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Solar eclipse

So, what does one do on the day of a solar eclipse when one is just a hop, skip and a jump from a beach hut on the south coast? Well, one hops, skips and jumps down to the beach to view the spectacle of course. At least, one ambles down with a flask of coffee and a danish. When I say danish, I don’t mean that I’m going down to the beach with someone from Denmark. Or a rasher of bacon. Although either of those would have been nice. In this case though, I am referring to a vanilla croissant crown left over from yesterday’s ‘breakfast meeting’. The actual total eclipse, (“turn around, bright eyes…”) is actually eclipsing over the south coast at approximately 9.35am. I arrive at my beach hut at

I Heart My HR

Measuring the amount of steps you take, or the distance you walk or the speed you travelled at or the calories you burned while travelling or the route you took or the rate of your heart beat while you were active, before you were active and after you were active always seemed a bit of a waste of time and vital energy to me.The sort of thing reserved for heath geeks and fitness freaks. Why would I need to know these details? Or care about them? Surely just getting out and doing some exercise is enough of an achievement without monitoring every moment of motion like some sort of obsessive lap counting robot. Exercise and activity are about feeling good, feeling better about yourself, maybe ge

I think I missed my flight…..

I think I missed my flight….. My flight left at 6.55am. I needed to be in the taxi by 4.30am. I was sitting on my balcony drinking granola from a glass. It was 10.15am. I didn’t get on the plane. This place can do that to a girl. I’ve heard stories of women who came for two weeks and stayed two years. Women who came on holiday and ended up buying a house here. Women who spend months at a time here; able to work remotely, able to escape. Hot-desking in paradise. I turn the pages of my diary to next week to see what I have to be home for. The page is dangerously empty. I could stay another week. As I look out over the sea, the bright sunshine bouncing off it’s gentle ripples and turning it fro

Lesvos Refugees

I didn’t go to Lesvos to help the refugees. I went to Lesvos to deliver humourology workshops at the International Women’s Festival In Scala, Eressos. But when you are on the island that is dealing with an alleged 50% of the refugee landings you can’t help but become involved. When Nicky met me at the airport she was also meeting 350kg of donations from friends in the UK. Her partner had found out that a Thomas Cook flight was flying with 64 empty seats and talked them into using the consequently redundant luggage allowance to deliver the much needed clothing, nappies and toiletries to the refuge centre in Molyvos. When we passed through Mytiline I got a glimpse of the temporary ‘camps’ that


Yesterday morning I sewed a lilac fringing onto a turquoise tablecloth and in the afternoon I laid some vinyl flooring. I haven’t felt such a heady mix of butch and femme since I crafted myself a pink satin cummerbund. I’m renovating a caravan. Two caravans actually. If you are to imagine that a caravan is a bit like a tiny house then renovating one is a bit like renovating a tiny house. Or two tiny houses. And in the same way that a house has walls and windows and floors and furniture and curtains and a bathroom and a kitchen with a fridge and an oven and a hob that needs gas and a tap that needs water and a spare wheel that needs pumping up, well so does a caravan. Actually, houses don’t h

“a bit like maxine”

Of course on finally stammering out the words to my mum that I thought I might be “a bit like Maxine” I thought my message was clear. Maxine had come out as a lesbian to the whole family and was openly in a relationship with another woman. My mum’s reaction though, was: “oh don’t be so silly.” After all that? After weeks, months of planning when and how I was going to tell her, my mum’s sole retort is “don’t be so silly??” After countless weekends of returning to my new girlfriend with my tail between my legs and the admission that I hadn’t come out again. That there just hadn’t been the right moment. That she wouldn’t be coming to Sunday lunch anytime soon. That was all the riposte I got? “


Growing up I always suspected my youngest cousin to be...to be....well, to be, er...you know...”on the other bus”. “Batting for the other team”. Or as a favourite comedienne of mine says, “she licks t’other side of t’stamp”. You know who you are Julie Jepson. But you’re right, it is a stupid expression because stamps do come already sticky these days. Fact is. There isn’t really a good euphemism for someone being a lesbian. Not that I know of. So, I’ve decided to create my own, fabulous, new saying - based on my own coming out story. Like I said, I had always suspected my cousin, Maxine was probably a lesbian. She was (and still is) a couple of years younger than me so when she came to visit

Heavy shoes

The doctor frowned a bit when I said that I saw it as a relief that I’d spent the last 25 years ‘caning it.’ I took note of her precision symmetrical bob, her perfect nails, her bright eyes and the framed pictures of the two beautiful young clones perched on the windowsill and wondered that perhaps she didn’t know what ‘caning it’ was. “Do you know what I mean?” I asked. “I think I do,” she offered. “Like, the fact that I’ve been so debauched up until now means I’ve just got to be less debauched from now on.” “That’s right,” she smiled. “You are going to need to make a few lifestyle changes. And I suppose the first of those would be...” she paused and looked at the computer screen, “I sugges

sing when you’re springing

Spring started last Thursday. That’s not a song title. It’s true. The song title is “spring started last tuesday” and as it was trendy in the 90’s - when the song was composed - to have a bracketed suffix, there was a bracketed suffix of (when I met u). It was also trendy to use the letter “u” in place of the word “you” and this was before texting was even invented. Imagine. spring started last tuesday (when I met u) all lowercase, was the opening track on my album “fruition” (also lowercase). It was written in the early throes of falling in love - less than a week into a budding romance - and speaks of how, in this heady period of an affair of the heart, the sky seems more blue; the grass

spring started last tuesday (when i met u)

never tried to write a love song - no no babe i never needed to thought the world had enough love songs then i met you and now the grass is greener - yeah yeah there’s a bridge over every stream and birdsong’s sweeter i’ve met you and the sky is more blue or it’s red and gold behind you and the magpies all fly in twos i’ve met you dawn is lighter the day is brighter sea is deeper the ocean’s wider on sunny days the sun is warmer and love lies round each corner - yeah and there’s a new blue in my eyes more stars shine in the night sky and i’m closer to paradise i’ve met you i’m still loving you with each new day tomorrow more than today spring seemed to start last tuesday when i met you the b

the first text is the deepest...

So, on a delightful walk through Highgate Woods I bump into an old friend and get bumped into by an enormous shaggy haired black bear. Which turns out to be my friends new puppy. A very energetic giant poodle called Lulu. She’s utterly beautiful and is literally bouncing off the trees, pounding down the paths and jumping over logs. The dog is quite lively too. Ha ha. That was like an old fashioned joke. So, me and my friend - who shall remain nameless - were chatting, and I was saying how gorgeous her new puppy was and she was telling me how long she’s had the dog and how often she walks her and what she eats and where the vet is and then she laments the fact that she doesn’t have her phone

misty memories

Today I entered into a new era. I didn’t really want to but it just happened. My cousin has a twenty year old son. Let’s call him Hector. Which may be his real name, it may not. Hector has read my blog, or at least he says he’s read the first three lines of my blog...then, in his words, he “wandered off, or fell asleep.” When I seemed unimpressed by him being unimpressed he pointed out that to encourage him to carry on reading I should be more ‘engaging’. “You’ve got to capture the reader...make them want to read on...” Thanks Hector. Bet you’re blummen well reading on now eh? Hector....Hector? Wake up. Yes, so, Hector was staying the night at my house because he has a meeting this morning a

you can’t catch me...

Is it a sign of the world we are living in that if you cough or sneeze in public these days instead of offering sympathy and medical advice, people just back away with their handbags over their noses screaming: “Don’t you dare give me your lurgy”. On the tube on Saturday night one woman sat next to me and blocked her left nostril all the way from Camden Town to Kennington. I am well aware that currently my resting breath sounds similar to an asthmatic with an iron lung attempting to play the harmonica, but it’s me that’s suffering from an unspecified or indeterminate illness here. Not you. So why is it that every time I clear my throat I feel I have to apologise profusely and announce that y

giving up giving up

If, like me, you have failed to ‘give up’ the thing you said you’d give up for New Year, and have also flunked ‘second chance’ Chinese New Year, fear not. Today is ‘third time lucky’ Ash Wednesday. It’s ironic that this is often referred to as ‘a moveable feast’ because this is the part in the story where the grown up beardy man Jesus spends forty days and forty nights fasting in the desert and being tempted by a very persistent bogey man. Consequently, in (some parts of) the modern world we choose to abstain from luxury to pay tribute to his misfortune. Except on Sundays. We get let off on Sundays. Try telling Jesus in the desert that. Personally I think we should ‘give up’ reading silly st

Ahoy there!

What a wonderful weekend! 1970’s themed dinner party on Friday night. Prawn cocktail and melon balls; coq au vin, (sophisticated); crepes suzettes; all washed down with Babycham and Grand Marnier. Classy. Authentic. You should have seen the table cloth. Not to mention the cravats. Ah, that’s lesbians for you though. Speaking of which, the RYA Dinghy Show (“want that one, want that one, want that one”) was on this weekend at Alexandra Palace which is a mere hop and a skip, or maybe more of a tack and a lee-oh away from my house and my lovely old mate (as in we’ve known each other for years, not as in ‘mate’ on a ship - it’s a dinghy show, we’re not pirates.) was working there for her company,

Chill out, it’s the weekend

Ok, so, when I said this isn’t going to be a blog about being on a diet, I meant it. But I sort of lied too. I have embarked upon a regime shall we say. A seven step plan which I hope will fill me full of energy, put a spring in my step and may, just as a positive side effect, encourage me to shed a few pounds. A few stone even. To cut to the chase, the first step of seven is to ‘chill out’. To lower my body temperature. By wearing less clothes (in the safety of my own home) by turning the heating down (good for the pocket too) and by partaking in cold showers and outdoor swimming (now hang on a minute...) All these things are good and the theory is that if you’re cool you keep more active t

Die with a ‘t’

Now, this isn’t going to become a blog about being on a diet but, as well as all the other awesome, amazing, reportable things I do on a day to day basis I am also trying to lose weight. “You’re not trying very hard”, I hear anyone say that has seen me, pictures of me or the size of the portions I manage to consume in the last three years. Well, that’s all about to change. And yes, I may have said that before but this time it really is different. I’ve decided for definite this time, it can go on no longer. Besides, I’ve already taken the ‘Before’ pictures. Faced with having to look smart for a wedding last month I was forced to buy a new outfit. I have been avoiding buying any new clothes un

oranges, lemons and bananagrams

Last time I went to spain with my mum and dad we stayed at Fuengirola in an apartment complex with a pool and a bar and restaurant. My brother, a couple of friends and I had a villa by the pool. Mum and Dad and some friends of theirs had an apartment above the bar which they moved from after the first night because it was full of noisy British slobs singing La Dolce Vita until 2am. (The bar, not their apartment.) It was our last ever holiday together as a family. That sounds more dramatic than it should. That sentence doesn’t end with the phrase “we just didn’t know it at the time...” We very much knew it at the time; we had planned it that way. We had come to the end of that particular road

mum, dad, madge and me

When my parents suggested that I visit them on their recent trip to Spain I imagined reading a good book by the pool of a white washed finca set on a terrace of almond blossom and started looking at cheap flights. “Late February will be best,” mum suggested. “It’ll be warm and sunny then and we’ll be settled on site.” Ah yes. On site. Of course. Forget the finca, mum and dad would be ‘on site’ in their motorhome. Essentially this means rows upon rows of couples in their sixties and seventies that have driven to southern Spain in motorhomes and caravans from England, Holland, France and Germany to enjoy warm climes and cheap brandy. That’ll still be lovely, I’m sure. As long as it’s nowhere

viva a spanner

So, I’ve started my blog and now I’m off to Spain for a week. It’s an exciting time. Chinese New Year, then the festival of Imbolc; also celebrated this weekend to welcome in the spring. Seems a bit early to be welcoming spring - although as I celebrated (sang a song and ate some cake) up on the heath I did notice a literal ‘host’ of golden daffodils and some very pretty little purple crocusses. Should that be croci? Probably, spellcheck hasn’t underlined it. So, Imbolc. Spring. Originally a pagan festival associated with the goddess Brighid, it’s more about the lambing season really. Imbolc means “in the belly” and refers to ewes having lamb in their belly’s. It actually ties in with the co

© 2018 lara A king Website by Giselle Louise Ryan

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