When Little Miss Organised hit her 30th birthday, she took stock. Now, she thought, would be the Perfect Time to start a family. Only Life had other plans. After a year of trying to conceive became 18 months, Little Miss Organised took herself to the doctors. Being a headstrong and determined kind of girl, she was sure she could overcome this little hiccup, as she’d always leapt every other hurdle in her path with ease. She was a strapping six-footer, after all; healthy and strong and otherwise fit.

The doctor referred her for a series of tests, which revealed blocked fallopian tubes, probably as a result of an infection following that pesky cell-removal op. He said the tubes must be removed. “Sterilisation?” she asked, dubiously. “But I want a family.” “Simple,” he replied confidently, “we’ll perform IVF. You’ll have a family, don’t worry.”

A decade later, and Little Miss Organised has a completely different life to the one she’d expected, the one she’d worked so hard to create. She is sitting on a pile of rubble, rubbing her eyes, shell-shocked. Looking around at the devastation, she strives to take it all in. The big house, the husband, the perfect life – all gone. There are no children; no happy family. Instead, she has an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach, which is partly from the loss of her life as she knew it, and partly from the missing organs that were removed without the potential consequences being explained.

Because not only have her fallopian tubes been removed, but also any hope of a family, and her health as she knew it. The operation plunged her into premature menopause, robbing her of her fertility, her marriage, her health….and almost, for a while, her sanity.

Now Little Miss Organised has a new life. It is not the life she wanted. It is not the life she planned. But it is the only life she has. And, by fuck, is she going to make the most of it. But she’s not going to plan. Well, not in the way she used to, anyway. Because she now understands that, ultimately, she is not in control. She just hopes and trusts that the journey will unfold as it should.

Because Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.

Let go. Let life happen.

The post Let Life Happen appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

It’s around this time, when my bodily constitution is around 40% alcohol, 20% pigs in blankets and the remainder squishy, squidgy Camembert rolling over my waistband, that the post-Christmas regret sets in and I frantically scribble down a list of all of my favourite pastimes, whack the word STOP in front of them, and off I go, lumbering into the New Year, unlikely resolutions tucked in my back pocket – and the faint whiff of imminent failure (along with rotting sprouts) already carrying on the air.

Let’s face it, the only way I’m going to stop all my guilty pleasures is if someone wires my jaw shut in the night, brings back prohibition and closes every nightclub in London (if Westminster Council have their way, the last one is a distinct possibility). Yep, I’m an embarrassingly old Graver (grey raver): one foot in the rave.

I don’t mean to kill your “New Year, New Me” buzz as you skip off happily to the gym, chanting positive mantras and sipping on a green juice that you got up at 6am to prepare, but in my experience these out-of-character transformations tend to fall on their arse approximately three weeks into January when, suffering from stress, SAD and disillusioned by Dry January, my phone jumps back into life as various mates fall off the wagon…and back into the pub. Thank God for that. I hate drinking alone.

I’m not dismissing making positive changes to your life; on the contrary, I’m all for learning, improving and evolving, but I find that change happens when you’re mentally in the right place – not because society dictates that the first of January is the day on which we ditch all our bad habits and become mung bean-munching paragons of virtue. It’s just not realistic.

Change is more sustainable when it stems from passion rather than obligation. Last year I rediscovered my love of writing. Maintaining my blog has been relatively simple, as it’s something I truly enjoy. Funnily enough, the diet and exercise regime I also pledged to keep up crashed and burned at the first hurdle. Strange that.

One day last year, having pulled an all-nighter and smelling like an overflowing ashtray, I decided I was finally ready to stop smoking. I haven’t lit up since and it’s been surprisingly easy. I’d half-heartedly vowed to give up the cancer sticks practically every New Year’s Eve for the last 20-odd years, but I knew deep down it was just an empty promise mumbled to myself; my heart simply wasn’t in it.

So this year I’ve decided to give myself just one simple resolution: work less, live more. I’ve worked relentlessly since I was a teenager, with just the occasional sabbatical to go travelling. Not being able to have a baby means I’ve not had the pleasure of taking those child-rearing years off work like most of my peers. I decided a few months ago that just because I wasn’t blessed with the gift of a family why should I deny myself the greatest gift of all: the gift of time?

Over the past four years, since I downsized my home and life – reluctantly at first due to my newly-single status – I’ve noticed a shift in my attitude. Whereas in years gone by I’d spend every last penny of my wages on buying shoes, clothes and nice things for the house, now I think carefully about whether I really want or need that item…and usually decide against buying it. My motto has become buy less, do more. I want to spend my money on living not having.

So it’s a natural progression that I’ve now opted to reduce my working hours in line with my simpler life. As of this week, I’m cutting my hours to four days in seven. Put simply, as I get older I value my time over money. I’m trading in a chunk of my salary in exchange for an extra day a week doing what I want; I’m effectively buying a slice of my life back.

The way I see it, no amount of money is more precious than time. As long as I have food to eat, a roof over my head and enough spare cash for a spot of travel and fun, I’m happy to make sacrifices elsewhere. Once you have the essentials in life, everything else is just future landfill.

Rather than slog like a hamster in a wheel five days a week, month in, month out, focusing my beady little rodent eyes on some abstract concept of a relaxing retirement, I’m going to grab a little sliver of my time back now, while I’m still young enough – and healthy enough – to spend it doing the things I love.

Because here’s the thing: life is what happens whilst you’re making plans for the future. Yes you can avoid risk, stick to your resolutions, get a pension, eat your greens…but for what? A couple of extra eventless years tagged onto the end of your life in an old folks’ home, blanket across your knees, rheumy eyes gazing off into the middle distance? No ta – I want more free time now.

For me, 2017 is going to be about finding a better work/life balance, making memories and pursuing my dreams. I’m going to write my first novel. There, I’ve said it, so I’ll have to do it now. It might crash and burn, but I have to at least try (I’ve actually started writing books before but given up a few chapters in…but hey, God loves a trier, eh?). I’m going to sprinkle salt on the slug of self-doubt and plough on.

Sometimes we’re so focused on making a living that we forget to make a life. The calendar flips over at an alarming rate; before you know it there won’t be any time left to do all the things you really want to.

When I’m drawing my final breaths and my life flashes before my eyes, I don’t want to have to press fast forward on great boring swathes of Sam Walsh: The Movie because most of it has been filmed at work…

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This article has also appeared in  The Huffington Post.

Sam x


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

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

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post My New Year’s Resolution: Work Less, Live More appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

It’s the age-old routine: girl meets boy, they fall hopelessly in love, move in together, get married, maybe have a couple of kids….then spend the rest of the relationship bickering relentlessly over whose turn it is to cook/clean/take the rubbish out/(insert tedious menial task here).Gradually the humdrum and repetition of everyday life erodes the excitement in the relationship like the sea wears down a cliff-face, until what was once the burning fire of red-hot passion becomes a barely smouldering pile of twigs (only the twigs have more chance of being rubbed together). The only things blazing now are the rows. Cue the painful break-up, the division of x number of years’ accumulated keepsakes and dust-gathering nick-nacks, then it’s back to a life of singledom…until you lock eyes with that hottie on the number 269 bus, that is. And so the perpetual cycle continues…we humans are ever the optimists, at least.The news hot off the global press and translated into every language known to man is that the Brangelina brand is no more; in brutal scenes reminiscent of Fight Club, expect to see a battered and bloodied Brad in one corner of the boxing ring whilst an angry Angelina clings victoriously to their forlorn-looking football team of offspring in the other.

This revelation roused mixed feelings within me: if a couple of pampered Hollywood A-listers with all the trappings and luxuries afforded by their stratospheric movie-star salaries can’t manage to keep the dream alive, what hope is there for the rest of us mere mortals?

This was countered by a certain frisson of satisfaction that though UN ambassador and collector of children Jolie works hard to straighten her halo and fool us with her faux-angelic persona, even she wasn’t immune from an unexpected visit from the bitch known as Karma, who’d been waiting in the wings for just the right moment to requite Jennifer Aniston’s heartache. Revenge is a dish best served cold…and Jolie looked like she hadn’t eaten for a while.

It’s been twelve long years since Ang broke the code by persuing the then-married Pitt (using the same modus operandi in which she previously ensnared the engaged Billy Bob Thornton), so I’m sure Jen couldn’t resist a wry smile as she watched the news unfold yesterday that all was not hearts and flowers in the Jolie-Pitt camp. Ahh, the sweet smell of closure. I must confess, having always been Team Jen, I gave Karma a mental high-five myself.

I remember reading somewhere that the characteristics that attract you to someone will eventually be the very same traits that will drive you apart. I tend to agree. When I first met my (ex)husband, I admired his laid-back approach and laissez-faire attitude. Whereas I was hyper to the point of bursting blood vessels, bulldozing my way through life, he took everything casually in his stride. I figured we’d bring out the best in each other, balance each other out – and for several years, we did. But gradually those differences began to niggle and get all out of kilter: he felt like I was constantly nagging him, whilst I was frustrated at his ridiculously sloth-like pace. I guess you can figure out the rest…

It seems that the old proverb Familiarity Breeds Contempt really is a thing: the more we get to know someone, the less respect we have for them. Depressing huh? On the other hand, familiarity can also breed ‘content’ – that cosy domesticity as you snuggle on the sofa in your saggy-arsed onesie watching a film…or enjoy a quiet meal together without any uncomfortable silences (since you’re both probably looking at your phones). The knowing looks that pass between you can speak a thousand words; the years of interwoven stories and mutual memories. There’s nothing quite like that special moment when you catch each other’s eye and dissolve into peals of hysterical laughter.

Relationships can be like a game of snakes and ladders: one minute you’re winning, on top of the world…and the next sliding down the slippery slope to Single Street. So, how to stop the content descending into contempt?

Listen, I’m not gonna patronise your granny by teaching her to suck eggs – we all know that a little appreciation goes a long way. These points are merely an aide-memoire so I don’t end up being plunged unceremoniously back into the shark-infested waters of the dating pool myself:

1. Show appreciation and communicate – little things like buying their favourite chocolate bar on the way home from work, subscribing to their favourite magazine, sending a few messages throughout the day. Put down your phones and really listen to each other. If you get into a heated argument, let it go (easier said that done, I know). You may “win” the argument…but it’ll be a hollow victory when you lose your partner.

2. Spice up your life – who doesn’t love a surprise meal or a cheeky weekend away?

3. Those that play together, stay together – when you see your partner dressed up, making people laugh and being the centre of attention it’s bound to remind you why you fell in love in the first place.

4. Absence makes the heart grow fonder – after a day/weekend of pursuing your own hobbies or interests (and I’m not talking hookers and weed here, Brad) you’ll have more to talk about when you regroup.

5. KISS (Keep It Simple, Stupid!) – life’s not about acquiring more stuff. In my opinion, it’s about having fun whilst living within your means. Don’t overstretch your finances with material goods, or by buying the biggest house (you think) you can afford. I fell into that trap myself with my ex, and it resulted in miserable late-night trips to Wickes to buy plumbing stuff and lost weekends spent schlepping round Habitat and Homebase, as we rapidly emptied the contents of our joint account. It was like a bottomless pit of expense. We all know money worries can be the death knell for relationships. By using your free income for doing rather than having you’ll be creating memories instead of landfill.

So if you don’t want to go the same way as Brad and Angelina, take heed folks. Please feel free to share with me your top tips for harmonious living.

Meanwhile, over in LA, Jen and her new husband Justin Theroux seem deliriously happy. But then it’s early days…

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This article has also appeared in The Huffington Post UK.

Sam x


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

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

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Familiarity: Contempt or Content? appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

My earliest memory of life is being held aloft aged three by my father to peer through a round cabin-hole hospital window at my mewling newborn sister, delicate as a baby starling, freshly laid that morning by my mum.

Having been the sole previous tenant of her womb, I was a tad miffed from the outset that I was about to be gazumped by this scrawny purple-hued imposter for her affections.  Already, my beloved mother was otherwise engaged with this new kid on the block, hence the clashing brown pinafore and pea-green jumper ensemble that my dad had hastily slung on me that morning. It was the Seventies, but still…

At that age when everything is huge and new and terrifying, a day can seem like a lifetime. When a friend’s child started school last year, she asked her whether she’d enjoyed her first day. “It was okaaaay,” came the uncertain reply, “but I don’t think I’ll be going back, thanks.”

The first stand-out memory of primary school for me came when I was five years old. Another child asked me how many exercise books I had in my bag and as I answered “two” I held up 2 fingers completely innocently, having no idea what the V sign I was inadvertently making meant. That snot-nosed kid began shouting loudly to “Miss” that I was swearing, and before I had a chance to protest my innocence Mrs Coles, the teacher, flew across the classroom, grabbed me off the chair by my wrist and held me up as she used the wooden ruler in her other hand to smack the backs of my skinny bare legs.
I cried hot tears of indignation, exasperated and confused at the injustice of the situation. The punishment was meant to teach me not to swear. Since I hadn’t been swearing and didn’t even know the meaning of the word, it taught me something else instead: Life isn’t fair. Which arguably is a much more important lesson anyway. So thanks Mrs Coles. Thanks a f@cking bunch.

Like most kids, my favourite part of the school day was playtime, when we’d charge out onto the tarmac to let off some steam, tearing about the schoolyard playing games such as runouts or British bulldog. The boys would be panting like overheated pitbulls, tongues lolling, hair plastered to sweaty foreheads, whilst the girls sat sedately on the concrete steps plaiting each other’s hair, playing hopscotch or elastic, turning the occasional spontaneous cartwheel or handstand. To the untrained eye, we’d often appear to be engrossed in a serious game of poker, huddling round in tight circles each clutching a spread of cards and studying them closely, eyebrows knotted in concentration…although on closer inspection by the dinner lady we were just exchanging our Garbage Pail Kids collectables.

On the many rainy days, we’d have to stay inside for ‘wet play’ which sounds sexier than it was: steamed up classroom windows and the aroma of soggy dog, as bemused teachers attempted to keep the hyperactive children under control whilst visibly annoyed that they’d been kept away from chugging black coffee and chain-smoking in the safe haven of the staffroom.

Occasionally a few of us kids would be plucked from class of an afternoon to clean the staffroom, granting us the dubious privilege of seeing this inner sanctum close-up: overflowing ashtrays, lipstick-stained coffee mugs stuck to a stack of magazines, washing-up piled high. At the time we were honoured to be selected; now I realise it was free labour, we were exploited skivvies. Hardly a sweatshop in Bangladesh, but a liberty nonetheless.

When the school bell rang we’d line up and slink reluctantly back to lessons: attempting to solve mind-boggling maths problems copied from the blackboard, reciting our times tables parrot-fashion, reading aloud from English classics, clumsily crafting Viking longboats from balsa wood for our history project. We knew we were in for a treat if the big brown TV on stilts got wheeled out.

I also looked forward to the periodic visits from the nit-lady, finding the experience a pampering moment of relaxation as she raked through my scalp. It really appealed to my inner baboon. It was like a complimentary spa treatment. You pay top dollar these days for a half-decent Indian head massage.

There would be regular classroom disruptions from the rowdy crowd who would be flicking ink from their fountain pens, stabbing each other with compasses or covering their hands in Copydex glue for the simple pleasure  of peeling it off again. They would be sent individually to repent their sins ‘under the clock’ outside the headmistresses office, or made to stand on their chairs as punishment.

I only remember being sent there once, having done my Oscar-worthy Baron Greenback impression (the toady villian from Dangermouse) a little louder than intended. I never have been able to whisper. I had to write one hundred lines:  “I must be quiet in class.” I wrote each line in the voice of Baron Greenback in my head, just to have the last (croaky) word.

At lunchtime we’d flip open Smurf or Transformers lunchboxes and tuck into squishy warm sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil or clingfilm; starchy white bread with a generous stroke of jam or marmite oozing out, hastily slapped together by frantic frazzled mums.

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My favourite was cheese and pickle, a packet of Space Invaders or pickled onion Monster Munch and a Kit Kat or Club biscuit if I was lucky. Occasionally we’d have spam slices with a pig’s face on it in varying shades of pink from Safeway, as a treat. It was like 50 shades of pig. The face went all the way through the meat roll, like a stick of rock – presumably there to inform parents which unidentifiable animal this processed rubbish came from.

Fruit was greeted with disdain and tossed in the bin without a second thought, despite endless lessons about the pitiful plight of starving children in Africa. These moral issues were wasted on us; at our age we had no concept of another county, let alone continent.

Come hometime, we’d rush out of the schoolgates, eager to get home for kids’ TV: Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds, Grange Hill, Thundercats,  The Moomins, Top Cat, Rentaghost, Scooby Doo. Any warnings that we’d “end up with square eyes” fell on deaf ears.

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When we got bored of staring goggle-eyed at the box, my sister Karen and I would batter each other for a while to pass the time, until one of us invariably got hurt (or pretended to) and we were sent to our rooms, where we’d amuse ourselves amongst a mountain of careworn My Little Ponies, Cabbage Patch Kids, Care Bears and Sindy dolls, some with missing limbs, all in various states of undress. Then Dad brought home a BBC computer one day complete with a huge boxy monitor. It was a game-changer, quite literally, and henceforth the toys were discarded and we instead spent countless silent hours playing Chuckie Egg, Space Invaders, Blagger, et al.

The temporary silence would be broken by one of the kids from down the street ringing the doorbell to see if we could “come out to play” and we’d scamper out until dusk with our Rayleigh Grifters,  cycling unsteadily round to the corner shop to stuff our cheeks hamster-style with penny sweets: palma violets, hubba bubbas and flying saucers crammed into a little white paper bag, cola bottles so sugary they made us wince, our milk teeth melting as we shovelled sherbet dip-dabs into our mouths on swizzle sticks.

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Biting the pastel-coloured candies strung on elastic necklaces, blowing Chupa Chups whistles and making Kinder egg toys, we loved the dual-function sweets the best. You could play with it and then eat it. Genius. We’d spend a good portion of our pound note pocket money on this sugary goodness, the remainder being saved for the odd splurge at Nuxley’s, the toy shop on Welling High Street, and then a few years later on records at Woolies, my first vinyl purchases being Whitney’s “I wanna dance with somebody”, and “A different corner” by George Michael, when he was still straight.

Last thing at night, just as she was switching off the light, we’d casually remind mum that we had something of great importance happening at school tomorrow which required a Blue Peter-standard home-made costume, and she’d let out a pained wail and half-heartedly set about cobbling together a suitable outfit fashioned from various household objects, some loo rolls and an old pair of tights.

I got ushered to a fancy dress party inside an old cardboard box once, string holding it up like a pair of braces, skinny legs dangling out the bottom, brightly coloured squares hastily coloured in felt-tips on the sides. I was a Rubik’s Cube, apparently.

I wasn’t a particularly sporty child, but being built like a beanpole had it’s advantages; scissor-kicking the high-jump was a breeze, I practically stepped over the pole that came up to the other kids’ chests, whilst long jump sent me sailing to the far end of the sand pit with ease. My lanky stride was double that of the other girls in my year, so when it came to the track events on sport’s day I was like a rat up a drainpipe.

Birthday parties, to which we’d be formally summoned by way of hand-written invitation with a tear-off RSVP slip, were a seemingly weekly occurance and were often held at various neon-lit fast-food joints. Wimpy was a cut above in terms of class, they even gave you cutlery to eat your burger and chips, and a plate. A china plate! This was impressive stuff, practically Michelin standard to a bunch of nine-year-olds, so we dressed up for the occasion in our finest C&A ski pants or tiered ra-ra skirts with batwing sweaters from Tammy Girl, accessorizing with brightly-coloured plastic jewellery, ankle socks and a slick of rollerball cherry lipgloss.

Everything was going swimmingly. Or so we thought. Then something terrible started to happen. Puberty. Suddenly we weren’t swimming, but drowning. In a sea of our own hormonal soup. Like the famous transformation scene in An American Werewolf in London: hairs started sprouting at an alarming rate, inconveniently and publicly, our faces contorting in angst as these shocking changes took place before our eyes.

Soon, we were behaving increasingly erratically, howling at the moon…and then the transformation was complete.

It was 1989.

We were teenagers.

Things were about to get VERY complicated….

Sam x


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

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

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Old Skool Vibes : Children of the Eighties appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I’m no religious nut, but indulge me in a moment’s imaginative thinking here, if you will. When God/Allah/Will o’ the Wisp/<insert name of your chosen deity here> was sitting on a cloud, idly coming up with his “commandments” during a quiet moment when he wasn’t inventing a flesh-eating spider or unfairly distributing the world’s drinking water, he left out the most important one of all : Thou Shalt Not Take Shit.

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Now I’m not advocating nutting anyone who happens to step on your toe on the 7.56 cattle-class commuter train to Charing Cross, or dreaming up new and novel ways to execute that colleague who doesn’t share your ‘alternative’ world view….nah, we’ll leave that stuff to ISIS. What I’m referring to is having a finely-tuned BS detector, a Wrong’un Radar if you will, and not, under any circumstances, letting anyone take advantage of your agreeable nature.

For me, it’s a no-brainer. It has simply always been thus. As the eldest child, you have to assert yourself from an early age. Show the younger sibs who’s boss. If you don’t lay down the law of the land the minute your mum spawns the second child, there’s gonna be a mutiny. You can’t have the third in line to the throne getting above their station. That way trouble lies. They’ll have their clammy little mitts in your Play Doh mixing up all the pretty bright colours into a mulched murky mass of camoflaged green before you can say “Doh….n’t you dare!”

I reckon birth order definitely plays a part when it comes to no-nonsense attitudes.

And birth signs? Possibly.

I’m not one for sitting cross-legged gazing into a crystal ball with a chunk of rose quartz in my bra to balance my heart chakra, chanting “Ommmm” with a joint dangling from my lips, but there may be some truth behind birth sign behavioural traits.

I, for example, am the very definition of an Aries, the first sign of the Zodiac as symbolised by the ram, and rams do not take any shit. Forceful, decisive, spontaneous; a fracas with me is likely to involve me dipping my head and charging full-throttle, horns first. About as subtle as a brick through a window, my mouth engages long before the brain has a chance to question the wisdom of my latest outpouring. It’s like I have no control over what comes out of my mouth – I’m genuinely as surprised by what tumbles out as the person I’m chatting to. I have no filters.

Having spent a lifetime surrounded by those from different zodiacal zones, I can vouch for air and water signs displaying much more laid-back qualities. Being married to a super-chilled Aquarius certainly made for some interesting scenes. In his words, I was a human pestle-and-mortar; my headstrong nature eventually “ground him into a paste.” Meanwhile, his meandering lackadaisical attitude bordering on total inertia drove me to near-demonic distraction.

As I get older, it’s getting harder to suffer fools. In my younger days, my direct nature was countered somewhat by the awareness of my inequality in terms of life experience; I respected my elders.

Now I AM an elder, it’s harder to bite my lip when someone digs me out. One bonus of having under-eyes wrinklier than an elephant’s scrotum is that people know they can’t talk down to you anymore. Even if you work in retail. Especially if you work in retail. Comments that may once have sent me bawling hysterically to the stockroom to sob are now just water off a duck’s back.

Come at me with some derogatory remark and it’ll simply deflect from my hardened shell. I’m tougher than a stag beetle’s back these days. My wings are like a shield of steel. No wait….that’s Batfink. But you catch my drift.

Put simply, I ain’t taking no crap from nobody.

So is it nature, nurture, or a gradually-developed skill?  Perhaps a combination of all three.

We all know people who are perpetual victims. The human doormats who question why, time and again, people wipe their big muddy Doc Martens all over them. It’s painful to watch as they get repeatedly taken advantage of, as those clumsy clodhoppers gradually wear out their “Welcome.” If you don’t want to be a doormat, get off the damn floor.

Being mates with a doormat is like watching an old flickering black-and-white movie where the vulnerable woman is screaming as she’s tied to the railtrack, the steamtrain chugging furiously towards her. You watch the unfolding scene through your fingers as you know she’s about to get hit. Only this real-life victim has willingly laid down on the tracks, her arms outstretched as she lamely allows herself to be tied down with rope. In the life of a true victim that steam train doesn’t stop at the last second. It doesn’t stop at all.

People only treat you as you allow yourself to be treated. You have to stand up for yourself. Of course, I don’t advocate violence, and anyway it’s not necessary. If you assert yourself early on, people know not to cross you. You teach people how to treat you.

When I was leaving primary school, all the children were given a dictionary, which our teachers wrote good luck wishes in. My form teacher, Mr Redman, wrote a message which did not make much sense to my eleven year old self:

“You are a child of the universe,
No less than the trees and the stars”

 

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That was one of the most valuable lessons you gave me, Mr Redman. The poem is inspiring in so many ways, with so much accurate advice. But the part that you were highlighting was the part that my insecure, vulnerable younger self needed to hear. I finally understood what you were telling me with that message all those years earlier:

“Know your value….and don’t take any shit.”

me sitting next to Mr Redman

Sam x


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

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

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Thou Shalt Not Take Shit appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

So who are the other characters in the sit-com of my life?
Which two innocent beings were responsible for the creation of this bubbling blonde mass of insecurities cunningly disguised as a fierce and fiesty be-atch?
First up, I give you Patricia aka De Mama, the alpha female of the Blake posse:

Standing tall at 5ft 2, she’s a Deborah Meaden/Big Mo hybrid. She resembles the indomitable Ms Meaden not only in facial features but also her staunchly suspicious nature, keeping her (bank) cards close to her chest – her trust is earned.

She’s like a learned owl, and having had her fingers burnt by a few unscrupulous characters and one laptop-hacking bunch of Eastern Europeans, is more security-conscious than The Pentagon. If an email comes in from an unknown source, it’s ISIS.

However, she’s also as street-savvy as Big Mo from Eastenders – she ain’t takin’ no crap from nobody. Like me, she’s an action-packed feisty bundle of ‘tude, who loves nothing more than bustin’ out shapes to the latest Ibiza anthems. She can “big fish, little fish” with the best of ’em. When I would roll in at 6am Sundays (still do sometimes!) worse for wear with a faceful of smudged glitter eyeshadow following a marathon raving sesh, she’d climb out of bed for a cuppa whilst I filled her in on the night’s events. I got my strong twerk ethic from her.

More recently, she zoomed across a series of 650ft-high ziplines above the Costa Rican rainforest despite her fear of heights, grimacing like Wallace and Gromit til her face ached. She’s awesome. The best mother I ever had.

Of course, I didn’t get my height from De Mama, as I’m almost six feet tall. No, I owe my go-go-gadget limbs to my dad, Alan :

My pops is of the old school stiff upper lip era, a hard-working salt of the earth geezer hailing from south east London. He first locked eyes with a teenaged De Mama as she casually tossed her flowing blonde locks and sauntered past him whilst out walking Red, her imaginatively-named red setter, as he was playing football (my dad, not the dog.)

They were soon married and to their shock, surprise and…dismay, I put in an appearance soon after. Letting out forlorn sighs, they accepted their fate; their lives were now ruined anyway so they may as well try for a son too….and then promptly had Karen, my sister. Oh well!

Dad had gone from a carefree young chap to being surrounded by familial females, so he had no choice but to do what any bloke in his position would…..he went down the pub. For oh, about 20 years or so.

He may not have got a word in edgeways in our three-bed semi, but surrounded by his colleagues and mates he was the life and soul of the party. Never one to hold back, he loved nothing more after a tough day at the office than to shimmy on down to Smollensky’s with some clients and have a few bevvies ‘on the baron.’

My parents are chalk and cheese in many respects, and their ability to partake in a par-tay is one of them. Whilst Dad has always been the beer-guzzler, Mum is unconscious, eyeballs rolling, after one whiff of a wine gum. She henceforth became the lifelong designated driver, ferrying a pickled Pops home from their jobs in The City.

No strangers to hard work, they’d both clock up untold hours there each week, striving to give us kids the best of everything. Annoyingly sometimes, they also passed on their strong work ethic to me, making it physically impossible for me to skive off school even if I wanted to : a guilt complex ensured there’ll never be any shirking from home for me.

They also share a love of music, the soundtrack to my childhood being icons such as The Beach Boys, Queen and Abba, played full blast on vinyl on our old Sony stacking stereo. On Friday nights  after the pub my dad would wear out the VHS player watching The Blues Brothers repeatedly on video. Despite a tendancy towards being the strong silent type, I know my dad would do anything for me. He really is top of the Pops…

Then there’s my ickle snish Karen. Born three years after yours truly, she was my nemesis for the first 21 years of my life until I disappeared one day into the Ibizan sunset.

As kids, I’d threaten her with dreadful dreamt-up outcomes if she disobeyed my commands. My favourite was getting her to massage my feet for hours on end “otherwise Misty (our cat) will die.” Cruel I know, but highly effective and a perk of being the eldest. The only perk I reckon, seeing as the youngest generally has a far easier time of it.
Firstborns send mums into a frenzy of cooing and fussing, cleaning and mollycoddling. By the time the second sprog arrives the frazzled mother lets them sit goggle-eyed in front of Peppa on the telly eating fistfuls of soggy snacks, grateful for a bit of respite.

The sibling rivalry ramped up to fever pitch as we got older and the ensuing ‘accidents’ came fast and furious. One unfortunate incident involving Karen being tied with a skipping rope to the back of my bike as I pedalled furiously down the street until her foot was a mangled mess in the spokes. A frantic trip to A&E followed for stitches. Boy, did I cop it for that one!

Another time, she threw a hairbrush at me full-force, which split my lip wide open and left me looking like something out of The Nutty Professor. Never a good look for an already self-conscious teen.

We spent many years in a tight tangle of fighting limbs, just as you’d see in an old Tom and Jerry cartoon…..a spinning ball of bodies with the occasional arm or leg sticking out. Black eyes and bulging bumps were de rigeur. We only stopped arguing to eat or sleep.

Exhausted by it all, upon my return from Ibiza aged 22, we decided to call a truce. My parents heaved a sigh of relief as harmony was (for the most part) restored. Today, she’s my mate and confidante and I love her dearly. We even live a few doors apart in the same street. Her rebellious nature has been replaced with a personality as soft and mellow as marshmallow. She’s almost TOO nice. She is now engaged to Chris and mother to a mischievous two year old son named Hayden, who melts our hearts and tests our nerves in equal measure.

The final remaining member of our immediate family is Gramps, my paternal grandfather who is still going strong at the ripe age of 88. Due to his forgetfulness these days he’s as shocked as anyone else when we tell them his age, such is his youthful constitution and pink flushed cheeks.
He loves long walks in the woods and flickering old black and white movies, although he doesn’t follow the plot so keenly these days and falls asleep mid-sentence like the grandpa in The Simpsons.

So that’s it! The players in the game of my life. You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family, but that’s fine by me as I’d still pick each of them…..

……in a line-up.

Sam x


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

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

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