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.