks, using nothing but a coin and some cleverly disguised body language, I manage to confuse myself, as well as drop my 50p down the back of my chair.  I could go on for ages about Neil's clever magic, including a trick involving several razorblades.  This was the point in the show where he proceeded to swallow a number of extremely sharp razorblades and then tie them together in his mouth, yep, that's right.  Oh, and then he regurgitated them back as he pulled them out of his mouth tied to a piece of string.  Needless to say, and it isn't that I don't have faith in him, but I watched through gritted teeth and with only one eye open.

But to me, what I find far more mystical and magical than the pure magic itself, is the way Neil captures an audience, the way his mind works and his art of telling stories.  His anecdotes, narrative and jestings leave me in awe of not only his magic but his sheer intelligence.  Neil has always been an incredibly bright chap, but I really could have sat there all night and simply listened.

His art of story telling has always tickled me.  Whenever I see him on stage I find myself still laughing after everyone else has gone quiet, laughing out loud, too loud in the past in fact.  Neil's passion for what he does is infectious.  You leave thinking, 'I want more'.  A master gesticulator, watching Neil is like watching a child seeing magic for the first time, even though he is the one creating it.

I love watching really creative people at work.  And when you are a spectator in his show you get a sense that he is creating magic purely for you, something he has never done before and something he is simply bursting to share with you.

In years to come, when asked which famous people you would most like to attend your dinner party, you will respond with...Neil Kelso.

So, if you are yet to see Neil then I urge you, go have a gander.  And if you want to see some traditional pantomime genie-rubbing-magic-carpet-riding, well, magic, this Christmas, then book your tickets for Aladdin at the Theatre Royal Winchester!

I did it MY way!

Having recently read the fab blog my brit-girl-in-melbs is writing I felt it was time to crack the 'working from home' myth.  Having always had what I deem a 'proper' job, with previous titles including communications manager at Bacardi-Martini and digital project manager at B&Q, leaving my good wage, private health care and steady income, to go-it-alone, was something that baffled my friends and family.  Indeed it baffled me.

Announcing to my family that I was starting up my own business as a freelance copywriter was a shock in itself.  I also had to do the obligatory 'explain what the hell it was' first.  Having grown up in a household where 'work ethic' was drummed in from an early age, and having a part-time job since the age of 14, it became clear that if I was going to get any kind of accolation, one must first prove ones point. But starting up my own business was always something I had wanted to do.

So, last year, as tea and toast developed in its infancy, I found myself trying to make ends meet.  Despite living on my own I had never really had to worry about money as I always had a job that helped me pay the bills.  And, as pride would have it, I was not about to go running home to mum and dad, nor was I asking for help!

Knowing that if I was going to succeed I would have to put my back into it I started cleaning houses and nannying kids.  It was like being the epitome of a domestic housewife, minus the husband and the fancy house.  I cleaned, I cooked, I picked up kids, I helped with homework, I came home, cleaned my own house, cooked for myself and then began my evenings work to study my diploma and set about finding clients. The days were long, and insomnia soon set in.  Despite the broken nails and bags under my eyes it did wonders for the figure.  A self-employment is a diet I would highly recommend.

The thing about starting your own business is that, what seems like a lot of fun, soon becomes a chore and when that pay check no longer makes it way into your account each month, making money becomes hard.  Perhaps it was naivety that has gotten me thus far and had I realised what I was letting myself in for I would have jumped at the chance for a steady salary once more.  Still determined, I continued, and soon the cleaning jobs became less, I retired from the nannying (much to my sadness as the kids were fab!) and the writing became more frequent.

A little over a year later I am sat in my office (new premises are being looked for as we speak), working from the comfort of my own home, and over my first initial hurdle.  However, working from home, and for yourself, can have its draw backs.

There is the oh-so quiet sound of a pin drop, which after a while can seem deafening.  But with much of the work I do, if I had a noisy office I would probably struggle or just fail to do any work at all.  The temptation to talk to yourself, especially early in the morning when you are trying to give yourself a pep talk to get up, and get dressed, can be all too much at times. And then there is the vast amount of distractions, the cleaning, ironing, washing, you get the picture.

Once you have finished your day, realising that time actually is money, you have invoices, reports, client chasing and accounts to keep on top of.  My boss can be a real cow sometimes too!

Looking back it would seem it takes some real self-motivational antics to work for yourself and from home. Hindsight is a truly wonderful thing! It also requires a lot of concentration, something I would say I lack, I mean severely lack (she says whilst writing a blog and staring out the window).  But everyday I am learning.

Working from home and running your own business is yet to truly hit me with perks.  But with my first year under my belt and a website on its way, I will stay humble.  My advice if you are looking to go it alone, be prepared to work hard and to have many, I mean many, a sleepless night.  Don't expect it to happen overnight, be patient and kind.  But with a lot of pride and dedication you will get there.  Maybe not so much of the pride thing, not one for taking help I may have been a little further ahead. So if kindness comes your way, go for it!

If you have got this far, then thank you and please keep an eye out for my new website coming super soon.

Do you remember tapes?

iremembertapes, too.  In fact, I remember tapes so well that I can still remember that feeling when I would make mix-tapes.  The kind that you record off the radio and sit with anticipation so as not to get the voice of the DJ stuck on the end. The ones you would take into your mates at school and swap for the mix-tape that they had made you.  That was how we used to learn more about the music we now know and love.  That was back when a DJ was someone who hit the play button and talked over your favourite songs on the radio.  Not the kind now who give it large behind decks at Ibiza...or your local, seedy club!

Anyways, on topic, but off point.  iremembertapes is the mastermind of three rather cool, and dashing, young chaps, from my home town, Winchester.  Having seen them play live, listened to their records on repeat and recently purchased their latest single (All I know), I felt it was only right I shared the love.

When you first hear a band that 'captures' you, you want to tell the world but, you also want to keep them to yourself.  Bands like Two Door Cinema Club, MGMT and Ben Howard spring to mind.  You hear them, you fall in love, but when you hear them on Radio 1 you kinda get a bit miffed.  It is as if someone has stolen them from you and you want to shout 'I heard them years ago!'

Well, it was the same when I heard iremembertapes for the first time.  Usually, when a friend hands you a demo or a CD you kinda think, 'well, I'll give it a go' and then you have to do the oh so nice thing of reporting back your thoughts.  As a rather diplomatic, articulate person I tend to do OK here.  Yet when front man Tom Ferry (relative of none other than Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music) handed me the latest brainwave from the iremembertapes archive, whilst I was on a rather drunken night out in town,  I kindly mentioned I would give it a listen...

Well that was some months ago now and it is still on repeat in my office.  From the second Human Architecture started blasting 'Don't touch me there' (my favourite track on the album - not a request to those around me!) from my speakers I couldn't help but think about the influences behind this album.  The 80's-esque beat with Ferry's very distinctive vocals immediately gave way to an Alison Moyet kinda vibe in her 'all cried out' phase.  As the album swings from one track to the next you can't help but get taken in by the catchy, yet unique, beats.  Before you know it you are singing along in a rather angsty way, whilst tapping your foot furiously!

The album screams Duran Duran, with lashings of Joy Division, and an equal measure of some Bloc Party style synths thrown into the mix.  All in all it is an eclectic sound that highlights how passionate this band are about what they are doing, and how they treasure the work of some of the greatest bands of all time.

As someone who could listen and talk about music all day long, there seems to be a serious lack of new bands inspired by old raw talent.  iremembertapes are most certainly doing their bit to help bring bands, electronica, synths, the 80's vibe and live music up-to-date

My advice to you...well, 'all I know' is that you should get yourself to one of their gigs.  You most certainly won't be disappointed.  And, if that is not possible right now, head to iTunes and purchase their latest creation.  They truly are homegrown talent at its best!