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Trying again

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I started to write a blog post yesterday, got busy and then ran out of time.

When I’m coaching clients we discuss prioritisation, choice and time.   I  share the thinking behind urgent and important tasks;  big picture, bite -sized pieces of activity; systems; processes; habits;  the cultural approach to time finding out what their attitude to time is;  their personal values and choices.  We work through their challenge together and I help them to re-set.

 

It seems to go down very well.  Every coaching client says these conversations make a difference.  So I have no idea why I struggle to apply these techniques to myself.

Somehow my time management processes have disappeared into the golden sands of Barbados.  Here, time is both monochronic and polychronic.  Its both elastic AND contracted here, whatever it is, it’s not rhythmic, steady or linear.   It has little pattern or regular beat.  As I type I wonder if this is because I’m without a regular job with contracted hours.  Surely I cannot miss the rigidity of a classic 9-5 working day?  My heart says an emphatic “no” so I must try harder to form habits to force myself into a more regular pattern.

I don’t want to miss the deadlines for tasks I’ve imposed on myself.  The  inner critic who sits on my shoulder and casts aspersions into my ear, is very good at encouraging me to beat myself up.  It needs no further encouragement as I look out my flailing stick.

So with love and care I will resume my writing task and juggle it with all my other commitments this busy week ahead.

Happy weekending everyone.

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Brain not bending

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I have spent the last hour trying to work out how to get an SSL certificate onto this WordPress site and its doing my head in.

Ostrich pillow

I have managed successfully to purchase said certificate for the yet to be finished, Ilku-global.com site.  This appears to have been successful and buoyed up with a misplaced sense of confidence I approach www.still-talking.com, hosted by WordPress, to do similar.

However, after reading copious, supposedly helpful websites on how to do this, then downloading a whole pile of nonsense files which now lurk in my download folder having been unzipped but are not running/playing; googling madly and using the not very helpful, help site on WordPress;  I’m giving up, for now.

All I want is a simple link to a site that allows me to get an SSL certificate for this WordPress site so it stops saying “not secure”.  It doesn’t seem that this exists and I cannot wrap my grey matter around the myriad of acronyms and gobbledygook that is out there.  Written by people old enough to be my grandchildren,  they are obviously under the illusion that they are being very clear however, they obviously skipped English class as they were too busy coding.

So the “not Secure” message still comes up in Chrome but by the end of this weekend, it will be no longer.

But right now I need to go and dunk my ego and ineptitude in a vat of vodka, soda and freshly squeezed lime.

Tomorrow is another day .

brilliant. Funny. Perspective (3)

 

 

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Finding the art of writing

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One of the reasons for my Oct 31 post was to make an open commitment to my writing and improving my writing practice.  This is why this blog has suddenly come alive again after being dormant for a time.

To be honest, I didn’t stop writing when things were quiet on the blog,   I just stopped writing publicly.  One of the great practices I learned from my One of Many coaching course was to keep a daily journal and to write 3 pages, in longhand, of my stream of consciousness as I wake in the morning.  The was first mooted back in 1992 by a woman called Julia Cameron in her book “The Artists Way”.

The artists way image

This practice, which requires nothing else than an additional 15 minutes of time, a good pen and a reasonable notebook, is for my eyes only – no one else gets to read it and to be honest I rarely read anything back,  as when I’ve tried this I’m slightly shocked at the things which seemed to be important then, being so infinitesimally trivial to me now.

But in the art of writing out my fears, frustrations, worries, hopes, concerns, anger, gratitude stories, nonsensical thought, it helps me clarify and prioritise.  It quietens my mind, brings me perspective, allows me to let it all out and not be judged or questioned.  I learn to write whatever comes into my head, to write 3 pages or for 15 minutes and to not doubt or second guess or question myself – just let it flow.  The first month or so, was a bit of a stop start attempt – I had things to do, places to be, social media to look at, emails to respond to – goodness I came up with every excuse under the sun.  Being a nocturnal person also didn’t help as I always think that my writing is more creative in the evening when my brain has warmed up.

morning coffee and pen

But writing in the early morning, when sleep allows my brain to connect some of the remaining neurological pathways, and my dreams are still fresh, although almost always un-recountable, sets me up for the day.  All of the stuff and noise and worry  which accumulates and somehow gets buried to re-emerge often weeks later;  moves from the subconscious into the conscious which writes it onto the page and pouf, it then disappears.

Through morning pages practice and now the commitment to write a blog every day during November, I’m finding  I’m beginning to almost merge the two.  Sometimes I write in my morning pages about what I could write in the blog ( I rarely stick to it but its genesis starts here) and sometimes I find myself writing in the blog about something that emerged in the morning pages weeks before.

What all this writing is helping me do is to remind me to get out of my head and to stay alert and connected to life beyond the journal or the keyboard.

And to keep going even when the mind seems empty and unsure.

 

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Help!

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I pop in to see Craig in the lofty environs of the British High Commission, Barbados.  I don’t normally go into the office but as I was downtown anyway, it is good to grab a coffee and have a quick 15 mins natter with the husband.

As I’m getting ready to leave, the Corporate Services Manager, Caroline, arrives for her scheduled meeting with Craig.  She’s a kindred spirit, a fellow cancer adventurer and a hardworking Mum, it’s lovely to see her.

She mentions that their Learning & Development week is coming up; last year I developed and ran a 3 hour workshop on sub-conscious bias and intercultural awareness called “Your Map of the World” where I used a variety of information and NLP techniques to explain individual perspectives and where these get formed and why we all have bias.

She asks if I can do a shorter session – a top up- as a reminder session for the Monday.  Of course I say yes, it’s always good to get practice with a true multi cultural audience and I feel as if I learn as much from these sessions as the participants do.  I plan to focus on language, expression and gestures alongside attitude to time and relationships.  As I did last years session gratis, the expectation is set that I will do similar this year.  As these are courses and materials I will create and hopefully sell elsewhere, its good to develop them and test them out with a lively audience happy to give feedback.

She then asks if I can do a 3 hour, more fun session on Friday and I start riffing about all the possible areas we could explore.  Bearing in mind Corporate BS forms part of my back catalogue, I’m fairly good at throwing out ideas to see if any stick.  My brain hasn’t yet caught up with my tongue and I’ve not thought about the consequences of any potential uptake to the flow of ideas that come into my head and straight out of my mouth.

Cut a long story short I’m now running an interactive session called Pride and belonging.  Next Friday,  16 November at 0900.     Currently I plan to cover  trust;  consistency;  credibility and managers versus peer groups;  storytelling and influence.  On Sunday when the errant husband was out being irresponsible, I drafted the following blurb for the potential participants:

This fun, interactive session is your opportunity to share the stories and events which keep you involved in your work at the British High Commission (BHC). Participants will find out more about their colleagues and friends, we’ll create a timeline of those situations which have shaped the BHC and those moments which keep you wanting to work here. We’ll build a mood board by reflecting on those elements which change our attitudes towards work and we’ll explore the factors which influence whether we have a good day or a bad day at work. Glitter and glue maybe involved for those who wish to get creative. Others may be content with coloured pens and sticky notes.  The aim is for you to leave this session having some stories to share about the work of the BHC across the region and to know why you want to work here. 

As I sit here I am drawing a blank of where to start.    I need fun exercises, materials and content.  Has anyone run anything similar before or been to an event which may have covered off these topics?

Generally I’m good when my back is to the wall but it’s always better to ask for ideas and input from others to help make the experience  as good as possible, and I’m certain someone out there has some fabulous stuff to share.

If you do, can you please drop me a line at Laura @ ilku-global.com and I promise to share the course write-up and materials with you afterwards.

Thanks in advance lovely people….

(PS)  Please feel free to share this post with your network!

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Be the change

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Today they are seeing unprecedented turn-out for the US mid-term elections in the US.  It’s too early to say what the outcome will be, although the pundits on social media, TV and radio are all having a good go.  No matter the result of the vote the outcome is obviously good for democracy – more people turning up to have their say means more involvement and hopefully change.

Kickstart-Small logo

I experienced this in microcosm this past week after attending the AGM of Kickstart, Roscoe’s local football club here in Barbados.  It’s fair to say that the club hasn’t been doing very well witnessed by the fact this was the first AGM in 3 years.  The room was full, many parents coming straight from work; many keen to have their voices heard, no matter what they were going to say.

These events are always good to attend.  Not only do I find out the Boards reasoning for only having an AGM after 3 years, I also listen to a fairly contradictory story around the financial position of the club which is rightly challenged by the parents.  On the other hand it becomes clear that the parents want their children to go to a club which is winning at any cost while the club director of football wants to create a more family orientated, social, fitness and rounded developmental approach.  It’s not that the two are contradictory, it’s just going to need clarity, communication and a different approach.    However, this is not a society that lends itself well to change.  I listen to a common pattern unfold, ” you need to change, I don’t have to”.   From local radio, meetings and discussions I’ve witnessed, the focus is on what the government, elected officials, board members, leaders, managers need to do, not on the individual taking responsibility and making any change.  No where was this more clear than a ludicrous exchange at the AGM about the location of the bar in the main clubhouse.  Let me paint the picture; most football teams in Barbados do not have clubhouses or even designated private facilities dedicated to football.  They share their space with the local community, borne out by the location they are using for our current Saturday tournament which is shared  with the livestock and chickens of the local community; one of Roscoe’s matches was halted to remove the cow that had wandered onto the pitch looking for some fresh grass.

By contrast, Kickstart Football Club boasts a custom-made clubhouse with a bar, bar area, kitchen, meeting room, office, viewing gallery upstairs and changing rooms, player rooms, and another viewing area downstairs.  The facilities include three pitches and two enclosed tennis courts.    The AGM conversation focused on whether the bar in the club house was located in the wrong place as many of the parents sit downstairs to watch matches and don’t walk upstairs for drinks.  I am dumbfounded.  We have just had a long drawn out conversation about club finances and the need to reduce costs and increase discretionary spend particularly in the bar.  The parents solution?  To spend money to  move the bar because they can’t be bothered climbing a flight of stairs to purchase a bottle of water or coke.

However, it’s democracy in action, they have had their say and have put the onus back on the club without accepting any personal responsibility.

Brexit march funny

Now I really believe in voting, on making your mark.  But as the various factions in the UK and the US have proved, it’s not just about placing your mark in a particular box every so often, it’s about what individuals are prepared to do to make a difference.  Whether its marching, holding rallies, standing for local government, Parliament, sitting on boards,  trade union bodies, starting grass-roots activism, showing courage by standing up for your beliefs or showing up and being counted, change and accountability starts with you.

Be the change.

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Sunday Shenanigans

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Every Sunday morning, Craig gets up early, walks the dog and is up at Apes Hill Golf course by 7am.  I lie in bed listening to him move around the house, pretending to sleep so I don’t have to talk with him and just enjoy the anticipation of the peace that is about to descend as he closes the back door.  I love that he has the opportunity to enjoy his passion in a beautiful setting and I love my morning of silence and peace and quiet; for the boy would rather be talking to his mates on his X box,  than thinking he might want a conversation or to spend any time with his Mother.

Sundays in our home are so much more relaxed than frenetic Saturdays which involve getting the boy to his football games on time, trying to contain my inner coach as we sit on the sidelines watching him play, ferrying him and his girlfriend backwards and forwards, an evening event or activity and the tussle of bedtime which, for a nocturnal 14 year old,  is never the time he is happy to disappear.

I spend my Sunday mornings normally mooching around the fresh produce at Holders Hill farmers market, cleaning up the kitchen from the night before and sometimes wallowing in a fragrant bath with a good book.  This time is now sacrosanct in my week, it allows me  to put the past week behind me and plan, and sometimes write to-do lists, for the week ahead.

Normally Craig returns around 1pm, we have a spot of lunch and head over to the East Coast for a walk with the dog before starting the weekly battle of unfinished homework for the week ahead.

None of this happened today.

The heavens opened which means the market is a wash out;  Roscoe is on a hollow leg day which involves a mountain  of cooking and cleaning up as he eats one meal and then demands another within 30 minutes.  The dog wants to constantly play to get rid of all of his excess energy from spending a week mainly indoors and I respond to a couple of emails which demand immediate attention and which spike up my stress levels – more of this  in another blog.

2pm comes with no sign of Craig.  I send him a humourous prod on  Whats app reminding him we are here.  This gets ignored so an hour later I call and the phone rings and rings and rings.  No answer. My blood is now on a rolling boil.  We have reached the point where I am less tolerant of an errant husband who does not have the decency to respond to let me know he’s okay.

When he appears he is significantly worse for wear.  In fact I have not seen him quite so inebriated for a very long time.  Unlike many of the men I grew up with in the North of Scotland, Craig is a happy drunk; he likes singing, is tactile, loquacious, loud and generally full of bonhomie.  I am in no mood for such good cheer and after giving him a proper telling off, I head out in the car for an hour to calm down.  During this time he manages to burn the dinner which I’ve asked him to watch then turn off and he pesters Roscoe for conversation which is a real eye opener for them both.

I return to his obvious delight that I’m home and then he repeats all that he’s told me an hour earlier.  I try to salvage dinner and start to soak the burnt pots in the sink.  He’s not interested in eating the homemade chicken soup I give him and is obviously planning on today’s calorific intake coming from his two Wheetabix this morning and whatever liquid he’s poured down his throat on the 19th hole.

He insists on coming with me for the evening dog walk. He is obviously in the ‘drunken denial’ stage.  I purposely walk in front with Monty so I’m unable to comment on his inability to stay on the path,  although some of the swaying about can be attributed to the fact that he’s taken out his contact lenses and can barely see.  It takes him about 15 minutes to work this out and it does mean that he’s forlornly and repeatedly calling my name when we end up way in front of him, given he’s stopped for some ‘relief’.  He really is quite blind without his glasses or lenses.   I can only roll my eyes when on our way home he greets a neighbour with good cheer, hanging onto her garden gate for balance as he regales her with our Monty escapades from the last week.

We arrive home and I lock him in the den room downstairs as Roscoe’s French tutor is leaving.  I need her to return next week.

By now its dawning on him that he’s really worse for wear and we’re moving into the ‘apology’ stage.  This is then followed by the ‘passing out’ stage and then the’ waking starting to feel awful’ stage.  As I write, he’s prone on the sofa upstairs making soft groaning followed by loud snoring noises.

After my initial outburst I’ve remained calm and patient.  He’s obviously suffering from his inability to know when he’s had an elegant sufficiency.  He doesn’t need reminding.

After all tomorrow is Monday.  The start of the working week.  When at 0800 he’s opening a conference with a speech that remains partially written.

There is indeed a penalty for Sunday shenanigans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Loving the bones of him

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My home is full of males.

They are an odd species, highly competitive, exercise/sport mad, messy, smelly, charming, loving and demanding of my time.

 

From the dog to the boy to the husband they all love strokes; back strokes, head strokes, arm strokes. If they see me sitting still the expectation is it’s their turn for strokes. I never make it through a family movie night with my hands quiet and to myself. Each gets jealous when they see the other enjoying the strokes they believe are theirs by right. Craig frequently tells Roscoe to find his own woman. Roscoe will physically sit on me to prevent me stroking his Dad, (cue “cross Dad”) and the dog, who wins out the most, uses his muzzle to move my hand, or if he sees me stroking Roscoe, uses his 86lbs to jump up on the boy, breaking the connection. I’m only now  realising the dog and the boy use the same physical action to get me to focus on them instead.

Most of the time I don’t mind the stroke demands. I find it amusing that the jealous, competitive streak in each of them manifests itself when they see others are getting strokes.

Naturally I would love to receive similar. Craig delivers them grudgingly if we are wearing clothes and Roscoe looks at me as if I’ve grown another head when I ask for a foot or head rub. The dog, well he focuses on looking helplessly beautiful with his deep, chocolate, puppy eyes.

It’s obvious that if I want strokes, I need to pay a professional. But trying to explain I don’t want a massage, I just want strokes makes me seem like a needy child.

Which is, of course, what I’m living with at home.

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When is a dog not a dog

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Montgomery Fulton aka Monty, Monty dog, beautiful boy, @Montydog101 on Instagram, is our much adored, pure-bred, Golden Retriever.

Most of the day he lives in air-conditioned comfort while recounting his morning walks or dreaming of yet to have adventures during his evening rambles.

He is a sweet-natured, gentle but huge boy dog. He’s a rubbish retriever and looks at balls and sticks with barely disguised disdain when they are thrown over his head. He also hates water and loathes the sea and the shower in equal measure. Washing this dog is a battle of strength, will and persistence. It’s interesting that the other males in the house melt away when this is a task which needs to be completed. I emerge from the dog shower, wetter than the darned dog every time.

I’m really not sure how it happened but in every other respect, bar his water repulsion, we seem to have acquired the canine version of the Roscoe boy.

Neither contribute much to the running of the household but both demand huge amounts of time and attention. They both need regular grooming and are smelly and stinky in equal measure. They sulk and pout and manage to look cute, tragic and demonic all at the same time. They are unbelievably fussy eaters ( this morning the dog turned his nose up at sweet potato and fish and only ate half of his scrambled egg, bacon and kibble alternative) Although I’ve tried starving Monty into submission he’s more stubborn than me. Talking of which they are both incredibly b-minded. I often battle with 86lbs of dog determined to sniff and pee a particular tree or bush while I’m set on walking in a straight line. With the result, my arm muscles are toning up nicely. Meanwhile, the human version seems equally incapable of walking straight and in addition finds it necessary to lean on me when I drag him out as my dog walking companion. They both run off chasing skirt and would rather ‘hang’ with friends than have anything to do with me; until they want something.

But this week, there has been a shift. After parent/teacher/ child morning, Roscoe and I took Monty to be neutered. At some expense I purchase a ‘comfy cone of shame’ for this occasion as somehow (?) I know the dog is going to be fixated on his bits. Or what is left of his bits. Apart from being groggy from the anesthetic, he is deeply unhappy at the infamy of having this soft, plastic, Velcro contraption strapped around his neck. He follows me around bumping into various walls and furniture using his now tunnel vision and sense of smell to find me. Eventually I give  in and take it off, keeping him close to make sure his nose is not stuck where it isn’t supposed to be. Later, so I can get to bed, I try to re-fix it around his neck. He is so disgusted he turns and looks at the wall while sweating profusely. The perceived psychological battle is won, the cone comes off and I stay up until the wee small hours, checking on him. The following day he looks at me through huge sorrowful eyes. He’s in a lot of pain and can barely move. Once more, I sit  up during the night.

I’m in a Zombie-like catatonic state by Wednesday so woefully under-prepared by Craig announcing he is off to Antigua. In all my written and electronic diaries, this is a day early and it really messes up my schedule. I am too tired to shout. I am too tired to cry. I focus on moving my engagements to accommodate the boy and his canine companion. I try to stay out of any arguments about school work and delivery. There’s no energy left for a war.

Thursday comes and the dog is now looking a bit more sparky. Thank goodness one of us is, I feel as if I’ve been hit by a 10tonne truck. By now I’m force feeding the canine paracetamol every 4 to 6 hours and this is making a huge difference to his demeanor and pain levels. It’s just paying havoc with my sleep pattern.

Friday arrives and finally the dog seems a bit more like himself apart from he needs to sit down on cool tile most of the time as his bits are obviously still paining him. After drugging him once more I drag myself off to boxing class and have to really concentrate that I dive and drive in the right combination. For the third consecutive evening, I drive into downtown Bridgetown as I’ve committed to attend the Kickstart football AGM. I sit there looking all studious, making notes and looking interested. Truth is I’m shattered and writing is the only thing keeping me awake.

Today I sleep in and wake to the dog being sick on one of the only 2 carpets we have downstairs. Why? There is veritably copious amounts of pale tile floor, why is the carpet the place to be sick? Naturally there are no other males around. As I scrub and dab and scrub once more it occurs to me Roscoe would do similar for attention.

After barking aggressively at some workmen next door, Monty appears at the breakfast table obviously and visibly “excited”. I’m dumbfounded, I haven’t endured nearly a week of virtually no sleep, devising ever-increasing creative ways to force feed him paracetamol and putting my life on hold, for this dog to still look like he could have a good time.

It’s fair to say that after vociferously quizzing Craig on how this can still be possible, and yelling at Roscoe to get downstairs to get ready for football, the hormonal levels in the Fulton household remain high…

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Go Your Own Way

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This week Roscoe and I went to school together to attend parent/teacher/child day. Putting a positive spin on it, this is where you have pre-booked slots to see each teacher with your child to discuss perspectives and opportunities.

Feedback on Roscoe, as always, is consistent. “Laid back”, “Popular”, “Funny”, Creative”, Outgoing”, “Could achieve so much more”, “More than capable”, “Does the minimum to stay average when he could be great”, ” Needs to read more”.  Actually he needs to read full stop – I write these blogs knowing he’s highly unlikely to ever read a word on the page.

One of the things that makes Codrington  school stand out is it’s focus on giving back, taking part in the wider community. Each student in Roscoe’s year is tasked with a year long project of how they are improving the community in Barbados or the wider Caribbean region. They have to write up each month how they are progressing, what they are doing and where they need support and at the end of the year they stand in front of the entire school and give a 10 minute presentation on the difference they have made.

Applying his usual laconic, big-picture, visionary style, Roscoe wants to send sports equipment to the hurricane ravaged island of Dominica. Due to the potential complexity and time required to achieve this project, the school dissuades him of continuing with this. He then decides he is going to help the homeless of Barbados by giving them “stuff”. When its pointed out that homelessness is not a particularly big issue here as both the church and familial ties are so strong, and that finding homeless people and working out what stuff they need is a more tricky proposition that he envisages, he accuses me of being negative and non-supportive.

So we sit with the community project tutor to discuss how he can be more practically focused so he achieves a tangible outcome and a sense of satisfaction. We are now a month behind what with all the chopping and changing and she applies some pressure to have us commit that his proposal presentation will be completed 2 days hence.

Stuck in a car with me on our 45 minute journey home, there is no escape as I attempt to discuss what his project could be. He is angry, defensive and cornered and I endure a full- force hormonal blast of teenage angst. Later, once he’s fed and had some time on his beloved electronics, we have another go at a conversation.

Ultimately we agree that he’s going to go to the local orphanage, find out what they need and he can then go and fund-raise to help them achieve some of their wish list. Over the course of the next two days we run through it but he refuses to write anything down. Because I feel my neck is as much on the line as his, I’m not prepared to let it go and right up to I drop him at the school bus at 7am on Wednesday morning I am trying to get him to describe the first steps of the project and what he’s going to say to Miss Nicola.

That evening as I drive him to football practice, I ask how his conversation has gone regarding his community project. “Fine” he mutters. I ask when he wants to go to the orphanage. He replies with a tone of defiant satisfaction, “I’m not going, I’m teaching diabetic children about the importance of exercise”.  I take a breath, remain calm and ask “where are you going to find these diabetic children”? His response? “It’s no problem I’m going to make a YouTube video” I keep my mouth shut.

Much as though we are raising him to be his own person, sometimes I wish he would just conform.

And do as I tell him…

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Starts. And Stops.

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I have a confession.  Something that many of my old teams and bosses would agree on; I’m not a great ‘completer finisher’.  I’m the one with the best intentions;  the memory reminders of birthdays and the corresponding cards that don’t get sent; the business ideas which are researched, modified, written and then never put to fruition; the one who  starts a project, gets bored and is distracted by the next shiny thing.  I’m the person who is awarded certificates but rarely diplomas because there is always  something else new to study, who half-reads books and then their final pages because there is always a new book waiting to be cannibalised.

There are lots of us out there.  Most of us know we have this problem so we put strategies in place to try to stay on track to see our initially exciting  task through to the end.  By then we are probably crying with boredom tears and dragging our feet out of bed in the morning.  It  gets done but it can be a bit slapdash and made merry towards its conclusion (unless you have OCD,  but that’s another story).  Our reward for sticking with it is our system being flooded by intense feelings of satisfaction and relief.

Folks like me are  best suited to working in change as the change within the change is what keeps us motivated.

I know all this so when I gamely announce I’m cutting all sugar on October 1 for a month, I have bought the journal, downloaded the app, cleaned out the fridge reorganising its now healthy contents and hidden all the temptations.  During  week 1 I am evangelical;  studiously reading labels in the supermarkets and taking 3 times as long to do the weekly shop.  Craig eats more green stuff in a week than he’s done for the past 3 months.  Week 2, I’m batch cooking on Sunday and feeling very virtuous.  This is the week where I join a health studio and start going to classes back to back, working through the associated aches and pains of a body that somewhere in its muscle memory knows it’s just a fad so to go with it until another distraction comes along.

Week 3 and the 19th of October is designated international Day at school.  The day where you bring in the taste of home for other parents, teachers and pupils to sample.  Generally the preceding day is intense as you connect with your memories of comfort and home as you stir and shake, smell, touch and taste your offerings.

Scotland, like Barbados, is rooted in sugar.  We’re not known for our salads and vegetables.  We like our sweets, stews and starch.

Correspondingly, I make Tattie scones, Macaroon Bars, Tablet and Fairy cakes.  The latter being my concession to belonging to the UK as I have brought pre-prepared iced Union Jack flags back to the island.

I boil the potatoes for the scones and the Macaroon bars.  I am not tempted by the kilo of icing sugar mixed with potato that makes the fondant.  I am stoic when melting my favourite dark chocolate and oven roasting the desiccated coconut.  But when you put it all together and they come out of the freezer looking so tasty, one tiny piece in the mouth doesn’t count.  Surely?

By now I am boiling the sugar, condensed milk and vanilla essence for my Tablet.  I’m using a new recipe which guarantees success;  after all why use the recipe handed down from generation to generation when there is something new to try?

I follow these new steps to the letter, measuring each ingredient carefully, completing each step as instructed (this is not normal behaviour given my more ‘instinctive’ approach to cooking).  It doesn’t look the same but I gamely pour it into the baking pan to set.  But it doesn’t.  I have to taste it.  This doesn’t count either as it’s a necessity and not a need.  Least that’s what I tell myself.  Of course it takes several tastes before I finally accept that its gritty and I have to start all over again.  This time I use the family recipe and it all goes to plan.  Apart from I obviously have to taste test it to make sure.  One square is not enough to convince me.  It takes several squares before confirming it’s a good enough offering.

My system is now flooded with sugar as I move onto making the Fairy Cakes.  Now as a wee girl, the reward for helping my Nana do her twice weekly baking, is to get to lick the spoon or clean the bowl.  Every time I bake, which is not often as my boys are not big into cakes, I connect with Nana as I swipe my finger round the uncooked mix, popping it into my mouth and thinking of her soft, large, floury, welcoming arms.   An entire bowl of uncooked fairy cake mix is now shouting at me; “Love me. Enjoy me. Eat me”.

I have no willpower.  I go to bed wired from my sugar cacophony, convincing myself that it’s just been a blip day.

My blips and slips continue over the next couple of weeks.  Yesterday I ate a Mars bar, drank a rum sour and enjoyed a piece of rum cake.  To my mind once you’ve sinned once, you might as well make it a day of sinning rather than a mouthful.

I also know it doesn’t matter.  For I am lucky enough to wake up today.  And it’s November 1.

Salad anyone?

For those curious about change