Monday 10 August 2009
Wednesday 29 July 2009
Release Ronnie Biggs now!
What is the purpose of prison? I thought there were three or four possible reasons for imprisonment. First, to punish the perpetrator for a crime. Secondly, to rehabilitate the criminal. Thirdly to prevent the prisoner from committing any further crime and last but apparently not least, for revenge. Oh yes, and “Justice” fits in somewhere between all of these.
I don't understand the Government's stance on Ronnie Biggs. The great train robber and criminal ‘celebrity’ of our time has certainly been punished. Does anyone disagree with that? Unfortunately he's past rehabilitation (I looked it up in the dictionary.... rehabilitate: restore to normal life by training, etc, esp. after imprisonment or illness; restore to former privileges or reputation or to proper condition) and can’t be restored to normal life by training or anything else because allegedly, the poor bloke can no longer speak, walk or talk as a result of several strokes and other health problems. Ergo, we don't need to prevent him from committing further crimes because he couldn’t even get himself out to nick a newspaper at this stage. Justice has been served and I really think that all of us, with the apparent exception of Jack Straw, have had our revenge.
Mr Straw’s much quoted reason for keeping Biggs banged up is that “he remains wholly unrepentant”. That may be so but where in the prison manifesto does it say that repentance is one of the pre-requisites for release? You can call me a cynic but I’m willing to bet that of the hundreds of prisoners released back into society over a year or two, one or two of them may possibly remain “wholly unrepentant” and may even be planning their next crime as we speak.
The original sentence was excessive; the time simply didn’t fit the crime. Ronnie Biggs has now surely paid his dues? His life is all but over, the man is clearly on his last legs and, my fellow tax payers, we’re funding him in prison when he could be back in the bosom of his family who would have the pleasure of funding his remaining few weeks, months or possibly even a year or two.
Let him out for goodness sake. What harm could it do?
I don't understand the Government's stance on Ronnie Biggs. The great train robber and criminal ‘celebrity’ of our time has certainly been punished. Does anyone disagree with that? Unfortunately he's past rehabilitation (I looked it up in the dictionary.... rehabilitate: restore to normal life by training, etc, esp. after imprisonment or illness; restore to former privileges or reputation or to proper condition) and can’t be restored to normal life by training or anything else because allegedly, the poor bloke can no longer speak, walk or talk as a result of several strokes and other health problems. Ergo, we don't need to prevent him from committing further crimes because he couldn’t even get himself out to nick a newspaper at this stage. Justice has been served and I really think that all of us, with the apparent exception of Jack Straw, have had our revenge.
Mr Straw’s much quoted reason for keeping Biggs banged up is that “he remains wholly unrepentant”. That may be so but where in the prison manifesto does it say that repentance is one of the pre-requisites for release? You can call me a cynic but I’m willing to bet that of the hundreds of prisoners released back into society over a year or two, one or two of them may possibly remain “wholly unrepentant” and may even be planning their next crime as we speak.
The original sentence was excessive; the time simply didn’t fit the crime. Ronnie Biggs has now surely paid his dues? His life is all but over, the man is clearly on his last legs and, my fellow tax payers, we’re funding him in prison when he could be back in the bosom of his family who would have the pleasure of funding his remaining few weeks, months or possibly even a year or two.
Let him out for goodness sake. What harm could it do?
Wednesday 1 July 2009
The pain of panic attacks - doctors failed to spot symptoms that affect one in ten of us
I hadn’t planned to die on 10th August 2003, in fact I was just entering a new phase of life. Having emerged from the backside of an agonising divorce, I was on holiday with the new man.
I finished my coffee, had my cigarette and left the hotel restaurant to take the two-minute walk back down the steep hill to our bedroom. It was a beautiful, hot day. And then it hit me. Half way down the hill, the most excruciating pain I had ever experienced thumped me in the middle of my chest stopping me in my tracks. It sucked my breath away as it travelled down my left arm.
Oimigod, I must be having a heart attack. Too young, too young.
By now, sweating profusely, I summoned up everything I had, forcing myself to walk slowly back to our room, hoping I’d arrive before I kicked the bucket. When I got there, I collapsed onto the bed, perspiring, very nauseous and groaning with pain. I could hear my man happily showering whilst singing Bob Dylan’s ‘If you gotta go, go now’ blissfully unaware that only yards away, I probably was about to go, right then.
The pain was agonising, I tried to slow my breathing down willing it to pass but I felt a strange sense of unreality. I was concerned. How would he cope, emerging from the bathroom to find my dead body on the bed? I was on the verge of calling out, just about unable to bear the pain any longer when, as suddenly as it had come on, it vanished, leaving me feeling fragile and exhausted.
Having had a friend who’d suffered with angina I knew the symptoms and that, I concluded, was what it was. Not a heart attack but a pre-cursor, warning to me to give up smoking, lose some weight and take more exercise. I resolved not to tell him indoors about it (why ruin the holiday after all?) but to see a doctor when I returned home.
Once home I reasoned that it was a one-off and that would be the end of it. How wrong I was.
A couple of long months later, the same crushing chest pain, accompanied by nausea, woke me one morning. I felt faint, I was sweating and a sense of foreboding overtook me. Yet again, I was too scared to go to the doctor and told myself that clearly it was only angina and probably wouldn’t kill me - yet.
The next attack came on six weeks after that, the fourth one around a month later, followed by another one a week later. What was happening to me?
For New Year’s Eve 2003, we had decided to drive to France for the weekend. We arrived late on December 30th, had a fabulous meal and went to sleep. The following morning, the by now familiar crushing chest pain, faint feeling and sickness again awoke me. This time, the colour apparently drained from my face and, feeling really very sick, I rushed to the bathroom only to pass out on the way. He deftly caught me just before I hit the floor whilst losing control of all my body functions. Enough was enough; it was time to see a GP.
Over the course of the next 12 to 18 months I was referred to a neurologist, a gastroenterologist, a cardiologist, an endicronologist, an immunologist, a gynaecologist, a urologist and several therapists. I had EEG’s, ECG’s, endoscopies, colonoscopies, manomentries, ultrasound scans of my vital organs, allergy tests, hormone screening. I stopped smoking and drinking, started taking far more exercise, and I went through a process of food and drink elimination, testing possible triggers one by one.
I was prescribed low-level anti-depressants along with drugs to control acid production in my stomach and Nifedipine – a magic drug that instantly alleviates angina symptoms. Still the episodes continued, increasing in number and intensity until I was having one, two or six per day. Alarmingly, they were now happening at any time and I remained unable to pinpoint any discernible reason or trigger. One really bad day, I had a terrible episode at home and dialled 999. The ambulance service arrived in less than ten minutes, whisking me off to Hampstead’s Royal Free hospital where concerned doctors ran a battery of tests – all of which were very thorough and totally non-illuminating.
By now I was truly terrified. I was convinced that despite all the tests, they’d missed something major. Was it my heart? Maybe some previously unknown form of cancer? Something to do with my digestive or respiratory system? This was taking over my life, I was frightened to be alone lest I faint, fall and injure myself. I worried that I may die at home in bed or on the kitchen floor to be discovered by my then 14 year old son thus condemning him to a future on the therapist couch. It was very debilitating. It was horribly tiring. It was truly bizarre.
During all of this, my anxious parents had mentioned my problem to a friend. He suggested that I might be having stress induced panic attacks, he recognised the symptoms. I ‘pooh-poohed’ this ridiculous, amateur diagnosis. Yes, I may have been through a brutal divorce. Yes I was under pressure but I just wasn’t the sort of person who would be prone to something as mental as a panic attack. I was the sort person whom others relied upon for help and support, not a weed who had to get out of the kitchen. I could take the heat.
One day, in an idle moment, I punched ‘panic attack’ into Google UK. 1,290,000 results showed up and the first one I looked at offered the following:
A panic attack is a severe attack of anxiety and fear which occurs suddenly, often without warning, and for no apparent reason. The cause is not clear. Stressful life events such as bereavement may sometimes trigger a panic attack.
Various symptoms then occur during a panic attack. These include one or more of the following:
• Palpitations or a thumping heart.
• Sweating and trembling.
• Hot flushes or chills.
• Feeling short of breath, sometimes with choking sensations.
• Chest pains.
• Feeling sick.
• Feeling dizzy, or faint.
• Fear of dying or going crazy.
• Numbness or pins and needles.
• Feelings of unreality, or being detached from yourself.
Lordy, lordy. Save for the choking, I was experiencing all of those symptoms each time I had an episode.
The relief I felt upon reading the words on that website was palpable. But could it really be possible that this was all simply a physical manifestation of what was going on in my mind?
I had my work cut out. My next port of call was a different GP who agreed with my diagnosis and immediately referred me to a psychiatrist.
At my first consultation, the psychiatrist suggested that I take heavy-duty anti-depressants (or anti-panic medication) for six months to a year in tandem with having something called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and breathing lessons. Eh? I’d always thought I’d pretty well mastered the art of breathing a while back but apparently my problem stems from hyperventilation and I’d got myself into bad breathing habits. I resisted the anti-depressant route feeling that their potential side effects (such as feeling worse before I felt better, putting on weight and losing my libido) would definitely send me spiralling into a suicidal, let alone depressive, state. I didn’t in all honesty even feel depressed, just chronically anxious about my world, the Universe and everything. The Doc did however explain why my symptoms couldn’t possibly be heart related. At that stage, he began to convince me but nagging doubts persisted.
Some eighteen months later after CBT and breathing tuition, I was having fewer panic attacks (which CBT has taught me to re-frame as “moments of anxiety”) and their nature and intensity had lessened and changed considerably. Part of the change was down to recognising them for what they are and hence I’m was no longer actually panicking during an attack about whether the symptoms were indicative of something more sinister. I was off the fags but still overweight. Getting to that stage has took three years of blood, sweat, tears – and lots of dosh. Sometimes I had several weeks of being totally free of my ‘moments’. However, it wasn’t until this year when I radically changed my diet and lost a lot of weight (see my account in articles on this blog) that the panic attacks stopped altogether. Whilst it may be a small step for mankind, it’s a massive step for me. Life as I knew it had resumed and I feel happier, healthier and more settled than I’ve felt for years.
Although some of the medics I consulted were more open-minded than others, the lack of a clear diagnosis boils down to consultants’ being so narrowly focussed in their own field that they commonly fail to take a holistic view. As a result, they often just don’t see the wood for the trees.
For further information on panic attacks and stress related anxiety disorders, you could start with www.patient.co.uk
With thanks and gratitude to Geoff Rich; Dr Elizabeth Bradley, General Practitioner; Juan-Carlos & Roxanna, Dr Jeremy Pfeffer, Consultant Psychiatrist; Judith Halperin, Clinical Psychologist; Professor Jonathan Brostoff, Immunologist; Mary Walker, Nutritionist and of course, him indoors.
I finished my coffee, had my cigarette and left the hotel restaurant to take the two-minute walk back down the steep hill to our bedroom. It was a beautiful, hot day. And then it hit me. Half way down the hill, the most excruciating pain I had ever experienced thumped me in the middle of my chest stopping me in my tracks. It sucked my breath away as it travelled down my left arm.
Oimigod, I must be having a heart attack. Too young, too young.
By now, sweating profusely, I summoned up everything I had, forcing myself to walk slowly back to our room, hoping I’d arrive before I kicked the bucket. When I got there, I collapsed onto the bed, perspiring, very nauseous and groaning with pain. I could hear my man happily showering whilst singing Bob Dylan’s ‘If you gotta go, go now’ blissfully unaware that only yards away, I probably was about to go, right then.
The pain was agonising, I tried to slow my breathing down willing it to pass but I felt a strange sense of unreality. I was concerned. How would he cope, emerging from the bathroom to find my dead body on the bed? I was on the verge of calling out, just about unable to bear the pain any longer when, as suddenly as it had come on, it vanished, leaving me feeling fragile and exhausted.
Having had a friend who’d suffered with angina I knew the symptoms and that, I concluded, was what it was. Not a heart attack but a pre-cursor, warning to me to give up smoking, lose some weight and take more exercise. I resolved not to tell him indoors about it (why ruin the holiday after all?) but to see a doctor when I returned home.
Once home I reasoned that it was a one-off and that would be the end of it. How wrong I was.
A couple of long months later, the same crushing chest pain, accompanied by nausea, woke me one morning. I felt faint, I was sweating and a sense of foreboding overtook me. Yet again, I was too scared to go to the doctor and told myself that clearly it was only angina and probably wouldn’t kill me - yet.
The next attack came on six weeks after that, the fourth one around a month later, followed by another one a week later. What was happening to me?
For New Year’s Eve 2003, we had decided to drive to France for the weekend. We arrived late on December 30th, had a fabulous meal and went to sleep. The following morning, the by now familiar crushing chest pain, faint feeling and sickness again awoke me. This time, the colour apparently drained from my face and, feeling really very sick, I rushed to the bathroom only to pass out on the way. He deftly caught me just before I hit the floor whilst losing control of all my body functions. Enough was enough; it was time to see a GP.
Over the course of the next 12 to 18 months I was referred to a neurologist, a gastroenterologist, a cardiologist, an endicronologist, an immunologist, a gynaecologist, a urologist and several therapists. I had EEG’s, ECG’s, endoscopies, colonoscopies, manomentries, ultrasound scans of my vital organs, allergy tests, hormone screening. I stopped smoking and drinking, started taking far more exercise, and I went through a process of food and drink elimination, testing possible triggers one by one.
I was prescribed low-level anti-depressants along with drugs to control acid production in my stomach and Nifedipine – a magic drug that instantly alleviates angina symptoms. Still the episodes continued, increasing in number and intensity until I was having one, two or six per day. Alarmingly, they were now happening at any time and I remained unable to pinpoint any discernible reason or trigger. One really bad day, I had a terrible episode at home and dialled 999. The ambulance service arrived in less than ten minutes, whisking me off to Hampstead’s Royal Free hospital where concerned doctors ran a battery of tests – all of which were very thorough and totally non-illuminating.
By now I was truly terrified. I was convinced that despite all the tests, they’d missed something major. Was it my heart? Maybe some previously unknown form of cancer? Something to do with my digestive or respiratory system? This was taking over my life, I was frightened to be alone lest I faint, fall and injure myself. I worried that I may die at home in bed or on the kitchen floor to be discovered by my then 14 year old son thus condemning him to a future on the therapist couch. It was very debilitating. It was horribly tiring. It was truly bizarre.
During all of this, my anxious parents had mentioned my problem to a friend. He suggested that I might be having stress induced panic attacks, he recognised the symptoms. I ‘pooh-poohed’ this ridiculous, amateur diagnosis. Yes, I may have been through a brutal divorce. Yes I was under pressure but I just wasn’t the sort of person who would be prone to something as mental as a panic attack. I was the sort person whom others relied upon for help and support, not a weed who had to get out of the kitchen. I could take the heat.
One day, in an idle moment, I punched ‘panic attack’ into Google UK. 1,290,000 results showed up and the first one I looked at offered the following:
A panic attack is a severe attack of anxiety and fear which occurs suddenly, often without warning, and for no apparent reason. The cause is not clear. Stressful life events such as bereavement may sometimes trigger a panic attack.
Various symptoms then occur during a panic attack. These include one or more of the following:
• Palpitations or a thumping heart.
• Sweating and trembling.
• Hot flushes or chills.
• Feeling short of breath, sometimes with choking sensations.
• Chest pains.
• Feeling sick.
• Feeling dizzy, or faint.
• Fear of dying or going crazy.
• Numbness or pins and needles.
• Feelings of unreality, or being detached from yourself.
Lordy, lordy. Save for the choking, I was experiencing all of those symptoms each time I had an episode.
The relief I felt upon reading the words on that website was palpable. But could it really be possible that this was all simply a physical manifestation of what was going on in my mind?
I had my work cut out. My next port of call was a different GP who agreed with my diagnosis and immediately referred me to a psychiatrist.
At my first consultation, the psychiatrist suggested that I take heavy-duty anti-depressants (or anti-panic medication) for six months to a year in tandem with having something called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) and breathing lessons. Eh? I’d always thought I’d pretty well mastered the art of breathing a while back but apparently my problem stems from hyperventilation and I’d got myself into bad breathing habits. I resisted the anti-depressant route feeling that their potential side effects (such as feeling worse before I felt better, putting on weight and losing my libido) would definitely send me spiralling into a suicidal, let alone depressive, state. I didn’t in all honesty even feel depressed, just chronically anxious about my world, the Universe and everything. The Doc did however explain why my symptoms couldn’t possibly be heart related. At that stage, he began to convince me but nagging doubts persisted.
Some eighteen months later after CBT and breathing tuition, I was having fewer panic attacks (which CBT has taught me to re-frame as “moments of anxiety”) and their nature and intensity had lessened and changed considerably. Part of the change was down to recognising them for what they are and hence I’m was no longer actually panicking during an attack about whether the symptoms were indicative of something more sinister. I was off the fags but still overweight. Getting to that stage has took three years of blood, sweat, tears – and lots of dosh. Sometimes I had several weeks of being totally free of my ‘moments’. However, it wasn’t until this year when I radically changed my diet and lost a lot of weight (see my account in articles on this blog) that the panic attacks stopped altogether. Whilst it may be a small step for mankind, it’s a massive step for me. Life as I knew it had resumed and I feel happier, healthier and more settled than I’ve felt for years.
Although some of the medics I consulted were more open-minded than others, the lack of a clear diagnosis boils down to consultants’ being so narrowly focussed in their own field that they commonly fail to take a holistic view. As a result, they often just don’t see the wood for the trees.
For further information on panic attacks and stress related anxiety disorders, you could start with www.patient.co.uk
With thanks and gratitude to Geoff Rich; Dr Elizabeth Bradley, General Practitioner; Juan-Carlos & Roxanna, Dr Jeremy Pfeffer, Consultant Psychiatrist; Judith Halperin, Clinical Psychologist; Professor Jonathan Brostoff, Immunologist; Mary Walker, Nutritionist and of course, him indoors.
Wednesday 3 June 2009
Gordon Bennett Gordon Brown. It's time to go!
How much longer can Gordon Brown hang on? When he took the office of Prime Minister, an office for which he was never elected, I said to all the Blair-haters I knew that it wouldn't be long before we were all misty eyed, thinking about the good old days when Tony held the reigns. I really don't like to be smug but if you're right, you're right.
The country's in a mess, the Government's in a mess and Gordon himself has always been a real mess. Probably not a bad man, maybe even a well meaning public servant but not a man suited to the office of Prime Minister. He looks terrible, he can't communicate and his rare smile is enough to frighten all the children. Pit him against Barack Obama, Angela Merkel or even the mildly mad Nicolas Sarkozy and ask yourself, do we want Gordon representing us abroad?
New Labour promised that they would never raise the top rate of income tax. If the Finance Act receives Royal Assent and the top tax rate rises to 50%, the middle classes will be horribly squeezed. Add that to what we've all lost on our pensions and savings and it's people who've worked hard all their lives and saved diligently for their retirement who'll really suffer. I don't blame Gordon Brown entirely for the current economic bolowonga we find ourselves in but, he was Chancellor for a decade and, is it just me or wasn't he one of the best placed people in the entire Universe to have an inkling of what might be around the corner? Other people seemed to know something major was on the horizon.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all thrilled by the idea of David Cameron either but New Labour's time is up. No party should be in power for so long and unless our Gordon realises how dire their position is and then does the right thing, the risk of fragmenting the electorate and opening the door to fringe parties such as The British National Party is frighteningly real. The time for change is here so Gordon, do the decent thing and fall on your sword.
The country's in a mess, the Government's in a mess and Gordon himself has always been a real mess. Probably not a bad man, maybe even a well meaning public servant but not a man suited to the office of Prime Minister. He looks terrible, he can't communicate and his rare smile is enough to frighten all the children. Pit him against Barack Obama, Angela Merkel or even the mildly mad Nicolas Sarkozy and ask yourself, do we want Gordon representing us abroad?
New Labour promised that they would never raise the top rate of income tax. If the Finance Act receives Royal Assent and the top tax rate rises to 50%, the middle classes will be horribly squeezed. Add that to what we've all lost on our pensions and savings and it's people who've worked hard all their lives and saved diligently for their retirement who'll really suffer. I don't blame Gordon Brown entirely for the current economic bolowonga we find ourselves in but, he was Chancellor for a decade and, is it just me or wasn't he one of the best placed people in the entire Universe to have an inkling of what might be around the corner? Other people seemed to know something major was on the horizon.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all thrilled by the idea of David Cameron either but New Labour's time is up. No party should be in power for so long and unless our Gordon realises how dire their position is and then does the right thing, the risk of fragmenting the electorate and opening the door to fringe parties such as The British National Party is frighteningly real. The time for change is here so Gordon, do the decent thing and fall on your sword.
Friday 29 May 2009
Elizabeth the Third, and beyond....
Let me now take a step back and continue the happy story of health, weight and fitness. I was at my third appointment with the undoubtedly eccentric Elizabeth Gibaud. By then, I was feeling significantly better. Still no panic attacks, still no reflux and a real feeling of boundless energy and well being. Plus, she told me that I'd lost a further twelve pounds in the preceeding two weeks which was thrilling. This was the first time in around 15 years that I'd been able to lose weight and stick to any sort of diet. Ironically, I was helped by the fact that the health problems of him indoors meant that he was also on mission so together, we were unstoppably restrained.
"I'd like you to continue with this detox diet for another four weeks" she said. The impact of her words was palpable. How could I go seasonless, red meatless, dessertless and alcohol free for a whole 'nother month? My head dropped with a bang onto her table as I moaned about the lack of selection on the diet. We started to negotiate. "Could I add in a bit of salmon and tuna?" I asked. "And what about some seasoning? I'm going on holiday in 3 and a half weeks and I can't keep this up in France!" I shrieked. At that stage, Elizabeth did suggest various ways of marginally broadening out the diet whilst telling me, in kindly but no uncertain terms, that I still had a way to go. My bone structure was small and I really should be a much more tiny person. In fact, at that stage of being 12 pounds lighter she was looking for me to shift a further 20 to 22 pounds. I should go back to see her before going on holiday. Good oh, now at least I only had three weeks of this to look forward to.
It wasn't going to be easy. Our whole social life revolves around eating and drinking with friends, colleagues, clients, alone, on holiday - wherever and whatever we do, we eat. Ordering carefully in restaurants and not drinking any wine was taking it's toll on my credibility and my patience. Anyway, I resolved to be as good as I could and focus on how I'd feel when I'd hit the target.
Three weeks later I was back and, having been pretty good about sticking to the diet, I was now feeling amazing. Everything was better, my complexion, my hair, my demeanour, my mood. I felt better and happier than I done for years. The panic attacks were still being held at bay and I hadn't had to take a drug for reflux since I started this whole deal. People were beginning to comment on the weight loss and tell me that I looked totally different. I could even sort of see it myself and I knew how I was feeling.
Elizabeth was thrilled. "You've taken to this like a duck to water" she said as she weighed me, "and you've lost another ten pounds. Don't go too mad in France and you'll keep it off. Come back to see me in a month" she added. I took a deep breath. "Elizabeth," I said "when I first came here I didn't like you at all but now I think I LOVE you" I told her. "I feel as though you've handed me the missing magic key to losing weight and feeling better" I explained. Elizabeth was pleased. "Take care and come back to see me in a month" she said, "and we'll take it from there".
Over the next month, things slipped a little. The holiday in France, the dinner parties, a hectic social diary all conspired to put huge temptations in my way. I had a few glasses of wine, I even ate some dessert and I allowed myself to have some red meat but despite all of those, I was still being fairly careful. I even had one mini-panic attack and had to take a Rennie after a humdingingly indulgent meal.
At my latest Elizabeth appointment earlier this week I found that despite all of the above, I'd lost a further two pounds over the month. Not a disaster but I was mildly disappointed in myself. Increased exercise meant that I definitely looked different and I feel that the weight is redistributing itself around my frame. Elizabeth suggested that I make a last effort by doing the 'detox' again for the next two weeks and prior to my next trip. She prescribed a veritable cocktail of vitamins, minerals, tinctures and something called Bladderwrack - don't even ask. I agreed and I started three days ago.
So the current position is this. Today I weighed myself and I've lost 2 to 3 pounds since Tuesday - not sure of the exact amount as her scales and mine differ slightly. I'm feeling full of energy and I can't sleep although I'm bounding out of bed in the mornings - something I'm really not in the habit of doing. It's like being on drugs. I am a complete convert and make a daily effort to resist being evangelical. I've done a complete 'volte face'. You really ARE what you eat.
As my friend and neighbour said to me, only yesterday, "Nicola, you look fantastic. This thing's really working for you isn't it?"
Well, I have to agree, it really, really is.
"I'd like you to continue with this detox diet for another four weeks" she said. The impact of her words was palpable. How could I go seasonless, red meatless, dessertless and alcohol free for a whole 'nother month? My head dropped with a bang onto her table as I moaned about the lack of selection on the diet. We started to negotiate. "Could I add in a bit of salmon and tuna?" I asked. "And what about some seasoning? I'm going on holiday in 3 and a half weeks and I can't keep this up in France!" I shrieked. At that stage, Elizabeth did suggest various ways of marginally broadening out the diet whilst telling me, in kindly but no uncertain terms, that I still had a way to go. My bone structure was small and I really should be a much more tiny person. In fact, at that stage of being 12 pounds lighter she was looking for me to shift a further 20 to 22 pounds. I should go back to see her before going on holiday. Good oh, now at least I only had three weeks of this to look forward to.
It wasn't going to be easy. Our whole social life revolves around eating and drinking with friends, colleagues, clients, alone, on holiday - wherever and whatever we do, we eat. Ordering carefully in restaurants and not drinking any wine was taking it's toll on my credibility and my patience. Anyway, I resolved to be as good as I could and focus on how I'd feel when I'd hit the target.
Three weeks later I was back and, having been pretty good about sticking to the diet, I was now feeling amazing. Everything was better, my complexion, my hair, my demeanour, my mood. I felt better and happier than I done for years. The panic attacks were still being held at bay and I hadn't had to take a drug for reflux since I started this whole deal. People were beginning to comment on the weight loss and tell me that I looked totally different. I could even sort of see it myself and I knew how I was feeling.
Elizabeth was thrilled. "You've taken to this like a duck to water" she said as she weighed me, "and you've lost another ten pounds. Don't go too mad in France and you'll keep it off. Come back to see me in a month" she added. I took a deep breath. "Elizabeth," I said "when I first came here I didn't like you at all but now I think I LOVE you" I told her. "I feel as though you've handed me the missing magic key to losing weight and feeling better" I explained. Elizabeth was pleased. "Take care and come back to see me in a month" she said, "and we'll take it from there".
Over the next month, things slipped a little. The holiday in France, the dinner parties, a hectic social diary all conspired to put huge temptations in my way. I had a few glasses of wine, I even ate some dessert and I allowed myself to have some red meat but despite all of those, I was still being fairly careful. I even had one mini-panic attack and had to take a Rennie after a humdingingly indulgent meal.
At my latest Elizabeth appointment earlier this week I found that despite all of the above, I'd lost a further two pounds over the month. Not a disaster but I was mildly disappointed in myself. Increased exercise meant that I definitely looked different and I feel that the weight is redistributing itself around my frame. Elizabeth suggested that I make a last effort by doing the 'detox' again for the next two weeks and prior to my next trip. She prescribed a veritable cocktail of vitamins, minerals, tinctures and something called Bladderwrack - don't even ask. I agreed and I started three days ago.
So the current position is this. Today I weighed myself and I've lost 2 to 3 pounds since Tuesday - not sure of the exact amount as her scales and mine differ slightly. I'm feeling full of energy and I can't sleep although I'm bounding out of bed in the mornings - something I'm really not in the habit of doing. It's like being on drugs. I am a complete convert and make a daily effort to resist being evangelical. I've done a complete 'volte face'. You really ARE what you eat.
As my friend and neighbour said to me, only yesterday, "Nicola, you look fantastic. This thing's really working for you isn't it?"
Well, I have to agree, it really, really is.
Monday 20 April 2009
Low fat witchcraft
At the start of my second appointment with naturopath Elizabeth Gibaud (see previous posting of 8 April), I realised my first instincts had been right. I really didn't like her one little bit. We started off our session with a heated debate on panic attacks with her telling me that what I had been having for the past four years were not panic attacks - enough to send me spiralling into a bit of a panic on the spot.
Oh really Elizabeth? Well, don't tell me about panic attacks. I know all about them having suffered them, having been scared witless for the first two years because a range of eminent 'ologists failed to diagnose them, having had just about every medical test known to man to eliminate all other nasty possibilities and having researched, written, published, read, spoken, lived and breathed them and been for endless therapy and alternative treatments. We found ourselves spatting about the symptoms with her telling me that, for example, the chronic chest pain I suffered mid-attack was not part of panic syndrome. I resolved to print out some up to date information and present it to her on my next visit but to get off the subject before I punched her in the mouth or wasted any more of my time during the short appointment.
So, I'd lost 8lb which was fan-bloody-tastic and now (she said) I must stay on the detox for the following week except that there were a few more things to exclude. I shouldn't eat lettuce or celery or even look at rocket. I mustn't touch a sweet potato or be tempted by avocado. I should continue with the eighty three supplements she had prescribed, try to factor porridge into my breakfast (no way was I going to do that, I hate porridge) and cut down on the fruit allowance she had previously allowed. Why, I asked her? What harm could celery do? It's too salty dear, she said. Where do you think celery salt comes from? I didn't bother to ask about lettuce and rocket as the explanation was bound to disappoint.
I left her feeling pretty miserable about the prospect of the coming week. I had some social arrangements involving eating in restaurants and was worried about coping with those. Ordering plain chicken or fish with no seasoning whilst all around me scoffed things with sauces and chocolate desserts was, even at this early stage, getting horribly boring. Still, I resolved to continue as the results were showing on the scales - her scales, I never weigh myself at home lest I should be discouraged.
It was a hard week. Two dinner dates and a family gathering meant that my self control was stretched to the limit. As I'm a person who can resist anything but temptation, I was really proud that my resolve was steady and I barely strayed from the Elizabeth's restrictions, barring the odd bit of unavoidable lettuce in my undressed salads.
I arrived at the third appointment with a feeling of trepidation. I didn't think I'd lost that much more weight although I was holding the panic attacks at bay and the reflux hadn't bothered me at all. I jumped onto the scales to find I'd lost another four pounds. That was a total of twelve pounds in two weeks! I could have wept with joy.
What was Elizabeth going to tell me to do next and perhaps she's a witch I thought.
Oh really Elizabeth? Well, don't tell me about panic attacks. I know all about them having suffered them, having been scared witless for the first two years because a range of eminent 'ologists failed to diagnose them, having had just about every medical test known to man to eliminate all other nasty possibilities and having researched, written, published, read, spoken, lived and breathed them and been for endless therapy and alternative treatments. We found ourselves spatting about the symptoms with her telling me that, for example, the chronic chest pain I suffered mid-attack was not part of panic syndrome. I resolved to print out some up to date information and present it to her on my next visit but to get off the subject before I punched her in the mouth or wasted any more of my time during the short appointment.
So, I'd lost 8lb which was fan-bloody-tastic and now (she said) I must stay on the detox for the following week except that there were a few more things to exclude. I shouldn't eat lettuce or celery or even look at rocket. I mustn't touch a sweet potato or be tempted by avocado. I should continue with the eighty three supplements she had prescribed, try to factor porridge into my breakfast (no way was I going to do that, I hate porridge) and cut down on the fruit allowance she had previously allowed. Why, I asked her? What harm could celery do? It's too salty dear, she said. Where do you think celery salt comes from? I didn't bother to ask about lettuce and rocket as the explanation was bound to disappoint.
I left her feeling pretty miserable about the prospect of the coming week. I had some social arrangements involving eating in restaurants and was worried about coping with those. Ordering plain chicken or fish with no seasoning whilst all around me scoffed things with sauces and chocolate desserts was, even at this early stage, getting horribly boring. Still, I resolved to continue as the results were showing on the scales - her scales, I never weigh myself at home lest I should be discouraged.
It was a hard week. Two dinner dates and a family gathering meant that my self control was stretched to the limit. As I'm a person who can resist anything but temptation, I was really proud that my resolve was steady and I barely strayed from the Elizabeth's restrictions, barring the odd bit of unavoidable lettuce in my undressed salads.
I arrived at the third appointment with a feeling of trepidation. I didn't think I'd lost that much more weight although I was holding the panic attacks at bay and the reflux hadn't bothered me at all. I jumped onto the scales to find I'd lost another four pounds. That was a total of twelve pounds in two weeks! I could have wept with joy.
What was Elizabeth going to tell me to do next and perhaps she's a witch I thought.
Sunday 12 April 2009
Is the Church right or am I just getting old?
I must be getting old or something. This morning, the news reported that Church groups take exception to major football matches being scheduled on Easter Sunday, the holiest day in the Christian calendar. Today’s match, Aston Villa against Everton, is in their direct line of fire. The Church groups say that they now accept that Sunday is a working day for many people but that Easter Sunday, when shops are shut by law, should be different. Scheduling major football fixtures on this holy day shows, they say, disdain for the country’s religious traditions and lack of sensitivity toward many football supporters and employees.
Well, as a Jew, I heartily agree with them but I’d go one stage further. Not only do I think that Easter Sunday, Christmas Day and all major Christian festivals should be sacred (we’re living a Christian country after all) but I don’t accept Sunday as a working day and believe that Sunday trading should cease too. We always used to manage when the shops were closed on Sunday and I’m sure that with a modicum of personal organisation, we could do so again. Lack of observance, dwindling respect for the traditions of the country in which we live and worship at the altar of the shopping mall erode human values and are perhaps partly responsible for, what I see as, the general deterioration of today’s society. People, and young people in particular, need to have the option of a framework in which to operate. You reap what you sow and by gradually removing all the boundaries we had when we were growing up we grind down today’s kids leaving them kind of rootless and aimless, unsure of their role and uncertain of what they’re supposed to do or how they’re supposed to behave.
Don’t get me wrong. I see myself as a liberal thinker and wouldn’t advocate the return of capital or corporal punishment or anything draconian like that but shouldn’t we have a day a week when there are no shops open and nothing much happening? Wouldn’t that be refreshing and cleansing – and quiet? Wouldn’t it mean a day fairly free of traffic and general rushing about? Would it not give us time to contemplate, calm down and spend time with our family and friends? We could do olde fashioned things like cooking Sunday lunch, going for a walk and sitting down, all together, in front of a nice film with a bumper bar of Cadbury's dairy milk.
So, unusually for me, I find myself in complete agreement with the Church - on this matter at least. Now, where are my car keys? I’m off to supermarket.
Well, as a Jew, I heartily agree with them but I’d go one stage further. Not only do I think that Easter Sunday, Christmas Day and all major Christian festivals should be sacred (we’re living a Christian country after all) but I don’t accept Sunday as a working day and believe that Sunday trading should cease too. We always used to manage when the shops were closed on Sunday and I’m sure that with a modicum of personal organisation, we could do so again. Lack of observance, dwindling respect for the traditions of the country in which we live and worship at the altar of the shopping mall erode human values and are perhaps partly responsible for, what I see as, the general deterioration of today’s society. People, and young people in particular, need to have the option of a framework in which to operate. You reap what you sow and by gradually removing all the boundaries we had when we were growing up we grind down today’s kids leaving them kind of rootless and aimless, unsure of their role and uncertain of what they’re supposed to do or how they’re supposed to behave.
Don’t get me wrong. I see myself as a liberal thinker and wouldn’t advocate the return of capital or corporal punishment or anything draconian like that but shouldn’t we have a day a week when there are no shops open and nothing much happening? Wouldn’t that be refreshing and cleansing – and quiet? Wouldn’t it mean a day fairly free of traffic and general rushing about? Would it not give us time to contemplate, calm down and spend time with our family and friends? We could do olde fashioned things like cooking Sunday lunch, going for a walk and sitting down, all together, in front of a nice film with a bumper bar of Cadbury's dairy milk.
So, unusually for me, I find myself in complete agreement with the Church - on this matter at least. Now, where are my car keys? I’m off to supermarket.
Wednesday 8 April 2009
The three letter F word
Well, I finally had an epiphany. In my minds eye, having seen myself as a slim, happy 29 year old, the mirror told a different story. I won’t use the ‘F’ word but let’s just say I was very overweight and physically way below par suffering from a variety of niggling ailments. 29 was a distant dream.
Oh I’d tried dieting over the years but failed miserably. The very word ‘diet’ made me want to stuff myself with chocolate and have another bottle of wine. My new husband and I are what you might call 'foodies'. We love cooking, eating, drinking and entertaining. In fact, you could say that we live for those and egg each other on. I blame him and he blames me. I was really feeling quite desperate.
Quite aside from the weight, I’d been suffering from crippling panic attacks for the last four years. Initially triggered by a traumatic divorce, they varied in number and intensity but to an extent, they were ruling my life.
I turned to the bony shoulder of an über slim and very fit friend who tentatively suggested that I see the naturopath she herself had consulted. Her problem had not been weight but hot flushes which were driving her to distraction. She claimed that since seeing the woman and making some small changes to her diet, she hadn’t had another hot flush.
I’m a born again sceptic and don’t really believe in any hocus pocus, supplements, food combining or tarot cards. But, I was at that I’ll-try-anything-once stage so called for an appointment which wasn’t easy to get.
A month later I found myself waiting to see Elizabeth Gibaud, naturopath to the stars and credited with bringing various well known names back to health and slimness. I took an instant dislike to her.
She works by doing ‘facial analysis’ by which I mean she has a good look at you under a bright light and says things like “you should never eat mushrooms again”. She doesn’t respond well to being questioned and her level of explanation of her methods is minimal in the extreme. As a nosy parker and one who like to know what I’m doing, I felt very uncomfortable with the idea of blindly following her baffling advice. Anyway, after weighing and measuring me, she set me on a ‘detox diet’ (oh, how the very word made me laugh inwardly) which she told me to follow for a week before seeing her again. I won’t bore you with the finer details of the ‘detox’ but it involved giving up coffee, tea, salt, pepper, sugar, alcohol, red meat, yeast, mushrooms, sweet potato and parsnip. It meant embracing dandelion and nettle tea, various supplements, large amounts of water and a daily jacket potato. As I’d paid my money, I put scepticsm aside and thought I’d give it a try for a week.
I’ve never been one for weighing myself so resisted the temptation to get onto the scales during the course of the week. Anyway, I could hardly move because the coffee withdrawal set up a thumping three day headache and I felt incredibly tired, lethargic and stiff. In a quirk of fate, as a result of having a minor surgical procedure, my husband was diagnosed with high blood pressure that same week and told to lose weight and drink less. This made rigidly sticking to the diet rather easier as he was 'in the zone' too.
A week later, I was back in front of Elizabeth who weighed me, measured me and triumphantly announced that I’d shed eight pounds and lost a total of around 6 inches from various parts of my body. Indeed, my clothes were feeling more comfortable and blow me down, by the time of that visit, I was starting to feel quite a bit better. I also realised that during the past week, I hadn’t had to take a drug, or even a Rennie, for my oesophageal reflux and I’d had a week free from panic attacks.
Maybe there was something in this after all.
Watch this space for the next instalment.
Oh I’d tried dieting over the years but failed miserably. The very word ‘diet’ made me want to stuff myself with chocolate and have another bottle of wine. My new husband and I are what you might call 'foodies'. We love cooking, eating, drinking and entertaining. In fact, you could say that we live for those and egg each other on. I blame him and he blames me. I was really feeling quite desperate.
Quite aside from the weight, I’d been suffering from crippling panic attacks for the last four years. Initially triggered by a traumatic divorce, they varied in number and intensity but to an extent, they were ruling my life.
I turned to the bony shoulder of an über slim and very fit friend who tentatively suggested that I see the naturopath she herself had consulted. Her problem had not been weight but hot flushes which were driving her to distraction. She claimed that since seeing the woman and making some small changes to her diet, she hadn’t had another hot flush.
I’m a born again sceptic and don’t really believe in any hocus pocus, supplements, food combining or tarot cards. But, I was at that I’ll-try-anything-once stage so called for an appointment which wasn’t easy to get.
A month later I found myself waiting to see Elizabeth Gibaud, naturopath to the stars and credited with bringing various well known names back to health and slimness. I took an instant dislike to her.
She works by doing ‘facial analysis’ by which I mean she has a good look at you under a bright light and says things like “you should never eat mushrooms again”. She doesn’t respond well to being questioned and her level of explanation of her methods is minimal in the extreme. As a nosy parker and one who like to know what I’m doing, I felt very uncomfortable with the idea of blindly following her baffling advice. Anyway, after weighing and measuring me, she set me on a ‘detox diet’ (oh, how the very word made me laugh inwardly) which she told me to follow for a week before seeing her again. I won’t bore you with the finer details of the ‘detox’ but it involved giving up coffee, tea, salt, pepper, sugar, alcohol, red meat, yeast, mushrooms, sweet potato and parsnip. It meant embracing dandelion and nettle tea, various supplements, large amounts of water and a daily jacket potato. As I’d paid my money, I put scepticsm aside and thought I’d give it a try for a week.
I’ve never been one for weighing myself so resisted the temptation to get onto the scales during the course of the week. Anyway, I could hardly move because the coffee withdrawal set up a thumping three day headache and I felt incredibly tired, lethargic and stiff. In a quirk of fate, as a result of having a minor surgical procedure, my husband was diagnosed with high blood pressure that same week and told to lose weight and drink less. This made rigidly sticking to the diet rather easier as he was 'in the zone' too.
A week later, I was back in front of Elizabeth who weighed me, measured me and triumphantly announced that I’d shed eight pounds and lost a total of around 6 inches from various parts of my body. Indeed, my clothes were feeling more comfortable and blow me down, by the time of that visit, I was starting to feel quite a bit better. I also realised that during the past week, I hadn’t had to take a drug, or even a Rennie, for my oesophageal reflux and I’d had a week free from panic attacks.
Maybe there was something in this after all.
Watch this space for the next instalment.
Wednesday 25 February 2009
Pain in the neck
For the last few days I've been nursing a pain in the neck. No, not my husband or son but my neck, with a pain in it. Has anyone heard of a torticollis? I thought not. Whilst it like sounds like it should be a Spanish egg, potato and cauliflower combo it's actually a Latin word for wry (or stiff) neck. It comes from the Latin tortus for twisted and collum meaning neck and that's probably the very last time you'll get a Latin lesson here. Now, I'm a pretty good amateur doctor and believe I can diagnose most minor ailments but this was a new one on me.
Torticollis occurs as the result of an injury or simply by sleeping in an awkward position. The sufferer may find that upon waking, it is extremely difficult to lift one's head and/or incredibly painful to move it.
So it was that last Friday, I could barely lift my head from my pillow. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't injured myself so no doubt I'd contorted during the night to bring this on. Any movement merely served to heighten the excruciating pain in the left side of my neck which was radiating upwards into my head via the inner workings of my left ear. I had an important meeting arranged up the M1 and despite my husband's pleas for me to cancel it, I took some heavy duty painkillers and stupidly drove the thirty miles there and thirty back again in huge discomfort. I resolved to stick to the main roads to avoid sleeping policeman and it was lucky that I didn't have to make any sudden movements or turn my head too much during the drive. It wasn't until that particular journey that I realised quite how far one's head is thrown backward during any sort of acceleration - however gentle. Try it, it'll surprise you too.
I'd managed to get an appointment with a physiotherapist that same day. He diagnosed the problem immediately and, it seemed to me, ignoring my moans and rather loud groans, proceeded to enthusiastically pummel and pull me around. This, I have since discovered, was a good thing because I now know that physical therapy manipulations of the neck have been shown to help aid recovery and reduce healing time in torticollis cases. But you do clearly need someone who knows what they're doing.
Since then I've had four sessions of physio and can now rotate my head from side to side although shaking it or putting my left ear down to my shoulder (why would I want to do that anyway?) is still out of the question. Sleeping through the night hasn't yet been possible although I'm optimistic about my chances any night now. I'm told it should be completely back to normal within the next few days but I'm not sure I believe them.
I've posted this up here because should you ever wake up with similar symptoms, do make sure to get straight to the doctor for pain-killers, anti-inflammatories and a referral to a good physiotherapist. If you've got a partner who will cook, wash up and do the housework too, take maximum advantage.
Mugging. It's an everyday thing.
It seems shocking to me but our children accept 'muggings' as an everyday thing. Ask any group of fourteen year old boys and they'll tell you they expect it. Nothing to get excited about or lose sleep over.
So it was that one balmy summer's Saturday evening my phone rang at around 9.15pm. A fellow mother said: "Ben's OK but he's here and you need to come and collect him". She explained that a group of seven of our fifteen year old children had been attacked whilst walking across a London park.
I raced around there and charged in to find all seven in her living room with mine (only mine) covered in blood from his dripping and very swollen nose. He seemed quite cheerful and stable but then, he's always been a laid back kid. One of the other parents, a doctor, after checking him over advised us to take him to hospital. She thought his nose may be broken.
So what had happened and why had my son come off so badly? Our children had been walking to a friend's house where a party was due to have been happening but then wasn't, due to the fluidity and scattyness of teenage arrangements. They decided to walk back to one of their houses. It was summer, it was light and they were in a large group. Turning a corner, they were set upon by a gang of four or five "seven foot tall nineteen year olds" who promptly singled mine out from the edge of the group, knocking him to ground. Making the mistake of struggling back to his feet, he was knocked down again but this time, for good measure, they kicked him hard about the head and face. By now, the girls were screaming and the other boys were unable to do much as they were outnumbered, out-muscled and frankly, scared out of their wits.
Fortunately, after a while, our children were able to run away and take refuge in a local Chinese take-away. During the fifteen minutes it took for the Police to arrive, their tormentors loitered threateningly outside in a further effort to intimidate and terrify. Unsurprisingly, they scarpered when the plod arrived. Although the Police took the incident seriously, taking statements and later calling us in to look through mug shots, no-one was ever apprehended. And what of these young criminals? Do they have parents? One policeman confided to me that many parents he meets aren't averse to giving their kids a good old thrashing; not actually for committing the crime but for being stupid enough to get caught.
Meanwhile, I had an adverse reaction. I couldn't sleep for weeks, I lost my appetite (believe me, a real sign of stress) and I was spontaneously bursting into tears all over the place. I felt profoundly disturbed by the wanton violence meted out for no reason. They weren't even after money or mobiles, they just wanted to kick someone's head in for the hell of it.
They had indeed succeeded in breaking Ben's nose which meant surgery followed by weeks of a Hannibal Lecter style plaster case attached to his face by long strips of plaster. Travelling to and from school on the tube became the bane of his life.
Waiting anxiously for a delayed reaction from him, I decided to call Victim Support who suggested that I get Ben to call them to talk things through. He looked at me as though I was mildly insane. "Look Mum" he said, "I was attacked, I've had my nose broken and there's nothing I can do to change that. I'm just not going to let it ruin my life!" And that was that, he didn't want to delve any deeper. Surely he should have been traumatised whereas I should have done the soothing it'll- be-all-right-let-me-kiss-it-better mummy thing? What could be the explanation for our polarised approaches?
Well, back in the golden olden days of the 1960's and 1970's when we were growing up, as long as you steered clear of skin-heads, muggings (or to give them their proper label - serious assaults with or without GBH) were abnormal. We feared them, we worried about them. They were unusual, terrible and they often made local or national news. Now that they're two a penny, they have insidiously filtered into the fabric of our kids' everyday lives. Episodes that were so awful, so dreadful in our day have, empirically, become simply another routine hazard in theirs.
Our normal, law abiding, young boy teenagers are a soft target for thugs and there's clearly not too much safety in numbers. What a horrifying indictment of liberalisation that our kids all expect to experience assault at some stage - particularly the boys. Instinctively shrugging it off, they put it down to experience whilst our own childhood conditioning makes their laissez-faire acceptance of this current phenomenon hard to grasp. Even more alarming, let's project forward twenty or thirty years when our grandchildren are out on a Saturday night. What will the natural order be by then? Full body armour and a bouncer on hand? Today we are witnessing a terrifying rise in London's gun and knife crime which bucks the trend of other decreasing crime statistics but we seem powerless to thwart it.
This was my son's third mugging experience. During the previous two less violent episodes, he only lost his mobile telephone. Well, thank heaven for small mercies.
The 10 Point Divorce Guide
1. Reconsider. If you can avoid it, don't do it. It's best avoided. If there's a shred of respect an/or hope left in your marriage, work on it, especially if you have children.
2. Once the decision's made and whilst you can still be civil, agree not use your children as weapons. It's not big, it's not clever and it will end in tears. How much better to handle the children as a sensitive, separate issue? Always try to act in their best interests so don't bad- mouth each other and, if your children are old enough, consult them about how they want to play it. This assumes that both divorcing parties are at least partially sane which, I concede, is highly improbable. If I am proud about anything to do with my divorce it is that our son has emerged relatively unscathed due, in part, to our joint efforts not to use him as our football.
3. Choose a first-rate, specialist divorce lawyer and preferably one who believes in mediation. This is critical as it's at times like these where 'cheap' can prove very, very expensive. Don't be tempted to co-opt your friend who specialises in property law or do a DIY job because you think you're grown up enough to negotiate your own agreement. Trust me (I'm a divorcee) you can only lose.
4. If you find that after all that trouble, you hate your carefully selected, first-rate divorce lawyer or feel that this is not a person with whom you can do business, move on. This is relatively easy to do at an early stage but far more difficult (and expensive) to do further down the line.
5. Don't use your divorce lawyer as a therapist. Therapists in London cost £50 - £150 per hour, Lawyers here cost upwards of £300 (plus VAT) and they charge in units of six and a half minutes. They don't always provide Kleenex and their coffee usually stinks. I rest my case. Make sure that you have a good support network in place before you leave the marriage; you're going to need it.
6. Watch your support network collapse and expect fall-out in the most astonishing areas. Prepare to be crushed by people you had thought of as friends. One of my friends of 35 years standing, who had all but loathed my husband during our fifteen-year marriage, capriciously appointed herself as his champion, taking umbrage at my 'unfair' treatment of him. We no longer speak. Another one took exception to my new boyfriend and then took to the hills. When I moved into my new house in the same street as a third friend, feeling vulnerable, rootless and fearful for the future, she decided I was too close for comfort and promptly cancelled our formerly warm friendship whilst simultaneously creating an unpleasantly hostile living environment. My good friends who did stay the course are truly exceptional people to whom I shall evermore be indebted. They know who they are.
7. Steer well clear of any one-to-one contact, however innocent, with the husbands of any friends even if they are this century's answer to Quasimodo and you 'wouldn't go there' if he was the last man standing. He will see you as easy pickings, the friend will think you're after him.
8. If you're the lower earning spouse, go for broke. I didn't hoping that the 'ex' and I would wind up on cordial terms. Well, silly billy me. Had I been more aggressive, I would have had lots more dosh and an ex-husband who hates me rather than making do with enough for my needs -and an ex-husband who hates me! Still, I take comfort in being able to sleep at night, safe in the knowledge that, foolish though I may have been, I did what felt right at the time.
9. Caveat emptor in the housing market. You may be moving when you're at your lowest ebb and your judgement is skewed. I bought the wrong house in the wrong place at the wrong time from a rogue developer. When I moved in, there were key things missing like the carpets, the radiators and crucially, any sign of a gas meter. He had left me some extras though, the blocked drains flooded the entire ground floor the first time I used the washing machine.
10. Finally, take care of yourself. Eat healthily, try to moderate your use of drugs and alcohol and do regular exercise. Your children need you and those who still care need to know that you'll pull though and live to fight another day. And you will. Give it time, you'll get there.
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