Public awareness around the huge volume of plastic waste being dumped into our oceans (8 million pieces every day) is increasing, and it seemed the message was beginning to sink in, as people now habitually carry reusable bags for shopping, make greater efforts to recycle their plastic waste, and reduce their consumption of single-use plastics. 

And then the pandemic happened. 

Suddenly, our demand for plastic increased exponentially, as billions of people across the globe were instructed to wear masks, and sometimes gloves, in order to protect themselves from the virus.

According to a new report, humans are globally using and disposing of an estimated 129 billion face masks and 65 billion plastic gloves every single month that we deal with COVID-19.

That’s almost 200 BILLION plastic items every month in PPE – completely aside from our regular plastic waste.

Recent research has shown that Brits alone are sending 1.6 bilion non-biodegradable masks to landfill every month. And coronavirus – and consequently the requirement to wear face masks – is showing no sign of letting up anytime soon. Recent studies have found cotton masks to be largely ineffective, driving demand for plastic PPE even higher. 

Unsurprisingly, the impact of this huge need for face coverings can already be seen in our oceans, where discarded masks (mostly made from plastics that can take decades to hundreds of years to break down) can be seen floating on the surface like jellyfish and littering shorelines around the world. 

And if you thought the pandemic was stressful for us humans, spare a thought for the marine creatures desperately attempting to survive in a sea of our filthy swirling waste. 

If we consider a virus with a 0.01% fatality rate (deaths vs world’s population) to be a global emergency, think of the 100 million sea creatures killed each year by our discarded plastic .

So far COVID-19 has claimed the lives of around 1.2m people worldwide (in a global population of 7.8 billion which, whilst greatly concerning, is a drop in the ocean compared to the number of animals whose deaths we’ve caused. And that’s just the marine deaths that have been recorded – the true figure will be far higher. (If you think the recording of coronavirus deaths is inaccurate, you can only guess at the inaccuracy of the reporting of animal deaths, which gains far fewer headlines.)

One particular animal which has been affected by these vast quantities of plastic polluting our oceans is the turtle. Six out of seven species of marine turtle are listed as critically endangered, with estimates ranging from only 1 in 1,000 to 1 in 10,000 hatchlings reaching sexual maturity. They are constantly ingesting the plastic that is mixed with their dietary items throughout their lives, which claims the life of many turtles, particularly juveniles whose digestive tracts are smaller. 

Of those that do make it to adulthood, they have to physically battle through the litter in the sea and on the beach to lay their eggs. Another obstacle for the turtles to negotiate is sargassum, a type of seaweed also referred to as the floating rainforest. Out in the open seas this micro-algae provides a haven for hundreds of species, but when washed up on beaches it forms a deadly tangled mass, creating walls several metres high for the turtles to navigate. 

The sun beats down on this lethal combination of micro-plastics and sargassum. These small pieces of plastic less than 5mm in length leach toxic chemicals into the turtles’ nests, and the sargassum that gets pushed over the nests by waves then contaminates the environment further, altering thermal conditions and subsequently the sex of the hatchlings: lower nest temperatures produce more males, higher temperatures more females. The sargassum is thought to have a cooling effect, resulting in more male hatchlings and less females, potentially leading to a population scale crisis and subsequent extinction risk. 

Assuming the hatchlings withstand this fraught start in life and attempt to make it back the ocean, they are then faced with crossing these huge barriers of steaming, stinking toxic debris whilst being baked by the boiling sun and exposed to predators such as vultures and other birds waiting to pluck them from the beach as easy prey. 

And we thought us humans had problems! 

Wearing a (reusable!) mask and washing our hands seems like a small ask in our fight against the virus (which is a sickness of our own making, caused by humans, after all) compared with the daily battles being fought by these animals through no fault of their own (again, the blame lies squarely with humankind). 

So what can we do about it? Well, seeing as we created this issue for our oceans, surely it’s down to us to fix it? Two people who are passionate about doing their bit to help these desperate creatures are the appropriately named Angela Warrior and Lisa Good, a philanthropic pair of eco-warriors fighting for the future of our oceans. 

Angela is a marine biologist living in Mexico, where she witnesses first hand the plight of these amazing creatures. On the Mexico Caribbean there is a beautiful marine reserve named Sian Ka’an, whose name means “a place where heaven begins.” Every night, May to November, hundreds of female nesting turtles crawl up the beach to lay their eggs. Sadly, due to the conditions described above, Sian Ka’an is no longer heavenly, as it is covered in mountains of plastic debris and marine algae. Angela is on a mission to fix this, along with her good friend Lisa, founder of Pure Sea, a charity to raise awareness and funds for reducing the plastic in our oceans.

Angela’s plan is to make thrice-weekly beach cleans representing Pure Sea in collaboration with Mar Amor, a local non-profit organisation, to ensure there is enough space for females to nest, and build hatcheries along the beach to protect the nests from being smothered in sargassum.

She will also set up a turtle “camp” with volunteers patrolling the beach to collect Hawksbill turtle eggs (since this species is critically endangered), place them in the hatcheries, and clear channels on the beach for the hatchlings to make their way to the ocean free of obstruction.

For other species, such as green and Loggerhead turtles, she will leave the nests in-situ (leaving the eggs where they were laid), but will apply wire mesh around the nests to protect them from predators; cleaning them regularly to remove accumulated rubbish and sargassum.

Her final part of this robust 5-point plan is to bring children from local schools to assist with the cleans and educate them about marine pollution and how it relates to the wellbeing of our oceans and marine life. 

Lisa, meanwhile, has been hosting regular beach cleans and fundraisers here in the UK since launching Pure Sea in 2018, and continues to do so (virus-permitting!), as well promoting the use of reusable masks (you can contact Lisa here to order your Pure Sea mask and pay/donate here ), and visiting local schools as part of her Little Ripples project. 

Together, they make a formidable team. 

They are raising funds via a sponsored skydive, which is planned for April 2021 (despite Angela’s fear of heights!). Their plan is to dress as turtles for a tandem jump, shouting “Cowabungaaaaaaa!” as they throw themselves from the aircraft at 12,000ft. Now I’m sure that alone will have people lining up to pay good money to see. 

If you have been moved by the plight of these precious turtles and inspired by this pair of middle-aged mutant ninja turtle-warriors, please click the link below to sponsor their skydive and contribute to this very worthy campaign. 

That would be turtley awesome, dudes! 

https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/angela-warrior-1

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

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Our physical and mental health are closely related; tightly interwoven like the threads in this rich tapestry we call life. They cannot be separated from one another without damaging the fabric – if one unravels, the other surely will too.

A healthy mind needs a healthy body to reside in and nourish it; similarly, for a body to function at its optimum level it requires a sound mind at the helm, telling it what to do. You body is the puppet, its actions only as fluid and streamlined as the decisions of the puppetmaster pulling its strings – your mind.

Someone who understands the power and importance of the mind/body connection is Anton Pattenden, a boxing coach living in Kent. Having made the link many years ago, he overhauled his own lifestyle and began reaping the benefits in all aspects of his health and relationships. Keen to pass on what he’d learnt, he began coaching boys and young men in football and amateur boxing.

Fast forward to 2020, and Anton is now a licensed professional boxing coach at Honour And Glory, complete with a fully-equipped boxing gym in the grounds of his Sidcup home. He has witnessed on many occasions the transformative power of exercise in general, and boxing in particular, on the people he trains.

“It’s incredible,” he says. “People who are suffering with chronic anxiety and depression – even PTSD in some cases – have shown a complete shift in their mental state after regular sessions in the ring. Even those who were so traumatised they could barely make eye contact or hold a conversation have totally come out of their shell. You can see the change in these guys’ personalities – and in particular their eyes – as well as their physiques and fitness levels. Their eyes are shining by the end of a session.”

The current pandemic has seen cases of mental health issues soar, with people who may have been struggling prior to lockdown now more isolated and in need of support than ever before. Which is why Anton’s new brainchild, Healthy Minds, a charitable organisation aimed at helping people with mental health issues through the restorative powers of boxing, could not have come at a better time:

“My aim is to help as many people as I can by building their self-esteem and reducing symptoms of stress and anxiety through these training sessions, as well as providing the social interaction that comes with being part of a boxing club; meeting new sparring partners and making new connections.”

Anton’s vision is to connect with other local mental health services and charitable organisations in order that they could cross-refer one another’s services, working together to give their members a multi-pronged, holistic approach to their recovery. He has plans for twice-weekly workshops and a brand new site lined up which is large enough to host them.

This scheme could be a lifeline for those struggling with the crippling effects of depression and anxiety, but is not without a struggle of its own: the one to fund it. Which is where you come in.

In recent months, Anton and his team have been busy training for various fundraising activities, including recently completing a 5-peak climb in the Brecon Beacons, and a gruelling SAS trial. Next week sees the team tackling their toughest challenge yet: the Three Peaks Challenge. This task involves climbing three mountains (Ben Nevis, Snowden and Scafell Pike) spanning three countries (Scotland, Wales and England) in 24 hours. He also has ‘fun walks’ factored in to support the cause, involving multiple 5k coastal hikes. Anton envisages that these types of fundraising missions will become annual events; by bringing people together to participate in these physical challenges they will strengthen all aspects of their health as well as forging social connections whilst simultaneously raising funds for the cause. It’s a win-win.

With so many people, and young men in particular, at grave risk of rapidly spiralling into the depths of depression, accelerated by the current pandemic, this campaign has taken on a particular urgency. Anton, his team, and their supporters are eager to get more of these sessions underway, in order to avoid vulnerable people sinking into the quicksand of mental illness.

Would you like to take part in a challenge to raise funds for Honour And Glory: Healthy Mind? Do you know someone who is struggling with mental health issues who might benefit from the Healthy Mind project? Or would you prefer to show your support by making a donation to this very worthy cause?

Mental illness is something any one of us could succumb to at some point in our lives, due to life events and difficult circumstances, so can we afford NOT to help?

Contact Anton on 07544 737278, or email him at ap@boxingandfitness.co.uk. To make a donation please follow the link below:

https://www.justgiving.com/crowdfunding/anton-pattenden

Thank you for reading, and for your support.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Healthy Body, Healthy Mind appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

The bad thing about being born a human, is that…well, we are highly intelligent creatures, brimming with thoughts and feelings. 

Sometimes all that brain activity, all that emotion, can get a bit overwhelming. Did I say sometimes? I meant most of the time. 

Even for an extrovert such as myself, the (mostly self-imposed) pressure to be on the ball: quick-witted, well-mannered, informed and generally just nice all the time is exhausting. Working in retail adds to that: the shop floor is like a stage, where you always have to be ‘on’: all-singing, all-dancing – jazz-hands at the ready. Actors. And now we have to be actors in full PPE, ‘smizing’ (corporate speak for ‘smiling with your eyes’) above our masks; dancing daily on the cliff-edge of redundancy. 

So is it any wonder, then, that after a long day serving customers, smizing until our eyeballs bulge and jaws ache, we have a tendency to reach for the bottle? Retail workers are like the orchestra on the Titanic, playing on whilst everywhere around them people scurry in all directions, running for cover as the ship lurches and plunges deeper into the abyss.

A long drink of something cold at the end of a long-ass day is like a reward, a pat on the back for successfully completing another 24hrs without committing murder. “Well done, you survived another whole day without sucker-punching anyone,” murmurs the Sauvignon bottle telepathically from inside the fridge, willing you to up-end it into a large wine glass. It certainly takes those jagged edges off the day. 

The experience of being human is so intense that as children we are given dummies to suck on, to pacify us; to stop us crying with fear and anxiety at how scary the big wide world is. As we get older that fear is proven to be justified, but we can hardly be walking around town with a big ol’ dummy stuffed in our gobs, a threadbare teddy tucked under one arm, so we replace it with other, more socially acceptable forms of comfort: cigarettes, vapes, drugs and alcohol. Much better to replace those harmless childish objects with life-limiting addictions, right? At least we’ll get this fraught human experience over with quicker. Jeez, what a messed-up thought process. 

So we drink largely to anaesthetise ourselves from the abject horror of being a highly intelligent spiritual creature, trapped in the confines of a physical body, being controlled by our minds. Why do I say horror? Because the body can restrict us (for example due to illness, disability, being unfit); the mind that controls us is often negative. The brain is always fearful: watching for predators, suspicious, assuming the worst in order to keep us alert and subsequently safe. However the mind’s uber-cautious nature can be like having your biggest enemy – the toughest bully at school – whispering in your ear all day long. We often drink to silence those vicious voices, for some respite, even just for a little while. We get ‘out of our heads’ by consuming alcohol to do exactly that: to get away from the internal chatter for a bit. To numb ourselves against the mischievous monkey bouncing around in our brains. 

So if we’re drinking to escape physical or mental pain, to dampen down our anxieties (or drown them in some cases), or simply to let our hair down and quieten our minds long enough to shrug off our inhibitions, dance, and have fun, surely in order to remove the desire to drink, we need to find a way to quieten the inner chatter in the first place? 

In order to remove the need for that anaesthetic we need to stop flapping and floundering in the choppy waters, drowning in our feelings, and learn to float amongst them instead. We need to find that sense of stillness, a lake to lie back on, toes up, and just ‘be’ instead of constantly trying to swim upstream against the rapids. 

And then the realisation came to me, that one I mentioned in my first blog post, at 3.33am: it’s time to swap spirits for spirituality. Things often dawn on me at dawn. It’s my most productive time (I’m writing this now in the half-light, just after sun-up). If I can find inner peace, the rest will be a doddle. As those sassy-cats En Vogue once sang: Free your mind, and the rest will follow. 

So I decided to get to the root of my problem: my mind. I’ve always considered myself to be a ‘spiritual sceptic’, as in I understand the concept of a higher power, positive thinking, asking the Universe for what you require and being open to receive its gifts and all that stuff. I’ve read The Secret, goddammit! Now where’s all this abundance I was promised?! But then my logical mind takes over, tells me it’s all ching-ching nonsense, rumours spread by people in elephant-print harem pants and nose rings. Hippy hype. 

I might go weeks, months – years sometimes – with zero enlightenment, then suddenly the planets seem to align and the magic begins to happen once more. I start experiencing synchronicity, such as repeated numbers everywhere: 1111, 333….I glance at the clock and it’s 11:11, or I take my ticket in a queue somewhere and my number is 111. It’s a sign. I’m ready to receive. 

I was ready to receive 3 or 4 weeks ago, so the Universe started giving me signs. Got my creative juices flowing. Ok, so it actually got my booze-juices flowing first: I met up with a group of dear old friends for a long-awaited post-lockdown catch-up. But at that long, languid (liquid) lunch, my friend Steve, one of the most spiritual people I know, spoke to me. Or rather, he spoke to my soul. 

I’d been having a rough time mentally, my monkey mind dragging me to places I didn’t want to go…and his words soothed my frazzled nerves and calmed my senses. Hearing him speak, I could feel my stress leave me like a spirit departing a recently-deceased corpse; my tense shoulders sag. I told him “I really needed to hear this today.” Because I did. And then we all got drunk. 

That evening, I told my partner Dave about our conversation. About the books Steve had recommended. And like the sweetheart that he is, Dave dashed out the next day and bought them for me. 

And so it came to be that I immediately tipped the last of the Smirnoff down the sink, swapping spirits for spiritual scripts. The Power Of Now by Eckhart Tolle is as good a place as any to start honing your new mindset. Read it. Once you start to understand that your mind is merely an organ in your body and not your entire being you can learn to control it. To quieten it. To live in a place of consciousness, in the present. The past and future are just illusions. The present is all we have. 

Instead of being controlled by your mind, it’s time you controlled it. Once you can master this, or at least be aware that this is the goal, you’ve taken the first step towards inner peace. The desire to get “off your nut” will dissipate, because you won’t be feeling so nutty in the first place. When you are at peace in yourself, you don’t feel such a desire to dumb down your senses. You can experience them from a higher plane. You’ll resonate at a higher frequency. 

Am I talking mumbo jumbo? Maybe. But surely if you’ve listened to my nonsensical mumblings on a night out, three sheets to the wind, it’s worth listening to me now, when I’m fully compos mentis? This time there’ll be no mind-altering substances involved. We’ll be doing this completely sober. 

Come on, escape the limitations of your unconscious mind. 

It’s time to get completely out of your head. 

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Swap Spirits For Spirituality appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

‘I’m starting with the woman in the mirror

I’m asking her to change her ways

And no message could have been any clearer

If you want to make the world a better place

Take a look at yourself, and then make a change.’

I love these lyrics. (I used to love Jacko too, but that was before he went looking for himself and happened to find what he was searching for in the underpants of young boys. Allegedly, I should add – don’t sue me, Latoya). 

But isn’t now, 2020, the most fucked-up, melon-twisting year of our lives so far, a good time to look in the mirror? Time to take stock of our lives in general? You might not be able to make the world a better place, but you can always work on making your world a better place. 

Since starting this new blog If You Booze, You Lose, documenting my self-improvement journey to alcohol-free living, I’ve heard gossipy rumblings on the grapevine that I must be a full-blown alcoholic, said with the slightest whiff of schadenfreude. I’m sure none of you are losing sleep over this little conundrum, but for the purpose of clarity: I’m not an alcoholic. Not even close. (If you read last week’s blog found HERE, you’ll see that I explain exactly how I’d categorise myself). Haters, I’m sorry to disappoint you huns. 

There hasn’t been any dramatic catalyst for this lifestyle change; no spectacular fall from grace. I didn’t get arrested; the bank aren’t threatening to repossess my house. No, I’m not about to be made homeless; you won’t need to avert your gaze as I ask if you can “spare any change please?” as I sit cross-legged outside the Sevenoaks Waitrose, my grubby palms pressed together like the praying emoji (I’m nearer Aldi actually, but those shoppers are generally as skint as I am, as a lone-living retail-working divorcee). No, I’m just a perfectly imperfect mid-life human being on a quest to be the fittest, happiest, most mentally agile version of myself. That’s it. 

But then I got to thinking: why are some people so quick to throw shade on my parade, trash-talking my public declaration of discontent with my drinking habits? Dissing my endeavours. What is it that’s made them ask other, closer, (better!) mates of mine if I’m spiralling into the abyss? Genuine concern? Or maybe…fear? 

Perhaps my admission has unsettled something buried deep in their gut, something they’ve pushed down, down, down – deep below Saturday’s Sauvignon and the greasy kebab that followed, deeper than the Sunday morning hangover cure  comprising a fry-up and emergency diet Coke. This thing they’ve buried is so deep and uncomfortable that it’s given them acid reflux, a stomach ulcer, and is now finally being expelled from their gassy rear-end…and into my pals’ DMs. No wonder they’re talking shit – it’s been brewing for long enough. 

This thing that’s bothering them about me giving up alcohol? 

I reckon it’s their own deep-seated unease. Unease at their own lifestyle choices. Rather than reach out and admit their own failings, it’s easier to dismiss mine.

“It’s ok because she’s just a weak-willed alchy. I’m nothing like that…” 

By telling themselves I have a serious problem, their own problem seems smaller, more manageable. How do I know this? Because I’ve done it myself. Not necessarily out loud, but I’ve certainly told myself in my head. I’m not as bad as that. It’s much easier to run with this narrative than confront the issue, head on. 

I’ve looked in the mirror and decided a few tweaks are necessary, having caught sight of the bulging boiled-egg eyes the morning after, and the tell-tale half-drunk bottle of red in the background. (See, if I was really an alcoholic that bottle would be empty ). But by doing so this openly it’s as though I’ve swivelled that mirror round and held it up to you, too. 

Do you like what you see? 

If so, sweet. No Pepto Bismol needed for you. If not, what is your grumbling gut trying to tell you? Instead of ducking out of sight of the mirror, why not face it and join me on this journey? Perhaps we can bolster one another. I won’t bite, honest. (Well, not unless you get the absinthe out – that shit does strange things to people). If I’ve got a resting bitch face it’s usually because I’m thinking. (I don’t smile and think at the same time, that’d be like applying mascara with my mouth closed.) 

I dare you to stand in front of the mirror and ask yourself to make a change. Look at yourself; really see yourself. Not just when you’re absent-mindedly brushing your teeth of an evening whilst rerunning the events of the day through your mind like a silent movie. Clear your mind and do it properly. Look past the face you show to the world, the bravado. Look into your eyes. Look within, into your soul. Are you truly happy, at peace with yourself? 

Because unease, that deep-seated anxiety, or should I say the hang-xiety that comes with regular alcohol or drug use, or any addiction for that matter (food, gambling, sex) leads to disease. Dis-ease. Not being at ease in and with your self. What starts out as fun gradually drains your energy and dims your light. You’re brighter, sharper, funnier and better company without it. You don’t even need it. It’s taken me a long time to really comprehend that fact.

Life is a game of snakes and ladders, full of ups and downs. We are all players in this incomprehensible race, hurtling at speed towards the finish line: death. Now that’s one competition nobody wants to win. 

Old habits die hard. So do addicts. 

It’s time to make that change. 

Day 15

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post (Wo)man In The Mirror appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

It’s 3.33 on a Saturday morning and just like that, I’ve had an idea; a lightbulb moment has roused me from the fitful slumber of a muggy summer’s night and catapulted me into the excited mental state of someone on the cusp of a brand new adventure.

After months of nursing a chronic case of inertia I’ve woken alert, with the crystal-clear clarity of someone whose new path is finally becoming visible, after years of wandering aimlessly through the hazy maze of life. It’s like someone finally took it upon themselves to chop back the overgrown meadow that is my unkempt existence and reveal the neatly-kept garden hiding beneath the brambles. Having blitzed my home over recent months, my Lockdown Elf has finally decided to work on my Self. The planets are aligning and the Universe is calling me once more. My get-up-and-go got up and went…but change is in the air. I can taste it.

So what is this big ‘Aha!’ moment I’ve just had? Have I discovered the cure for COVID, or the elusive formula for world peace? Hardly. In the grand scheme of things, it’s nothing. I’ve not reinvented the wheel. The producers of Dragon’s Den won’t be calling anytime soon. But – don’t go! stay with me – because to me, and millions of functioning fuckwits like myself, it could be something. It’s not so much about what I’m going to do, as what I’m going to not do. If I’m talking in riddles, I apologise. Let me start at the beginning…

Hello. My name’s Sam, and I’m an alcoholic.

No, not one of those alcoholics; those sad-sacks who roll out of bed at lunchtime, fumbling for the sticky half-empty (or half-full, depending on your optimism levels) gin bottle on the bedstand with shaking hands, chugging it down with barely a wince. No no NO! That simply would not do. No, I’m one of those normal alkies, silly! You know, the respectable ones with full-time jobs, a mortgage, neat-as-a-pin houses with expensive-smelling diffusers and fresh flowers in a vase on the dining room table…and a lorry-load of empty bottles cunningly concealed in the garden, to be removed under cover of darkness, lest the neighbours see. I’m one of those. I’m one of you. 

Of course, they all do the same. The neighbours, I mean. We wouldn’t want to embarrass one another by accidentally locking eyes as we silently drag the previous week’s glass recycling out of the front door like we’re trying to dispose of a dead body, the telltale trail of red wine snaking down the driveway. Of course, we’re all faaar too middle-class to be cold-blooded killers – the only things getting murdered in sleepy Sevenoaks are crates of Malbec. Any decaying corpses are purely our own on a Sunday morning after a Saturday night sesh.

No, like you,  I’m not a proper alcoholic – I just get blasted at weekends (with the occasional midweek mashup thrown in to spice things up). I wear my tortured soul on the inside, thankyouverymuch. I’m not a daily drinker – or even every other day for that matter – but I can’t remember a single social occasion when I’ve shrivelled my nose up at a visit to Sozzletown.  I’ve never dreamt of letting the side down by being one of those bores who turns down a Negroni. I have a work hard, play hard attitude. I’m a Weekend Offender.

Then Lockdown happened. And life became one long weekend.

Lockdown for me, like so many, was a time for reflection and spiritual awakenings…usually whilst knee-deep in wine bottles at 2am, chatting animatedly to my partner about What Really Matters In Life whilst wearing activewear that I’d slipped on that morning fully intending to do the daily Joe Wicks PE sesh. (Intending being the operative word.)

The keys to the New Normal were finally handed to (most of) us at the end of June: Bumbling Boris peering through shaggy blonde locks, imploring us through the tellybox to come out of hiding and get back to work, and we nodded, albeit apprehensively; square-eyed after months of goggling at Tiger King on Netflix. We reluctantly wriggled into our work uniforms, now a little snug-fitting in places, and tentatively emerged from our locked-up living spaces looking a tad dishevelled, like when they flip the lights on at the club at 6am and you stumble out into the weak London daylight, blinking like a newborn after the darkness, trying to drink in your first glimpses of this Strange New World.

Drink.

Did someone say drink?

I’ve always been the kind of person who applies myself wholeheartedly to the task at hand, launching myself headlong into things. Fellow Aries, you’ll know where I’m coming from – us rams go at it heads down, horns first. We grab life, and all those we encounter, by the cajones (in the nicest possible way, of course). So my approach to drinking in my teens was no different: I locked horns with the target and challenged it to a duel. The booze won, of course. It threw me on my arse. Undeterred, I got up, brushed myself off, and went at it again. Once more, it floored me. But I didn’t mind. I’m nothing if not determined. Another person, another personality, might have walked away. Not me. I got back in the proverbial saddle and continued to drink, battling hangover after brutal hangover, drunken mishap after embarrassing boozy facepalm, until…

…I got quite good at it. I became a professional piss-artist.

I had fun – lots and lots of fun. I have Sauvignon-soaked stories that’d make you laugh until you cried. I have stories that’d make you just cry – from shame; sadness; shock. I have many, many, anecdotes of wild times. I worked a few seasons in Ibiza: say no more. I could write a book of silly sozzled shenanigans (if only I could actually remember most of them). I’ve lived. I’ve travelled the world. I’ve loved. Laughed. Married. Divorced. I’ve suffered and survived heartache greater than I ever thought I would, or could, endure.

And that’s just it: I’ve survived. I’m alive. And I’d quite like to stay that way, actually. People have passed through my life; come and gone. Many have stayed by my side, loyal, clinging like barnacles on a shipwreck at the bottom of the ocean, keeping the shared secrets of our lives like the buried treasure that lies beneath. The one true constant that’s always been there with them, by my side through thick and thin?

Alcohol.

My faithful friend. Or is she? I’m not sure now. Alcohol is definitely a SHE though, of that I’m sure: erratic, prone to mood swings; unpredictable. One minute swirling on the dancefloor, twirling and giggling, the next offering someone out for spilling her drink. Having her as a bestie is both a blessing and a curse. She’s that friend who’ll bolster you, telling you what you want to hear (”that dress really suits you – buy it!”) whilst simultaneously sniggering as you walk out of the loos with your too-small skirt tucked in your knickers. She is one two-faced bitch.

Well, friend. The gloves are off.

This time, Alcohol, I’m in charge. And I’m calling time on 30 years of ‘friendship’. 2020 is the year of change. And, yes, I’m looking at you, sweetheart.

The time has come. I’m calling you out. You and me are done mate.

But can I really ditch her? Only time will tell. Time, and a few thousand judgy social media followers. I’m telling you because I need your help to blow out the weekly blow-outs. I’m on Day 7.

Are you with me?

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.ifyouboozeyoulose.blogspot.com

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (lifeabirdseyeview)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
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The post Last Of The Summer Wine appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

So, can you spot whose tan is real and whose is fake…?

https://www.thesun.co.uk/fabulous/9336288/four-women-strip-fake-tan/

Sam x

The post In Which I Pose In My Bikini For The Sun appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

So do you know what I did?

None of it.

I didn’t go to uni.

I didn’t become a model.

Why? Not because I didn’t have the intelligence, looks, or the ability. I didn’t go because I was lacking that one vital ingredient for success: self-belief. I didn’t think I was worthy. I woke up and told myself I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t good enough.

Yesterday, I got signed to a model agency. The first one I applied to, in fact. A second one is now interested in signing me too. I’m not telling you this to show off (although I am a teensy bit proud of myself). I’m telling you this because one of the most important gifts that comes with age, experience, hard times, knock backs and failures is self-belief. Resilience.

Ironically, before life had truly chewed me up and spat me out I had no confidence whatsoever. Yeah, I gave it the big’un; pretended to be the buoyant bolshy blonde that everyone expected me to be, but inside I was a terrified little mouse. It was only AFTER everything went wrong that I discovered my true inner strength and confidence.

On paper I’m a failure: I work in retail for a start. I’m divorced. Childless. Single. Living alone. But for the first time I know my value, and I understand my power. I don’t suffer fools gladly. I take no shit.

And yesterday, the Universe rewarded me with a modelling contract, aged 43. I’m not the smooth-skinned, innocent 18 year old I once was. I’ve got scars and flaws and wrinkles (many, many, wrinkles). But for the first time in my life I’ve also got confidence. And muscles (don’t forget the new-found muscles). And I’m going to look down the lens of that camera, and I’m going to bloody well own it.

Sam x

The post The Power Of Your Inner Voice appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I thought about my life: about how I arrived at this place, in this room, at this moment, alone with my thoughts. I pondered how far I’ve come in this past decade: from a place of extreme sadness, fear, helplessness, anger and injustice, to the current feelings of strength, wisdom, contentedness, acceptance and peace. I had been unable to change my fate: the inability to have a child. So, slowly but surely, over time – in stages so tiny and gradual as to be almost imperceptible until I look back at them retrospectively over this lengthy period – I came to terms with my situation.

I can finally see all the great things that I am, rather than focusing on that one thing I’m not: a mother. And I thought that sharing this seismic shift in perception might be useful to someone else currently struggling to see a future and find a way out of that dark maze of pain. So I sat up in my bed and wrote this poem. Always remember: you are unique, special and worthy. You are enough. You will get through this, and come out stronger than you ever thought possible. You will not only survive; you will thrive.

Badass Superstar

I’ll never be a mother

Is a statement that has taken

A decade for me to speak aloud

And even now, I’m shaken.

Sometimes the thought pops into my head

That I’m no longer someone’s wife

I never thought that ‘divorcee’

Would become my title in life.

But instead of dwelling on what I’m not

I list all the things I am:

A sister, aunty, boss, daughter and friend

Who answers simply to the name of ‘Sam.’

I’m a lover of life, a writer

I crave adventure; parties; fun

Dancing and travelling are my favourite things

I’m a free spirit; a party of one.

So don’t focus on the things you’re not

Instead remember what you are.

You’ve survived through all life’s highs and lows

You’re a badass superstar.

Sam x

The post Badass Superstar appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

“Thanks babe,” I replied, beaming.

“….yeah you know, that chunky one whose book you were reading on holiday. Amy…Schumer?”

“Oh yeah…right…”

I peered in the mirror, deflated, and vowed silently to lose it, once and for all. The man, I mean. That would be 13 stone of excess baggage gone in one fell swoop.

To be fair, he had a point: both Amy and I bore more than a passing resemblance to Miss Piggy in those days – and I clearly liked to hang out with a muppet.

So I gave him the heave-ho…and vowed to heave my arse to the gym.

Faulty relationship dealt with, it was time to continue with my life admin and take stock of my lifestyle. Having stopped smoking at the age of 40, I had been slowly taking baby steps towards a healthier lifestyle. Very slowly. Like, sloth speed. But then the comfort and familiarity of a long-term relationship, coupled with the creeping waistline of the classic middle-aged spread had kiboshed my (admittedly half-baked) attempts at reducing my addiction to baked goods.

Now, aged 42 and 2 stones heavier than I’d like, I was sat drinking sugary cocktails with a group of girlfriends. “I’ve really let myself go these last couple of…years”, I wailed. The girls guffawed into their pornstar martinis. I knew what they were thinking: a few weeks or months, fair enough, you’ve (barely) taken your eye off the (prawn) ball, but…years?! That was just carelessness. I hadn’t realised how long I’d been battering the buffet and chugging hot chocs until I uttered those words. No, no, no, this would not do…

It took me another six months before I took any action, instead choosing to make half-hearted mumblings about joining the gym, or that this would be my last slab of carrot cake (ahhhh carrot cake, my delicious – but malicious – friend). Then, suddenly, my 43rd birthday loomed large…and I knew it was time.

And the change – when it finally came – was huge, instant, and overwhelming. Anyone that knows me knows that I don’t do things by halves, hence the voracious appetite that got me in this pickle – mmmm…cheese and pickles (said in a Homer Simpson-esque drawl) – in the first place.

Overnight, I changed. Since I’ve lost the weight and got in shape I’ve been inundated with requests for information: how did I do it, what support have I had, is there some magic potion I’m touting?

So, Bird’s Eye Viewers, I’ve decided to impart my pearls of wisdom with you. Are you ready? Here goes…

I ate less.

And then.

I moved more.

Sadly, it really is that simple. Or not, as the case may be. It turns out it’s true: nothing tastes as good as fit feels. You have to make a choice. BUT – and it’s a big but, just like mine was – there is also one (surprising) secret ingredient in my body transformation recipe for success, which ladies of a certain age may well be interested in…but more about that later. (I know, I’m such a tease). This is how I lost 2 stones in 2 months and feel incredible, and you can too…

1/. Buy some body fat scales

There’s nothing more likely to give you the boot you need up that big ol’ blubbery backside of yours than stepping onto a set of body fat scales (mine were 12 quid from Aldi – bargain) and discovering you have the same basic body composition as a pork scratching. My initial reading showed I weighed 12 stone 1 (I know – ouch!), was made up of 37% water, 10.7% bone, 30.3% muscle…and a whopping 37% fat! Whaaaat?! Almost 40% lard? Now I’ve been told that body fat scales can be slightly off-kilter, and you don’t have to be Carol Vordermann to notice that those totals come to over 100% (like, how?)…but if there’s ever a time the cold hard facts will slap you in the face after years of guzzling and gorging, it’s when you step on them there body fat scales. You have been warned! I logged my progress every few days, and my most recent readings are: 9 stone 8, 53.5% water, 11.8% bone, 36.1% muscle and 22.2% fat. So I’ve now lost 2.5 stones and 15% fat in 3 months…I’ll take that! I’d recommend monitoring your progress every few days at first, then weekly once you’ve achieved your goal weight (oh yeah – set a goal. You need to know what you’re aiming for and stay focused). Warning: it gets addictive. Sometimes I weigh myself twice a day. I just don’t want to ever go back to having the same fat content as a deep-fried Mars bar.

2/. Take body measurements

As well as stepping on the scales, you’ll want to see the difference in your vital statistics. I’ve dropped 2 dress sizes and lost at least 3 inches from each of the areas I measured – sadly as well as hips, thighs and waist, this also includes my chest…waaaaah! So I may now be the proud owner of a set of abs you could grate cheese on, but the same goes for my ribs. And my boobs resemble two peas on an ironing board. What can I say? You can’t have it all. Well, unless you’ve got a mate on Harley Street and a spare 5k knocking around…

3/. Cut out sugar

Like, completely. If, like me, you’re partial to gallons of liquid calories in the form of sugary tea and coffee shop hot chocolates (I had the front to request a ‘skinny hot chocolate with extra chocolate sprinkles’ with a straight face as my standard staple beverage, day-in, day-out, for years), then you’ll probably have to go cold turkey and banish all hot drinks except for herbal teas. Drinks are empty calories. Brucie Bonus: green tea may taste like swamp water, but it is loaded with energy-giving caffeine and aids weight loss like a pro. Cane it like there’s no tomorrow. Well, upto 3pm, that is. Switch to peppermint after that, and then chamomile before bed, otherwise you’ll be on ceiling duty all night (ie awake and buzzing your bits off).

Oh and note that I specifically singled out ‘hot’ drinks. We all know wine is the stuff of puffer-fish faces and bloated bellies, but I’m not giving that up. Not yet. No siree. But strangely, despite still swigging Sauvy B like it’s going out of fashion, it doesn’t seem to hinder my weight loss. At all. Happy days! If you do everything else I did, I reckon there’s still room for a few cheeky bevvies. Because all work and no play makes Jackie a dull girl. And anyway, when I’m drunk I dance a lot, so it’s all part of the exercise plan, amiright?

I cut out all the obviously sugary snacks completely though: chocolate, sweets, crisps, cakes – all gone. I’ll still have the occasional dessert when I’m out for dinner, but don’t even think about buying those badboys for the house. Ever. Why put temptation in your way like that? It’s like inviting a grizzly bear over for dinner and asking it nicely not to savage you.

4/. Walk, walk, walk (or better still: run)

I don’t drive. I know – shocker! Believe me, the world is a safer place without me behind the wheel. But what this also means is that I walk everywhere. Especially now I’m single without a Jeeves to ferry my ass around town. I walk at least an hour a day, quickly, on my (uphill) commute, which, combined with standing all day in my job as a beauty boutique manager, means I average around 15k steps a day. Every little helps! And if you can run somewhere instead, even better. I run home from work when I can. The lure of the fridge when I get there spurs me on. Oh, and dance at every opportunity. But coming from an old raver, that goes without saying, surely.

5/ Remove red meat

I only eat red meat as a treat when I’m out these days. Actually, that goes for most meat in general. For me, dinner is all about the oily fish, salads, seafood and stir fries (minus the sugary sauces – just a splash of soy or hoisin).

6/ More fruit and veg

Fruit is high in sugar, but at least it’s natural sugars. Rather than snacking on chocolate and sweet treats, I’ll now have Greek yoghurt with blueberries, or dried apricots, raisins or cranberries in portion-controlled snack packs. Nuts are great for snacking too, but high in calories (and oh-so-moreish) so beware! Vegetables may be the food equivalent of a geeky librarian – boring af – but just get them down you and move onto more interesting pastimes… (oh, and sex them up with a sprinkle of chilli flakes).

7/. Be prepared

I always make sure I’ve got my water bottle and a supply of healthy snacks with me to stop me reaching for the bad stuff when the hunger pangs kick in. I pack my bag military-style, like a mum, in the mornings: ready for every eventuality. There’s nothing worse for your diet than being hangry and surrounded by nasties from the naughty list seductively calling your name. I also ensure I’ve got my gym kit with me, for impromptu urges to work out (yes, I do actually get them these days – freak!).

8/. Reduce carbs

Starchy carbs are not your friends. Bread, pasta, potatoes, white rice – get in the sea, the lot of ya! I eat only wholegrain seeded bread (one slice as toast per day, in the morning with two scrambled eggs and maybe a small avo, a few mushrooms or tomatoes), sweet potatoes instead of regular ones, brown rice. Portion control is key: little and often works best for me.

9/. Gym/weights/classes

BodyPump is BRUTAL – but it works. Ditto Spin. I spend every minute of each class looking at the clock above the instructor’s head, willing it to be over. But when it is – oh the buzz! The rush of endorphins coupled with the smug knowledge that you’ve completed a super-tough workout and will be burning calories for the rest of the day is worth the pain. The gym is good too – I use my watch to see how many calories I’ve burned which keeps me motivated – but for fast results, the high-intensity classes are where it’s at. Plus those grim-faced gym receptionists levy a fine if you cancel one with less than 24hrs to go, so there’s no dropping out after work when you just CBA and are fantasising about lying on the sofa scratching your arse and watching a boxset whilst eating Cheerios from the box (or is that just me?).

Oh, and get some Sweaty Betty workout gear (preferably half price in the sale because it ain’t cheap). It’s the shit. If you look and feel good in your gear, you’re more likely to get it on and get shredding.

10/ Be App-y!

There are TONS of apps and YouTube videos you can work out to in the comfort of your own home, but for me the best one is FIIT (click here to get from the App Store). It has a wide variety of free workouts for varying abilities and results, and they are a manageable 25 or 40 minutes long. I squeeze in a few a week in between the gym and classes.

11/. Power to the Playlists

Soundcloud, Spotify, Mixcloud…whichever your cloud, crank it up LOUD! The faster the beat, the quicker you’ll move your fat feet, so make it techno or house music all the way, baby!

10/. Photograph your progress

As well as weighing yourself and recording the results in a notebook trainspotter-stylee, plus taking regular body measurements for inch loss, snap a few pics to track your progress. Refer back to how you looked at the start to keep you focused. I had more chins than a Chinese phonebook just a few short months ago! The comments from people will encourage you too (ignore the skinny-shamers: they’re just jel!).

11/. Get some fitspo

Have a picture of your ideal body goal saved on your phone to spur you on. These gorgeous girlies with their ripped abs are my current fitsporation. They are abs-olutely flab-less!

Ok, so if you’ve read thus far you may be thinking “Yeah, yeah…this is all obvious stuff…nothing new to see here…” Well, now for my piece de la resistance. Ladies, if you’re perimenopausal or have already gone through the change (I had a surgical menopause mid-thirties which you can read more about here ) I give you…drum roll…

12/ Tibolone

This stuff is magic, masquerading as HRT. But not just any HRT. It’s the souped-up, lowered suspension, pimped-up, boy-racer of the hormone replacement therapy world. Instead of regular HRT, which contains oestrogen and progesterone, Tibolone is converted by the body into three components: oestrogen, progesterone, and….testosterone. And therein lies the difference. It’s a game-changer. Your energy levels, sex drive and general joie de vivre will soar, your body fat will plummet and your muscle mass will increase. Get to your GP and get some pronto*. Thank me later.

So if your fitness levels are in freefall, your weight is climbing, and your grip on your wobbly bits is as loose as Britain’s Brexit plan, it’s time to take back control of your borders. Surely if bumbling Boris can become our next prime minister, you can shift a few stone?! Of course you can. Good luck!

*DISCLAIMER: I’m not a doctor. I’m not a fitness guru, a nutritionist, nor a personal trainer. I sell make-up for a living. This advice – in fact, ALL the tips here – are purely based on observations and learnings I’ve made since I began my fitness journey a few short months ago. I repeat: I am not a doctor. Everyone’s different and responds differently to different things, and Tibolone is a serious hormone-altering medication with side-effects, like any other. If you follow my plan and end up with Popeye-style biceps and a beard that would put Brian Blessed to shame, don’t come knocking at my door. Got it? Good.

Sam x

The post I’m Taking Back Control Of My Borders appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

As the country, nay the world, descends into maternity mania once again at the arrival of yet another blue-blooded baby, our newspapers and newsfeeds awash with the details as if the arrival of a child was something unusual in a world already buckling under the strain of 7 billion humans, spare a thought for a moment for the women for whom this public display of pronatalism causes deep dread rather than excitement: those childless-not-by-choice.

It’s the question that every involuntarily childless woman dreads, and it almost always comes from another woman: “So, how many children do you have?” Rarely does the interrogator even notice the subtle shift in the demeanour of the object of her questions: the sudden peak in heart rate, the deep breath as she reaches down into the depths of her soul and steels herself to deliver the most emotionally-charged of revelations in as casual a manner as she can muster: “Oh, none, actually.”

The childless woman silently pleads with the other female to read the warning message in her eyes to leave it there, change the subject. This rarely happens. “Oh, you didn’t want any? I can’t say I blame you (grabbing one of her wayward offspring by the arm and gently strapping them into the buggy), it’s such hard work. You can borrow one of mine if you like.” And off she goes, buffered by her burgeoning brood, completely oblivious to the small fragment of the other woman’s heart that she has inadvertently chipped away and crushed to bits under the retreating buggy’s wheels.

Being an infertile woman myself, scarred by my failed quest to become a mother, I had felt like an inconvenience to society; an insignificant other. So when I came across Denise Felkin’s photographic project entitled Mum’s Not The Word, a collection of 50 images representing the 20% of women in the UK who are childless or childfree, I was eager to take part – despite the fact that to do so would require me to pose naked in the foetal position, exposing my body as well as my soul. I was undeterred by this requirement; finally, my voice would be heard. As founder of The Non-Mum Network, I enlisted other women from my group to take part. They were willing to do so for similar reasons to my own: whether reluctantly childless, or childfree by choice, they felt their stories deserved to be told; that their existence as a woman without children is every bit as valid as that of someone who has reproduced.

And so it was that one sunny summer’s day in 2017 I travelled to Brighton, my duvet in tow, and disrobed for Denise. A childfree woman herself, she immediately made me feel at ease, and before I knew it she’d snapped away and the shoot was complete. As I nervously awaited the resulting photographs to appear on her screen and wrote the short script that would accompany my image, a sense of calm, empowerment and pride came over me: I had spoken up for childless women everywhere. And it felt good.

And I was not alone. The group of women willing to share their stories and pose naked for the book grew – their reasons for not being mothers as diverse as their skin tones, nationalities and backgrounds. Amongst the women who volunteered to be laid bare, challenging the viewer to appreciate how it might feel to experience life in her skin, is Ellen Rose, the cover girl for the book. “I never had a good relationship with my own mother,” she says simply.

Other participants such as Kat Adam, cite ambivalence towards parenthood. Mel Kalay says that “my life is fulfilled in many ways without children.” Some of the women have been influenced by environmental factors. Tamara says: “There are too many people on the planet already, and I fear for future generations in the light of our rapidly-changing climate.”

Some have thrown everything science has to offer at their motherhood mission, only to be left with nothing to show for their efforts but a greatly diminished bank balance and tainted personal relationships. Some have lost children.

The quotes are by turn shocking, inspiring and sometimes heartbreaking, but always brutally honest, as we invite you to see the world through our eyes as non-mothers. Rather than be dismissed as selfish spinsters or crazy cat ladies, our stories, printed alongside our unfiltered photographs, reveal our pasts, which, like our bodies, may not be perfect, but they are one hundred per cent ours. And we’re not ashamed to claim them.

Mum’s Not The Word, published 31st May 2019, is a groundbreaking photobook about women without children. The nude images of real women in the foetal position challenge the negative attitudes within society towards women who are not mothers, and the text shares their stories of birth and death, choice, freedom, pain…and regret. Mum’s Not The Word debates the social stigmatisation of women, who, by choice, circumstance or otherwise, go against the instinct for childbirth and maternal productivity.

To find out more go to www.mumsnottheword.com. To purchase your copy of the book click here.

Sam x

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