A coward’s guide to Go Ape

I would like to preface this post by saying that I’m not THAT much of a coward. I mean, I have what I’d call a healthy amount of life-saving fear. The kind of fear that pulls me away from cliff edges and makes me recoil from potentially poisonous creatures*. I get a fair amount of adrenaline from just everyday life, like driving over roundabouts with more than two lanes or when an email comes in with the subject line saying ‘a bit of feedback’. So, for me, life is enough of an adrenaline high, let alone something like Go Ape. But my other half thinks a little differently.

As a birthday treat for my boyfriend, I booked us a cabin in the Forest of Dean over a long weekend and on Saturday, I arranged for us to go to the nearby Go Ape Treetops Adventure. He is a much more laid back person than I am, so for him, a little off-the-ground adventure was a welcomed thrill.

He had done Go Ape before a couple of times, but it was a first for me. It wasn’t until earlier that day that I started to think about what I’d booked myself on to do. Treetops. In charge of our own safety. Obstacles. Swings and zip wires. “But what if we die?” I squeaked at my boyfriend. “We’re not going to die. I’ve done it at least twice before, and I didn’t die.” That should have been more comforting to me than it was. As it turns out, my boyfriend likes to put the safety gear well and truly to the test, but I wasn’t to know that at the time.

The first thing you do is read a terrifying sheet of rules and safety instructions. By my count, it mentioned ‘high risk’, ‘fatal’ and ‘death’ more times than I would like to see on an A4 sheet outside of a crime novel. But to be fair, I understand that you have to enter into this activity with your eyes wide open about what it could mean if you don’t take safety seriously. I get that; oh boy, do I get that.

The next step is to have a short pep talk from one of the people who work there, let’s call him Josh. So, Josh puts us in our harnesses, tells us to have a look at some instruction signs and have a ‘play’ with the karabiners. Then he explains it all and it seems fine. Things are colour coded and the simple rule – that I can follow even in the throes of panic – is to always stay attached to something. Josh punctuates by saying that we are alone and in charge of our own safety up there, and finishes the pep talk saying if anyone has had a change of heart and doesn’t feel confident they could walk out now with a full refund. I’m afraid, but I’m also interested to see how I would handle it and interested in pushing myself. So, I pretend I didn’t hear this cheat code for the quick escape route and I move along. Besides, my boyfriend looks eager and excited and what kind of birthday present would it be to send him up in the trees by himself? It must be at least a bit about the company you are in as well as the excitement of the challenges.

So we get into the first of five separate little areas. Each starts with a rope ladder and ends with a zip wire. You are attached to something from the moment you leave the ground until the moment you are back on it. The first of these five areas is about as far off the ground as maybe standing on a table, and Josh is with us there, watching how well we follow the safety rules and correcting anything we’re not doing right. Which, comfortingly, isn’t much. So far, this is fine. Better than fine, this is confidence-boosting. I like instructions and preparation when doing something new – because I’m so very cool – so this is right up my street.

The next four areas take you through a series of challenges around the course, growing in height and difficulty. I am not someone with a lot of upper body strength, but the only thing that pushed this element was the cargo nets that followed a Tarzan swing. Ability wouldn’t be an issue here, I wouldn’t say. You can go slower or faster if you prefer, and some areas split into an easier ‘moderate’ path or a tougher ‘extreme’ path.

For someone as fearful as me about the whole experience, the height didn’t bother me for the most part. It was easy to look down but focus on where to take your next step rather than the abyss. You can also mostly hold on to the wire to which your safety equipment is attached. If you’re more adventurous, like my lovely other half, you may want to not hold on to this and balance your way across. And inevitably, sometimes, this would lead to testing how effectively you are held on. And, to my comfort, it looked effective.

I fully expected that the zip wire would frighten me most. It’s the time when you are fully reliant on your harness and karabiners. On everything else, you have the support of your arms and legs on the safety agenda. But much to my surprise, the zip wire was fine. Unlike my boyfriend, who took a running leap off the ledge to ensure top speed while he zips down, I could sit down into my harness on the spot, still above the ledge, and be assured that my handy work with the karabiners will hold me. And I would say I eventually reached the same top speed anyway. Besides which (!) if I were to be going any faster, there is the issue of the slow down on the other side. If you are lucky enough to reach the other side facing forwards, the slow-down is simple; you just run and slow down. However, if like me, every single time, you had twisted so you are facing where you came from, the strategy is to dig your heels in and drag them on the ground. But alas, you end up also trailing around on your bum for a short while. It’s not painful at all, but you may, like me, end up with undies full of the wood shavings they lay down to ensure a soft landing, which pickle.

Hands down, the toughest thing was the Tarzan swing. Tough only in terms of getting over my fears of not plummeting to my death. Unlike being able to sit in the harness on the zip wire, this required you to jump off a ledge and take a downward, plunging trajectory before you are caught by the swing and taken forwards into the cargo net. At this Go Ape, there were two. The first one was a lot smaller – but it was also the first. I’d say much of the reason I managed to take the first leap was because I was embarrassed about holding everyone up. And because my boyfriend was behind me, pushing me – metaphorically – to go for it. Little did I know, he was also considering a literal push if I was too hesitant. Luckily for both of us and our relationship, he didn’t. I was fully planning to avoid the second Tarzan swing if there was another way, and yes! To my utter relief, there was a ‘moderate’ path I could take instead. I don’t know if it was my other half asking me to do this Tarzan swing as well, or the deep-set desire to silence and override the absolute terror I was feeling at the edge of the platform, but I decided to jump. I can’t say that it wasn’t petrifying to step off that ledge, but it’s quite freeing to look back and think that my will and my faith in myself won out.

If, like me, you’re what Alan Sugar likes to call a ‘cautious Carol’, there is nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. Caution is good, it means you don’t get into sticky situations without a plan, and that you don’t take needless risks. But it’s really nice to know you can overrule when you want to.

Go Ape was just a lot of fun, and a novel way to get that good ache the next day that follows some fairly strenuous activity. My boyfriend loved it and I really enjoyed it too. It’s well worth a go, fear or no fear.

Scariest part: Aside from the Tarzan swing, which was a bit of a leap of faith, I was probably most afraid before we got started. Reading the instructions and waiting around was quite nerve-wracking, but trying out the equipment fairly low to the ground really put me at ease.

Best part: Zip wires. Everything from the wind in your face and the trees underneath you to looking back at how high up you were mere seconds ago. And special mention to watching someone else try to stick that landing.

*Okay, house spiders, but in my defence, they have some pretty fearsome cousins.

Discussing politics the bad way

The aftermath of the election was something to behold. As the last few constituency results were trickling in on the morning of May 8 and eyes around the UK were peeking at the BBC News website between Word documents, comments began to overtake social media.

"Best election ever."

"The NHS is doomed."

"I'm really pleased with that result!"

"I'm moving."

With a surprise surge of Tory support across England, a suffering vote for Labour, especially in Scotland, and a devastation for the Liberal Democrats throughout - all in the face of predictions upon predictions of a close race and a potential hung parliament - some people were feeling the need to rant on social media as it became clear that their political views would not be represented in the government for the next five years. And those whose ideals were met would feel the need to reply. 

The problem is that politics is fundamentally divisive. The two ends of the political spectrum have extremely different ideals which at their most basic level slice people into two categories: the rich people and the poor people. While in our daily lives we can coexist with each other without discussing who earns how much, can afford what and is how well off, come election time, everyone's true allegiances come to the fore and a crack begins to form as 'political discussions' commence. 

It is difficult when someone doesn't support your cause. You have a case, you have compelling reasons and you are convinced by them. So why, then, can you not talk your discussion buddy round? Why are they failing to see your point? WHY?! Topics which make people so impassioned, as money and politics do, can't be discussed calmly, it is just prone to arguments. And before you know it, in a large number of cases, the crack has become a chasm and what was a discussion has descended into a mutual exchange of "I'm not someone to tell others what to think, BUT...", "No offence, BUT...", insistence that the other's facts are wrong and belittling of offerings of information. 

I'm not against political discussions. Pick apart what the government is doing, lay it bare and discuss whether it is right or wrong with anyone and everyone. By all means, question authority and hold the ones in charge accountable for what they do. But it's not the same to belittle and patronise people and suggest that others are voting they way they do because they are uninformed. And in the end, it doesn't achieve very much now that votes have been cast for the next five years, apart from high blood pressure and the need to go make yourself a coffee before you shatter your keyboard.

I grew up in Bulgaria with my parents and grandparents teaching me that it is impolite to ask another person who he or she is voting for. It is a personal decision, not to be influenced by guilt or embarrassment or, more unpleasantly, intimidation. People can - and do, oh boy, do they! - discuss politics in Bulgaria, but if they don't say who they're voting for, you shouldn't ask. 

And on this post-election day, when people were sleep-deprived, edgy and feeling especially impassioned, I made a concerted effort to stay out of every political discussion going, however displeased I was with the morning's news, because what's done is done. So, I don't care who started it, I'm finishing it. 

Practise safe scooting

In my travels upon the scooting vessel, I have come across a few pitfalls which I feel I should share in light of my previous post advocating scooting.

I owe it to the faint of heart and to the slightly nervous among you, I owe it to you all...

1. Mobs of kids may heckle you. Yes, kids can say and do the cruelest things. What's more, they're some of the most susceptible groups to mob mentality, and if one 'cool' little squirt decides you're a dork, all the others will laugh and chyme in. Remember, though, they're all about to enter into the spotty, awkward teenage years, and heckles are much less offensive when the heckler's voice cracks as he calls you a loser.
2. Bus stops are an unexpected trap. If this was your driving test's hazard awareness section, bus stops would be the child running after a ball in the street. It is a lottery whether there is a pedestrian in there, and when they come out, they tend to do it like ninjas with their backs to you. 
3. Bus tango. When buses pull over into bus stops as you approach, there are a few pretty solid traps to avoid. If a person is stood waiting to get on, they WILL take a step back first as the bus stops, before getting on it. It's a cosmic force or something, but it's drfinitely a thing. So try to give them a wide birth. The second thing is that people who get off the bus don't tend to look both ways like they're crossing a road, because they don't expect you there. So they will just emerge in front of you and saunter without looking back, so give them a wide birth too. Or slow down. Or stop and walk your scooter, glaring at them. 
4. Tall kerbs. Both times I was nearly launched myself off my scooter, there was a person there, looking. Both times saw me shoot towards a slightly raised kerb or manhole cover, see it last second and just as the front wheel hit the edge, I would do what I call the fall-off-kind-of-and-run-a-bit-with-scooter-awkwardly. It's a bit embarrassing, but just scoot on without looking back until you're an awesome speck in the distance. They are easy to miss, but just keep your eye on your terrain. 
5. People can hear you. Much like you may do in a car, only to later notice that the windows are all down, you might comment or make noises that you may usually avoid if you are acutely aware you are in public. On the scooter, these might include sighing, grunting and sputtering as you tackle slight inclines, commenting on how such a small person can take up the entire pavement, singing along to your music, etc. You may think you're gone in such a flash that no one will hear you, but don't be fooled, people will stare even more if you're belting out "I'm bringing scooty back, go 'head and tell them walkin' b*tches that" as you glide along next to them.

Now that the warnings are in place, I feel I should reiterate the points, that it is fast and good for you and free and fun and that everyone should try it! 

Scoot responsibly! 

Serious scootering

As may be apparent, one of my New Year's resolutions was definitely not to write more blog posts. I haven't even managed one per month. One per quarter maybe?

However, something I did decide to try and do was to scoot to work. Bear with me.

About seven months ago, I decided I wanted a scooter for adults - one which is bigger and can take my weight. My friend got given one for her birthday and I decided that it was awesome and I must have one. I ordered mine - a Cox Swain - and when it arrived, I took it out a total of five times in the summer and then retired its services as the temperatures dropped.

Mainly, I forgot about it and my other half pulled a trick my mum does - he put it away to see if I would notice it was gone. My mum's strategy is to throw away the object if it has not been asked after in a defined amount of time - maybe a year?

So, as a means of bettering my life several-fold, I decided to buff its wheels and tighten its screws and use it to glide into work with the wind in my hair and the good, exercise ache in my thighs. It would mean paying ZERO English pounds to get to work, it would mean getting up five minutes AFTER I would be doing to walk to, take, and walk from the train to my office, and it would mean an hour's exercise every weekday, which I promised myself I wouldn't overcompensate for by eating an extra couple of daily meals and believing they're justified.

So, new year - new start. All of January, except one snowy Thursday, I scooted through wind and rain, hail and ice to get to work. Frankly, I'm surprised with my perseverance and I think it's actually my frugal nature and my desire to prove something to myself that has been the driver behind this venture.

Just in case there is anyone out there even a little bit inclined to take up the art of scooting to work - or to wherever - I would like to wholeheartedly support your decision and offer a couple of words of experience. Over the last month, I have discovered a few interesting phenomena:

1. People are surprisingly supportive. I feel a little bit like I'm entering my office each day with a rare bird on my shoulder. Everyone looks at it with intrigue and amusement and asks cautiously about it. People secretly want a go but don't know if they're rude to ask. Twice now, my managing director has seen me scoot home and the second time, he shouted "Go on, Kami!" as I flew past him, oblivious, with Meghan Trainor blasting loudly in my ears. Aside from this, I have had a man in a knitted hat and a high vis jacket in a van beep, stare with delight and wave, and I have had a couple of "Nice scooter!"s from random strangers, alongside numerous stares. I'm choosing to hear no sarcasm in people's voices and remind myself that I will probably be home before they get to wherever they're going.
2. It bloody hurts. Steely thighs to follow. The smallest incline begins to feel like you're jogging up K2 after a short while.
3. It is pretty unnerving when you see kids on their own regular-sized scooters. Just because it's a toy doesn't mean it can't be a serious vehicle. Right?
4. A set of tools might be necessary for when the scooter's handlebars begin to move independently of the wheel they're supposed to be controlling. But I'm sure they will iron out little glitches like this when the scooter becomes universally accepted as a means of travel.
5. It's surprisingly easy to kick dirt and mud (from seemingly dirtless and mudless pavements) onto the backs of your legs.
6. It's advantages over a bike are that it folds up so it's easy to carry or take onto trains/buses/taxis and it can be ridden on the pavement rather than trying to squeeze yourself among the huge metal giants on the road. 
7. Get one!

Zumba at Xercise4Less: dance like nobody's watching

After a brief spell of laziness, I made a return to the Xercise 4Less gym this week. The sweet, familiar smell of sweat and hard work greeted me at the entrance, and I was immersed in the bright, shaming lights, which showcase my every uncoordinated step and my increasingly reddening face. And I was ready for some Zumba.

For those that aren't familiar with Zumba, it is a workout which incorporates dance elements from hip-hop, soca, samba, salsa, merengue and mambo, with some martial arts elements into aerobics routines. It was developed in Colombia by choreographer Alberto Perez in the '90s. With slogans like “party yourself into shape” this type of class seems to be founded on an idea of fun, community and a friendly atmosphere.

It was a suspiciously good start. I'd left my house in what I'd call perfect time, so I found a parking space with relative ease. When I got into the hall, I heard Kelly Gomersall (the same one who teaches Bokwa) yell: “Are we ready to start?” with just enough time for me to shed the top layers and slot myself in the crowd on the side with fewer spectators, in a suspiciously good bit of empty space.

Zumba has spread in popularity around the world
© Claude PERON –
www.commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Claude_PERON/gallery

As it kicked off, the moves, as always, varied between very simple side-step-like motions, to fairly complicated routine of tangled feet, off-beat steps and random uncoordinated arm waving. I'd fancied myself as a relatively coordinated person. I can count to four, I can step on the beat, I can clap in time with the best of them. But sadly, as soon as the moves became a shade more complicated and the mirrored wall started playing directional tricks with my eyes, all of this went out of the window and the good start was replaced by a desperate game of catch-up.

In light of this, I spent more time than I'd like to admit breaking the moves down to just feet, adding on other nuances later, hoping I could execute them with as much grace as the instructor. This time spent doing half the move to try and catch up, resulted in a reduced level of cardio, and a less tiring workout than I wanted, which was a bit disappointing. For a brief second I thought to myself, “it could be that you're just fitter now?” Then, the internal laughter began.

I shouldn't like to presume she noticed my aimless flapping, but at one point Kelly stopped to break down the next sequence to us. “So,” she concluded once she'd been through it, “it's JUMP, two-three-four, ARMS two-three-four, BOOBS two-three-four, HEAD two-three-four. Everybody got that?”

She can't be blamed for leaving any body part out of the workout, eh? The next routine also 'exercised' the boobs, as it included some shimmying, which also deserved an explanation, since apparently we were all just wiggling our wrists or elbows. “Can we all try and shimmy please. Stick your arms out wide and shimmy. Please be careful of the person next to you if you're well endowed.”

Short of the very occasional element of distraction that makes someone accidentally walk into a plant, I never thought of breasts as a dangerous weapon until that moment, but I'd definitely class my erratic moves as more dangerous than the boobs. In any case, Kelly's little quips and jokes actually made the class a whole lot better, and more human and friendly than just copying moves mechanically and being barked at by a robotic instructor. 

To that end, in a bid to get everyone interacting and integrating and I suppose simply more vocal, she encourages a lot of “whoop-whoop”s and “woo”s at various times, which noises are sadly not to my taste. I want to blend into the walls, not attract more attention to my sweaty, crimson and uncoordinated self.

The good thing about Zumba is that it varies. It is based around so many different dances, that if you don't like one, or find it disproportionately difficult, it will be something completely different when the next song starts up. And regardless of whether you had no idea what was going on and performed the entire routine backwards and upside down, the local culture is that everyone applauds at the end of every song. Even with everything said, I love a bit of Zumba, and persevering through a few classes will iron out any coordination issues. 

She ends on a routine that involves a lot of stretching, accompanied by a song by what sounds like a 90s pop princess, who sings relatively slowly and seductively about love, and we all do a little bow, applaud and go home for cheesecake.

Tuesday 7-8pm Zumba with Kelly Gomersall at Xercise4Less, Leeds.

Bokwa: fun with letters (and numbers)

Having joined a new gym for the very reasonable monthly price of £10, I have vowed to exploit this wonderful good fortune in any way I possibly can, and the first thing is using the included exercise classes as much as possible. 

Despite discovering a few classes at Kirkstall Leisure Centre recently, some of which I was suspicious were actually run by hit men with a novel approach to killing, but which I still appreciated for their undeniable effect (if pain is any indicator), I'm actually getting very much into the Xercise4Less classes I've tried. 

So far, I have attended Bokwa (I know, what? But I'll explain), Bokwa Tone, and Zumba. All three are ran by the same lady, Kelly Gomersall, who seems lovely and energetic, and appears never to sweat. Not even on her face around her hair, making it just a bit damper and stringer. Nope, not at all. It's just me.

Bokwa is a type of dance exercise was developed in the US and is loosely based on language, with the instructor using some kind of basic sign language to indicate the next moves to us. Or so she says. It's yet to become popularised in the UK, like Zumba, but it appears to slowly be coming into it's own. 

Here are my pros and cons of the Bokwa classes: 

Pros

• Bukva (which sounds a lot like Bokwa) means 'letter' in Bulgarian, and Bokwa is a dance exercise class based on drawing letters with your body and the steps you take. A sign? Massive coincidence? Either works for me.
• The time passes surprisingly quickly. Between trying to work out what the hell I was doing with my feet and coordinating (haha!) them with my arms in the jazzy way the instructor does, there was no time to wonder if I can handle another half an hour of this. That's definitely something I need.
• It's fun, like Zumba. You dance around, you yell "woohoo", you shake your back seat and you secretly hope that you'll remember some of the cooler moves next time you're out and dancing with your buddies, to replace the moves I've come to call 'the sway', the 'hand thrusts', and the recently developed 'floppy dancing'. 
• The instructor loves it. She gets really into it, and even for the biggest cynics and self-conscious souls, what can I say, it's infectious. 
• It is relative simple as a concept once the principles are explained - you spell out letters and numbers, and just count. And if you are not that bothered about getting the steps perfect, it's relatively easy to look like you know what you're doing by swaying with the waves, so to speak.
• It's still quite new, so it feels a bit exclusive. You and 59 other Bokwists are the only ones in the club. Shhh. 

Cons

• Popular classes at peak times, very inadequately sized car park – need I say more? I'm not a huge fan of traffic at the best of times, let alone when it is other impatient gym-goers who are in direct competition with you and keep their beady eye on your potential spaces. 
• The wall of mirrors opposite which Bokwa happens means you can't help but watch yourself and wonder why you don't look as good as the instructor. Sure, you can correct your body shape if you see that you're doing it wrong, but mostly, it's just depressing to see the marked difference in skill and body. 
• Bokwa is not very symmetrical. The L shape and the C shape seem to happen in only one direction, which makes me imagine my body, albeit overdramatically, as half The Hulk and half Bruce Banner. Even the most basic backwards and forwards step utilises the feet unevenly. 
• The sports hall is central, and leads to other rooms. Additionally, it's not booked exclusively for the class, and people do lift weights and do stomach crunches nearest the door. This can be massively off-putting when you notice in the mirror wall that some guy is leering and the pert Bokwa behinds of some of the ladies, with a letchy grin on his face – and worse still, when he notices you do some moves backwards to everybody else and sneers.
• The rhythmically challenged – like myself, sadly – may struggle slightly to get the exact jumps and leaps, steps and pauses, hip-circles and hip-thrusts in the exact time. It's both very simple to understand and surprisingly difficult to execute as well as you expect from yourself. Prepare for a lot of random flailing about. But then, may as well give Leery McGee something to gawk at, eh?

On the whole, however, I'm still keen on it, because it does its job well, it's fun, and the pros override the cons for me, and that's more than can be said for some other exercise classes (naming no names, Ls Bs and Ts!)

Xercise4less - Monday 7-8pm - Bokwa. 

Legs, Bums and Tums. I broke all three

This was my first ever experience of Legs Bums and Tums and Kirkstall Leisure centre... perhaps because I've always been too ashamed to say the name of the class to the staff members looking to collect payment, or perhaps because I've never felt I was too bothered about my legs and bum, and one out of three seems like false economy. 

And yet, the time came, this Monday, when I decided that any exercise class will do, and so I gathered my strength and my things and whizzed on over for an hour of toning. 

When I got there, five minutes late as usual, everyone was sat on their steps waiting patiently. I got some equipment together – it always feels good to get a mat, it suggests a leisurely lie down, even though the reality is a little different, but the step and the weights made me nervous – and sat alongside everyone else. 

Fifteen minutes had passed by the time the instructors came flying in. Immediately, she set the music to BLAST-OUT level and began “WOO”- and “YEAH”-ing loudly to bring us out of our waiting-around coma. 

To start with, the warm up felt like a deja vu of the Zumba class I'd gone to at the start of what I'm becoming more and more convinced was an ill-conceived fitness effort. It made sense, it was the same instructor, why wouldn't she use the same warm up? But is it all going to be the same? 

No. First she had us lunging for 3x16 repetitions. And then a different lunge with weights, 3x16. And then a third one. And then step-ups on the step and kicking in the air, 3x16 repetitions. No, not on the small step setting, on the taller one, that's right. And again. And now, quickly, onto the mat. Kick out. And now to the side, 3x16. And now the other leg. 3x16. And now PULSE for a count of 32. 

Are you warm yet? 

No I'm just naturally a shade of crimson and a fountain of perspiration. 

Now lie on your side and lift your leg up for 3x16 repetitions. AND PULSE! And now the other side. And now lying flat lift your legs up. STRAIGHT. THAT'S NOT STRAIGHT. And now... Sitting bone... HOLD IT... hold... 

Genuinely, by this stage, I was lightheaded and exhausted. I don't mean like when you're on the verge of sweat and you're a bit tired. I mean like I can't lift myself up on my arms to rotate onto my other side to do the leg lifts. My leg muscles were quivering and shivering and promising profusely that they will tone up and slim down, just please never do this again. I was worried they may not manage the 7-minute drive home... 

It is only today (Friday) that I am without pain. I spent Tuesday and Wednesday groaning every time I got up, sat down, walked, smiled, took a breath... Thursday I could see the light at the end of the tunnel and today, my poor body is back to a relative normal. 

I will take part of the blame. I shouldn't have pushed myself to this stage given how hugely unfit I am. I knew it was too much, but I felt like every lift, lunge and crunch was costing me a few pennies of this class, and I wanted value. I will also attribute some blame to the instructor, who I am convinced raced through each exercise to make up the 15 minutes she was late by, and the time came from the bits in between where you catch your breath. 

Will I go again on Monday? Possibly, because knowledge is power. 

Monday, 8-9pm, Kirkstall Leisure Centre

Yoga at Kirkstall stretching my horizons

Yesterday, I attended my first yoga class in over a year. Relying solely on my memory, I wandered up to Kirkstall Leisure Centre fully expecting that I would be attending an hour-and-a-half Zumba session, and expecting to die there. This is based on my intolerance of the (apparently) meager hour-long Zumba class which I went to the previous day, at which several times I wondered if that thing I could taste was blood, and if the pressure on the back of my head was normal.

Obviously I had remembered wrong, because it actually turned out to be a yoga class. I won't lie, I was relieved; I could only presume I was more adept at slower, endurance-related activities, than high cardio, high excitement ones, which assumption I merely based on my Zumba experience.

Joey's epic abdominals...

As I entered the room of relaxation, there were about six people present: four ladies, and – to my surprise – two guys. Oh, and equally to my surprise, a lady roughly in her 80s. She piped up: “Hello.”

“Err... hello.”

Surely not? I don't know if this is a gross repercussion of the brainwashing powers of all things like advertising, TV, films and, ahem, the media, but I imagine yoga instructors to be at the peak of their fitness: supple like a young sequoia and toned to an air-brushed perfection. And this lady did not embody the stereotype my head had composed.

She was wearing leggings, and objectively speaking, they were pretty good legs she was showcasing. And sadly enough for me, they were much more flexible than my own 25-year-old trotters. She had a red t-shirt on with a schematic of the sun salutation, which incidentally we didn't do.

An hour of stretching felt good. It made my hibernated muscles feel alive for the first time in a long while. I have to say, a couple of moves didn't make my ankle injury (a year-and-a-few-months old injury. From sport. Me! I know, what!), or my dodgy knee (from nothing) feel brilliant. But she did time and time again stress that we should listen to our bodies and stop if we're going too far, so for my perseverance I have only myself to blame. The rest of it was very pleasant. I'd only criticise that it was a little bit easy maybe, which I didn't think I'd say, given how shamefully out-of-practice I was, but it didn't have any level of difficulty on the timetable, so it was always a shot in the dark.

The lady instructor, apart from her obvious knowledge and yoga ability, also had a very relaxing voice for the cool-down portion of the session. All the more, she was pretty damn jazzy.

In the end, my embarrassingly narrow-minded first impression were stretched beyond what I see and hear all around me each day, and my poor unsuspecting body along with them. 

Wednesday, 8:30–10pm, Kirkstall Leisure centre

Feeling blue in the grey and black

October. The sun glistens amongst the sparse, flaming leaves on the trees. The streets are carpeted with a soft, rustling cover. People are wrapped in scarves and topped with hats and they say their final farewell to their dresses and shorts for another six months. Little witches and skeletons, zombies and ghosts appear out of the darkness and come knocking at your door for treats.

November. The sky is alight with stars and glitter, swirls and sprays of sparkle. Small kids twirl sparklers in the darkness, making shapes and writing their names. Young people take photos of their sparkler creations and have Bailey's hot chocolates in the cold night, watching the sky ignite.

A firework display in Sheffield, 2009

Yes, it's true, this time of year is horrendous. Despite our best efforts to try and make it exciting, it is inevitably very tough on the human psyche. The human animal is not all that different from the other great apes, and indeed from many other animal groups. Similarities exist in the need we have to socialise with other humans, form social hierarchies, live amongst nature (looking around at the ficus and the chilli plants that we've slightly neglected to water recently, it's clear that we love greenery in our homes). And as part of nature, sunlight and daylight is essential for the well-being of all of us. And the human animal, in its evolved complexity and intelligence, has also evolved some sun-deprivation disorders.

SAD, or seasonal affective disorder is not uncommon amongst Europe. Scandinavian countries suffer a whole half a year in darkness, and it's not surprising to hear depression is high in that period. But a mere British winter is also enough to dampen anyone's mood.

Not too many years ago, I was struck by depression. The stupidest thing was how long it took me to realise. If I have a cold, my snivelling nose, my scratchy throat and my aching head are clear enough signs that I'm unwell. Not to mention the croak of my voice as I call in sick from work. If I clumsily kick the edge of the table, a huge blue-and-purple bruise and pain every time my leg moves serves as a signal that maybe I'm not okay. Depression is slow and murky and you may easily not realise it's there.

The world was just quite grey. Nothing really excited me or brought me joy. Not going out with my friends, not a steaming takeaway... I was actually not really eating very much at all. I liked the feeling of hunger - that slight pain that you get from having your stomach struggle and churn. That empty feeling that you are completely in control of, and that you can fix whenever you want, it felt a little relieving. And the pain was a real reason to be upset.

My cat, Joey, enjoying a standard, 18-hour nap

To anyone with any sense about them, that sounds a bit wrong and messed up. But not to someone who's very slowly been descending into depression. But the penny finally dropped when I was going home to see my beloved cat, Joey, and feeling completely indifferent... Hang on - not even seeing the cat once made me ecstatic? The cat I begged my parents for? The cat that I've been in love with since he was a palm-sized kitten? The cat who made me laugh by chasing the snooker balls on the screen and try and stalk the computer mouse? Something was gravely amiss here.


Indeed, that was my first inkling that something's actually kind of wrong. I was not just in a semi-permanent state of bad mood, I was actually not very well.

Sitting in the doctor's waiting room, I was twiddling my thumbs and contemplating my escape. Everyone saw me come in and sit down... it would be quite obvious if I just got up and left without going upstairs to the doctor's office... would I look really weird for just going to have a bit of a sit down in the doctor's waiting room and then leaving... But what if the doctor tells me I'm ridiculous? *BEEP* My name showed up on the surgery's screen. I guess I might as well go in and get laughed out of the room, I thought.

The doctor, surprisingly, didn't find it stupid, or funny. He handed me a booklet, several leaflets, several questionnaires, and sent me on my way with homework. He asked if I wanted to speak to someone, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk. So I opted for the DIY, follow-these-instructions-stringently method the doctor gave me.

Exercise at least three times a week, but preferably every day.

Go and socialise even if you don't feel like it.

Eat healthily.









Little make-shift fixes for a life-changing problem. And truthfully, I just could not be bothered. I would rather sit and wallow, cry every evening, not care or enjoy anything. I was used to this life now, I didn't see any difference from day to day, I couldn't be bothered making time for exercise, I couldn't be bothered doing forward thinking with my shopping so I'd eat healthier. I couldn't be bothered plastering on a fake smile and trying to muster enough interest and care to socialise with anybody. It was hard and it felt like it was to no avail.

But every day I would get a phone call from my mum and dad who would ask me what I did that day, they would encourage me to go make dinner and watch something nice on TV, tell me things that happened in their days and tell me what the cat was doing. I was monosyllabic, monotone, mono everything, but they rang every day to speak to their robotic daughter. They sent me books in the post, they paid for me to go to Paris with my sister. And I was still monosyllabic, I was constantly sad and they never got feedback of any success of their efforts.

But whether they knew it, it helped. It helped a lot. They made me feel like I had a safety net, like I wasn't alone. Having them know that I wasn't myself made me feel a bit better, like I had an army behind me to take the slack sometimes, but I was always going to be the driving force. Nobody else could fix it for me.

And very, very, very slowly, through the wintery darkness, the world started to have a little glow of early springtime. Some days were grey and sad still, but other days were slightly better. I bought a guitar on a whim. It cost next to nothing for a guitar, and I learnt an iffy version of the mighty Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, and a couple of Bulgarian ditties. It was just for me, a little project for me to complete because it took me far away from reality and it brought me pleasure.



I also started volunteering at a cat shelter on the weekends. I had to go in at half past nine, clean a room from top to bottom and then I could spend the rest of the morning sitting with the cats. Wise people say that the dog is Man's best friend. I reckon I'd stretch that to pets are Man's best friends. They become a member of your family and they themselves begin to feel a part of the family.

And best friends, they are. They have an incredible power to bring joy. Doggies have done rounds in the children's wards of many hospitals to raise morale of sick children and give a kind of healing that no pill can provide. Wise people have also said that stroking the soft coat of a kitty is relaxing and unloading. The cats at the cat shelter definitely gave me a little injection of joy that I desperately needed.

Cooper, a Happy Tails therapy dog

In the end it was a slow, persistent, and sometimes almost mechanical, robotic doing of what I knew I had to do: go to lectures, go swimming, go out. It wasn't a race, and every day was a step in the right direction, whether I felt it then or not. On the worse days, I stuck with it, to ease the pressure from my silent, ever-present, ever-supportive army.

The summer holidays came around swiftly. I was in the car on my way home and my heart was pounding. I got out of the car and ran into the house. Joey was sitting on the sofa with his head cocked to one side slightly. I picked him up and cradled him like a baby. He grazed my nose with his. I felt happiness.

High-fliers and shortcomings.

On a warm summer's eve everything is peaceful. There's a gentle breeze rolling in from the window to keep me cool, my legs are bare and resting casually on the edge of the small sofa, the sky is still light and birds are still chirping at half past 7 in the evening... It's all glorious.

Apart from the flies. At first there was one. He was HUGE. The kind you can hear from the other side of the room. When he approached my head I dove for cover for fear of being ploughed down by a jet engine! This was shocking. Armed with a rolled up GQ magazine (makes for a hefty baton) I charged at the fly. He was clever though. A bit of mindless waving around the room, and he left. But it felt as though he was entertained by dodging my swing, and eventually decided to leave on his terms.

I sat down gleefully contemplating my victory, and continued browsing the internet. Not two minutes later, I spotted three new flies circling around my drying nighty, hanging off the window cornice. Did the huge fly procreate in that two minutes? Did he split into three? Was he just the fly king, who decided to send forth his minions? I guess I'll never know, but I suspected he was to blame.


GQ at my aid, I once again began 'encouraging' the flies to leave. But this time, they were faster and more nimble. Damn.

I put my nighty away, thinking it might smell like flowers, or lotus flower... or black diamond or whatever fabric softener smells like these days. Alas, it wasn't the smell. They continued to circle around each other playfully, mockingly.

My next solution was an old classic I remember from my grandma's cottage in Bulgaria; the dishcloth. The cottage was full of flies in the summer, and grandma used to wave the cloth gently at them, funnelling them towards the open door. Occasionally, for some stubborn ones, she would execute the old wet-towel flicking trick. Her aim was incredible; there was no messing with grandma.

Dishcloth... dishcloth... my blue shorts will do. I started gently, as a friend to the animals, waving the flies towards the open window. Two of them reluctantly left and I felt empowered. There was only the one left. Little did I know, this one was special: he was the Neo of the group, the Luke Skywalker, the Kung Fu panda. No amount of gentle waving and gesturing would stop him.

So I recalled grandma's skilful towel-whipping technique, her poignant stare, her mercilessness. I channelled all of her teachings, aimed my shorts and blasted a killer flick towards the fly.

My shorts flew out of the window. Fuck!

I ran to my attic window and looked out, to see them caught on the guttering having slid down the side of the roof. Fantastic. I live on the third floor, in the attic room and the guttering is practically inaccessible to me. For a small second I considered climbing out of my window to try and get them, but rescuing my shorts wasn't really the way I wanted this life to end. I then contemplated leaving them there; I mean how much do I wear them anyway? LOTS! They were my favourite shorts, which ironically I'd found in my wardrobe at grandma's cottage. Damn it.

I fashioned a fishing hook out of wool and the bare hanger from which I'd removed my nighty. I forced myself to recall all my A-level mechanics knowledge... F=ma... the forces that act on a circle... Trying desperately to apply them to the situation, I swung the plastic hanger-hook in a circle towards my shorts, hoping it will hook them.

Fail. Fail, fail, fail. The hanger was too light and the cooling breeze was wreaking havoc on my brilliant solution. I desperately continued, cursing the breeze and the flies and my own idiocy. Neo was buzzing around with as close to a smirk as a fly can have.

Eventually, it was time to upgrade the hook. I took a heavier, wooden hanger and tied two pieces of string either end of it, to better control the angle of the hook. This was a winner. It took seconds. The ascent of my shorts up the slanted roof was like watching your country's flag being ceremonially raised. Such a fantastic achievement! And they said maths would never come in useful (which it sort of didn't)... In your face, Neo!

I feel like the battle was won, but the war has been monumentally lost, as I now sit and write this piece commemorating the day my shorts were nearly lost, with the three flies weaving an invisible plait just exactly where they first appeared.

Paddy McGuinness - could he be any more Irish?

"Oh, pfft, yeah, he's from Bolton," my friend Liam stated when we were watching Take Me Out - ITV1's new and improved Blind Date. Our beloved Cilla has now been replaced by dapper comedian Paddy McGuinness but they have the same "match-maker" quality - friendly, funny and understanding.

Growing up in the Blind Date generation, I was drawn to Take Me Out as soon as it came out, to fill my Saturday night void for love-devoid men and women, dancing the line between romance and cheese, getting set up, and being shipped off somewhere for peculiarly-themed dates.

It's kind of interesting from a biological point of view though. As in the majority of mating systems in birds and mammals, the male is bold and bright and has to be all-singing-all-dancing to impress the choosy females. Take Me Out's boys have to show their appearance, their personality and some impressive tricks to make a group of 30 ladies keep their light on so that he might get a date. Not that I am watching it with a view to conduct studies to see who's attracted to who, but it just struck me that this is strangely reminiscent of what my university lecturers call courtship displays.

So the ladies get three rounds in which to decide of the displaying male is an adequate specimen. First round is basically his appearance. The guy comes down the "love lift" circles in front of all the women and then says hello to them and where he's from. Blatantly just the "check me out in my glad rags, ladies" portion.

Then, his friends and family give a little snippet about him - job, personality, temperament, habits - like a show of what he can provide. And finally, my favourite - the party trick! The male can show his incredible genetic gifts for a magnificent display in hopes that the female will want to procreate with him... We're not quite at procreation station on Take Me Out, but it's a similar principle - look at this amazing thing I can do, don't you want me on your arm?

In turn, if a guy finishes all three rounds with some women still with their lights on, he has to select two within the space of about a minute; it's all about first impressions and any snippets of personality they may have caught from them when they chat to Paddy. But then he gets the chance to ask a revealing question, which will tell him exactly what he needs to know to make the perfect choice. And the question?

If I went clay-pigeon shooting, what would you wear to distract me?
What's your guilty pleasure?
If you had your own perfume, what would you call it and why?

That's not exactly tell-tale stuff, but at least they get the opportunity to ask. So generally it goes to show you that just like in the animal kingdom, women are pickier and choosier than men when it comes to having dates. Not always, but often.

To be honest, whilst a huge part of me loves the whole thing, but my heart does race a little when I see the line of girls turn into a rejecting red wall. It must take a whole bag of courage to go on this show and be thrown to the wolves for judgement. It's equally awful when a girl continuously leaves her light on in hopes of being picked for a date, only to be turned off time and time again. But the guys are lucky. Should they fail to court any women, they get some Paddy love.

And after a season and a half of watching the show, all I want is for Paddy McGuinness to take me to the Isle of Fernandos...