Be careful what you wish for

The world we know has changed beyond recognition this year with the virus and its impact on the world economy. I've been here before when my successful career in London was so severely impacted by the financial crash that I had to reinvent myself in order to survive. In the darkest days, the last thing on my mind would have been rushing to share my plight on social media or posing half naked on Instagram. Who does that and why? Why is the approbation of complete strangers a necessity? How does that make an individual self aware? 

My faith provided solace when confronted with challenges that I found too difficult to surmount on my own. Faith, along with age and experience, helped me discover a well of inner strength. I understand that a positive outlook and mental self sufficiency mean that bad experiences can't tear me down. A strong, independent mind is the antidote to having my ego massaged. I would literally be too embarassed to consider the 'like' button the gauge of whether I have credibility as a  person. I couldn't care less because social media doesn't define me.

For years I actively engaged on Twitter until I found it a mouthpiece for the vapid Left who have more rights than duty to anyone. I occasionally open the Twitter app on my 'phone but I don't quite see the point of mouthing off about anything because as the French say, the more it changes, the more it remains the same. In other words, idiots will remain idiots with idiotic notions and the new vogue is self indulgent political correctness otherwise known as righteous indignation.

Unwittingly, social media 'influencers' have sold their soul to the highest bidder. If you have integrity, oodles of self respect and know yourself, the thought of massive popularity is as hollow as a spent bullet. Life is about relationships, not necessarily romantic but how we interact with each other. Just look at the popular social influencers, do they have successful relationships? No, they've objectified themselves completely and will hardly with the Nobel peace prize for trying to make the world a better place. None of their endeavours is aimed at encouraging others to become better human beings.  The glossy veneer of an  'influencer' conceals the darkness of their own gross insecurity and inadequacy. The façade is a means of controlling the narrative (oh, yes, this new expression, smacks of complete desperation). How exhausting must it be to feast off neediness, the oxygen in their veins! Try having an intellectual conversation about the meaning life with a social influencer and they'll offer up some regurgitated gobbledygook about 'living your truth' (translated this means absolve yourself of all responsibility and be ruthless in every aspect of your life).

Let's look at it another way. Where's the intellectual argument in #BLACK LIVES MATTER? Or #METOO? #WHITEPRIVILEGE? Surprise, surprise, there isn't one. All three movements are about a stomping of feet, a disingenuous moaning based on the next bandwagon. Sooner or later the bandwagon, a temporary means of self promotion, becomes a slow boat to nowhere. #Feminism, for example, gave women emancipation by casting off the stereotypes but the reverse meant that most men now expect women to be financially independent. Women have been left wondering what they need a man for? And the average bloke is totally emasculated, his balls would be literally ripped off if he asked a female to go back to his place to 'look at his DVD collection'. No wonder that the new rage of #Trans is actually a melding of the male into the female and vice versa because the stereotypes have been shattered. 

We, in the West have never had it so good, like the spoilt child with too many toys he never knows which one to choose. So he starts wailing and stomping his feet. Sound familiar?

Photo copyright SvD.

When wildlife is far more interesting than homo sapiens

Sometimes going for a walk is more inspiring than reading the news. The animal kingdom is full of wonder and I'm grateful to be filled with awe when for example, I come across this little fella in his armoury crossing the road as if he has all the time in the world:

Or this little guy who has taken up residence with his mates/family on my terrace. Watching him catch flies is sort of miraculous:

Much more interesting than politics, celebrities, #LeftWingLunatics, don't you think?

Both of these creatures carries on about their business without fanfare or calling the paparazzi. They just are. A lesson to us all perhaps?

Photos copyright SvD.

Watching a bee hop around is great therapy

My lifestyle is pretty frenetic running here and there, fielding calls from clients, sorting out problems with Notaires and agents, rushing off on viewings, plus I have a home life too. Dogs, a partner, a house to maintain. I do feel at times that my head is literally spinning. Sometimes shutting out the noise in one's head necessitates switching off 'phones, retreating to the garden where I have planted buddleia, a fragrant flower beloved by bees. This morning I found a good 15 minutes to just stare at the bees as they made their way around the plant hungrily feeding off each flower. What joy! Simple stuff makes me happy. 

Always remember, happiness is in your head. I met a client last week who is depressed, suffers with insomnia and is on anti depressants. I asked him why he was so miserable when he seemingly has it all. I suggested to him that he begin each day by smiling and giving thanks. This week I ran into him and he seems much better. Sometimes we revel in being miserable because it gives us something to do. Of course people will start saying I am deriding mental illness. Not so. But I do believe that if you want to be happy, you can be because…... it's all in your head.

Photo copyright SvD.

The march of the Far Left

Watching the prince and his handler as they rabbited word salads gleaned from self help books beloved by the likes of Oprah Winfrey (who as it happens grew very rich by regurgitating 'meaningful stuff' and 'changing lives'), I couldn't help feeling a surge of anger and exasperation. The prince and the handler are clearly a massive embarrassment to us Brits in general but the thing that riles me is their genuine lack of self awareness. I recall an American friend telephoning me in tears when the last episode of Oprah aired on TV. She felt bereft and mentor-less. Her days of soaking up wisdom while lying prostrate on a sofa in her pyjamas had come to an end and she felt rudderless. I watched Oprah once when she had dedicated an entire show to women whose hairdressers had ruined their lives with a bad haircut or the wrong colour. That was more than enough for me.

​​​​​​​The prince and his handler are so transparent in their psychobabble ramblings it's frankly hilarious. I can just imagine as the handler waves at the prince the thinnest of tomes entitled How To Change the World By Speaking Bullshit while he maniacally eats his cornflakes crouched in a corner. 'You better memorise this from cover to cover by lunchtime and as a reward I'll let you have one oatcake with smashed avocado! DID YOU HEAR ME? Blink if you can hear me!' The prince nods his head frantically but suddenly a mouthful of cornflakes sticks in his throat, forcing him to wretch. 'Oh, FFS, you IDIOT! Didn't I tell you that one ship causes a tide of change or a tide happens when they're loads of ships, or whatever the fuck it is! STOP SNIVELLING, dying, you fool! Go and change that child's nappy! Or shag the nanny, I don't care! Just get the fuck out of my face because I need to finish my speech on google fucking translate!'

​​​​​​​Some time later, the prince can be seen rocking back and forth in a straitjacket. He's giggling. The Handler thrusts a script at him. 'Read this. We're on in ten minutes!' Cut to the prince reading the script with glazed eyes. And the rest we all know about. Videos enticing a revolution of sorts to change the way things are, to disrespect authority, to demand that anyone who doesn't sing from the same far left entitled woke script be cancelled, their livelihood and accomplishments destroyed, obliterated. The far Left seem to have appointed themselves the Stasi of liberalism (oh, the irony), enforcing their dogma and intent on permanently decimating free speech or even constructive dialogue. The horror of the current rise of the far Left is unbridled ignorance, complete absence of metaphysical thought, an inflated pride of having zero self understanding, a Proletariat grabbing of the reins forcing society to follow the new rules. Well, they can fuck right off.

The handler who literally rose to her position by lying on her back is never going to speak in her own voice because she wouldn't know what it is. Put it this way, the sculptor Henry Moore, when interviewed about his work, remarked that it takes years for an artist to develop his own language. In other words, years of hard work, effort, graft, eventually becoming unique and recognisable. All of this is anathema to the woke generation brought up on a diet of instantaneous gratification. It seems no one bothered to tell them that they're nothing special after all. The truth is Da Vinci was remarkable but most of humanity is at best just average. The crux is not to be bothered by the pedantry of life but to understand that although wearisome, there is beauty in the simplicity of mundanity and in the ordinary. Simple, basic things ultimately provide human fulfilment. Here in France we are never far from reminders of the horrors of the Second World War. Every church or village square has a commemorative plaque to those who died in both World Wars. As young men lay dying in the trenches, witnesses recounted that their last word was often 'Mother!'. At the moment of death, they weren't ruing what they didn't have but the memory of a loving, protective presence. Love and courtesy to one another, seeing goodness in others, accepting that sometimes, in the words of Voltaire, we should be more preoccupied by our vegetable garden than the chaos of the world and its characters. Obsessing about what others think of us is without importance; yes, criticism can hurt but there are no guarantees in life or fool proof recipe for nirvana. Most of us bumble through life, awkward and unsure but over time we find an ease with ourselves that can be disarming. Authentic minds are rare but they they are very powerful. Someone who is comfortable in their own skin doesn't need to say so. They also see the world for what it is - a morass of soon forgotten details which fleetingly seemed to be of significance.

​​​​​​​Listening to Test Cricket in the UK today, I was despairing at the commentary which turned to racism. I wondered out loud how black West Indian cricketers managed to become some of the best players in the world, when they are, shock horror, black. I don't know what level of tolerance I am supposed to exhibit? Should I genuflect when meeting a black person? Should I apologise for being European? Should I take to the streets and wave a banner that "BlackLivesMatter"? Everyone is inherently racist and discriminates daily and unconsciously about something or other. The far Left who have some of the most dysfunctional lives and self medicate their dysmorphic brains with drugs, don't lie awake worrying that the peasant growing the stuff is essentially enslaved by the drug cartels, do they?

​​​​​​​The same applies to transgender rights. Well, I have rights too as a heterosexual woman born biologically as a woman and still with all her parts who sees herself as a woman. I don't actually have the energy to try and understand why your right to be understood and accepted is my bloody problem! I don't actually care! And no, if you haven't got a womb and have never menstruated you're not a woman, just hoping you were. The issue of rights in choosing sexuality is all new territory, the flagship of the woke warriors and sadly, there will be repercussions for future generations who will see 'confused' as the norm.

​​​​​​​When I did live radio and would interview guests I was frequently amazed by how easily they would share their problems. The secret to interviewing is that people LOVE to talk about themselves so let them. But why not switch your perspective around? Instead of complaining, why not exalt the good in the world and condemn the bad to the recesses of your reality. Which is precisely why I'm ignoring the prince and his handler and the rights that everyone wants because it's not society that matters or starving kids or some poor bloke who lost his livelihood through Coronavirus, IT'S THEM, or rather, ME, ME, ME, MYSELF and I, I, I....

Photo copyright SvD.

Rufus van Dalen

My darling doggie, Rufus, went to Heaven today. I could not have asked for a better friend. For ten years of the fifteen years we were together, Rufus and I only had each other and my priority was always him. I organised my life around my dear, faithful, wonderful hound. I could have given him up and gone off to live in London enjoying theatre, opera, art, all of the things I love. But here was someone who totally relied on me and who was my responsibility. People used to say that I should give him away so that I could have a better chance of meeting the man of my dreams. To me that wasn't as important and seeing my doggie smiling and knowing HE was happy and contented.

Rufus and I used to  walk for hours in the countryside in Surrey, Northamptonshire, Brittany and latterly the South West of France. When the dark fog of depression hounded me, Rufus and I would go for even longer walks and the clouds of despair would soon lift. How could I be sad watching Rufus roll in the grass or disappear into a field of buttercups and suddenly see his head appear, a huge grin on his face? Walking became my therapy and wherever I went, Rufus went too. If it hadn't been for Rufus, I simply wouldn't be here. In my darlest days, I just couldn't bear the prospect of leaving my dog behind.

In the last year, Rufus' cancer gradually reduced his quality of life to the point that he no longer smiled or looked happy. He remained patient with his younger brothers, particularly the puppy who would playfully crawl all over him and then bite his ears hoping for a reaction. Watching Rufus wither away broke my heart. In the last few days, he could barely get up and didn't even give me a second glance when I would leave the house with his brothers on my daily walk. I could sense Rufus was separating himself from me, once so close that he would sleep in my bed, his head snuggled into my back. Now he showed disinterest to everyone and everything.

Today has been an agonising flood of tears, so many that I can barely stand up. As he drew his last breath, I held Rufus in my arms, kissing his head and telling him how much I loved him and what a perfect dog he had been all of his life. I shall miss you, my darling. What a hole has been left in our lives and in our hearts. Sweet Rufus, my 'Babda', my saviour, I know you're gambolling amongst the buttercups now.

Photo copyright Ian C.

Photo copyright SvD.

Happiness is...

...sharing when you love someone..

Photo copyright SvD.

Beauty in small things

Photo copyright SvD.