The March of the Post-Christmas Penguins…

They say the eye cannot ignore RED - the primary colour of the spectrum that supersedes all other colour recognition, and the one that has most connotations of emotion from passion to anger to love. Despite this rainbow supremacy, however, having decorated the full panorama of our peripheral vision for so many weeks with its festive hues, you would imagine we would have had our fair share of red reminders as we exit Christmas? Controversially, however, it would seem not and, this week as I aim to resume some levels of BAU to my post-holiday day-to-day my attention has been drawn to the red-renewal in our streets as I consider ...what is it that conditions our hypnotic state towards the red sea of reductions, like the march of the penguins, as soon as the stores re-open from Boxing Day?

Now, unless I have spent the last 6 weeks in a parallel universe, my memories (or perhaps post traumatic stress) of shopping spontaneity have been wrapped-up in a sense of communal obligation, reluctance and relief that such crowd control is required just once a year. Yet, as reindeers give way to reductions, holly to half-price and Santa Claus to price slashing sales, it seems we are only too prepared to go through it all again, in the hope of the eternal bargain.

Even sub-zero temperatures are not enough to delay this mis-guided adventure and, as I watch midnight street crowds forming for a 10am store opening, I wonder ….what can possibly be of such value to warrant an 8-hour freezing street queue?

Indeed, what is it that merits the purchases dismissed before Christmas as not right to be suddenly perfect at half price ....or is there no end to what is considered the perfect money-saving spend?

So, as you consider your next best budget wok, the obligatory one of every colour palette polo shirts, or even next years Christmas cards at cut-price...is it perhaps worthwhile to first revisit last years sale stock pile before you truly see red in the red, and find that the only way into the black is through the January blues…

‘Til next time, Pandora

‘Twas the Night AFTER Christmas….

….when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse....which, to be frank, is no surprise if they too have been exposed to the same levels of excessive indulgence that has rendered the household completely motionless in less than 48 hours, with the exception perhaps of the drunken uncle in the armchair who musters an occasional hiccup as a result of too much seasonal sherry…

Yes, Christmas is indeed a time to be jolly but, despite my love for the festivities, after two short days of over indulgence I harbour a secret welcome for the return of normality and wonder ….what is it about the festive season that drives an obligatory urge to eat, drink and be merry without reason?

As soon as we step into the festive spirit, the discipline of our last 51 weeks is long forgotten and from the moment the family unites from Christmas Eve night there begins a steady flow of wine and a constant serving of buffet platters that, although seem like a nibble, are a magnet for 'seconds' and the cause of getting fatter.

Christmas morning is so wrapped in excitement we fail to notice the pre-breakfast enticement as we delve into chocs before 9 o’clock. At this stage it’s practically a shame not to pop open champagne and of course, so not to get too carried away with early morning alcohol, there is smoked salmon brunch to nicely whet our appetite for the pending 5 course lunch and, as we graze from soup to nuts, is constantly washed down with wine topped-up cups.

By the time the evening arrives we have consumed more calories than a full working week but, as we get ready for the arrival of festive visitors and not seen since last year relatives, I consider how much do we succumb to further indulgence only to (medicinally, of course) sustain joy and tolerance?

Come Boxing Day the white flag of surrender is desperate to be flown but is prevented by the seasonal duty to repeat the indulgence at someone else’s home and, as I prepare for yet more Christmas fayre, I wonder …..does the real preparation for our Christmas celebrations maybe require three weeks pre-Christmas starvation?

‘Til next time, Pandora

The Gift Whisperer…

I have to confess that Christmas is quite possibly my most favourite time of the year and, despite the commercial overdose that has sleigh bells ringing in our ears for weeks before the advent calendar is even on the wall, for me there is nothing more exciting than the countdown of the 12 days of Christmas as it leads every day more intrepidly towards the pinnacle of the perfect gift for the 25^th.

Getting gifts right, however, requires the acute skill of insight and, through intuitive listening, interprets random whisperings that in turn are guaranteed to unearth the hints that form the perfect presents. I'm not sure if this is a skill widely practised, or possessed, or if it has evolved from being somewhat Christmas obsessed...

As I think back on my own childhood memories, I recall the innocence of never quite knowing just how Santa Claus knew exactly what to bring on Christmas Day?

For many years we had a family tradition of writing our letters and sending them up the chimney in flames, later evolved to posting to an unknown address in Lapland and with age, as the secret of Santa was exposed as a myth, have still nurtured the secret to giving the perfect gift. Indeed, with hindsight, I wonder if perhaps the power of  this belief has in fact been the training for my gift-giving ESP?

But, for every moment of Christmas magic, there are non believers who are scrooges and cynics and, as I bestow my own gifts to friends and loved ones this year I wonder …have we simply become lethargic at being cathartic or is it just easier for some of us to carry the persona of being the Christmas moaner, rather than to be bothered to delight someone beloved….?

So, as one Christmas ends and a new year begins, think ahead for the next moments you’ll share with someone you care and remember, all it really takes is to be a good listener to become a Gift Whisperer, and you can light up their eyes with the perfect surprise....

‘Til next time, Pandora

Snowpocalypse Now….

Traditionally this would be a week where I would be celebrating the 12 days of Christmas in style, swapping my blackberry for cocktails with cranberry and replacing a busy schedule of meetings for one filled with season’s greetings. The pre-Christmas glee this year, however, has been replaced with pre-festive freeze and, as the travel chaos of European airport shut-down puts our holiday plans on ice I soon realise that having a visit from Santa this year will come at a very high ticket price, regardless if you have been naughty or nice….

In a world that is powered by science and technology that is capable of keeping us informed of news and events faster and faster, I wonder does anybody actually pay attention to the weather forecaster or have any plans to avoid such disaster?

Indeed, as I witness the typical frenzy of last minute shopping manic being rapidly replaced by non-flight departing panic I wonder ….are we any more prepared for handling snow and ice today than Captain Smith was at saving the Titanic?

As Christmas cheer gives way to non-Christmas fear, the airport elves maintain best efforts of joy with Christmas tunes melodised though the tannoy. But it is a sea of foil-wrapped bodies that are tucked under the airport Christmas trees this Christmas Eve and as another wave of cancelled flights begins, the message of peace and good will from hotels is one of regret there is no more room at the inn.

So, as turkeys roast and glasses toast, be sure you share pre-Christmas thoughts to those who remain stranded and lost and lets hope we thaw from the freeze before this New Year’s Eve….

‘Til next time, Pandora

The Ghost of Christmas Presence

We are all aware that there lies an importantly deep and meaningful reason behind the seasonal festivities of Christmas but, in today’s modern age, it is fair to say there is a growing tendency to be somewhat of a stranger to the story of the manger.

Christmas has gone super-sized and super early - choirs of carols serenade us from early November, trees and lights sparkle before its even December and, as I merrily check off the last of my Christmas shopping list, I wonder ....just how much and for how long have we been subliminally brainwashed on the things to buy to make this year the Christmas to remember?

Regardless of the increasing expense that accompanies the commercial bandwagon, however, the real joy of Christmas continues to be the joy of giving and, adding the finishing touches to my own seasonal offerings, I consider if perhaps our desire to spend is simply our inheritance from the Three Wise Men? ...I mean, just as the Three Kings crossed deserts far to offer gold frankincense and myrrh, has our religious reverence simply joined a modernised Holy Grail of retail, now Christmas-commoditised instead to consider it sold, buy without sense and always want more?

Undoubtedly our gifts play an  important role in peace and joy on Christmas morning but, as I package mine up to be ready for the tree on the 24th, I recall the memories I have had on many Christmases before and how my celebrations changed as I spent the holidays in other nations... 

...Yuletide in Europe eating late on Christmas Eve and waiting to January 5th to give and to receive. Sunshine and heat for Australian Christmas treats with barbies by the sea to use leftover turkey. And ringing in New Year in Spain away from the rain, with 12 bell-toll grapes to mark new year fate….

But this year its home where my memories will form and, as I place boxes and bows under the tree in anticipation of Santa’s apparition, I reflect on family and friends far away that won't share my day and I wonder…..what is it that would really make the perfect Christmas...opening their presents or sharing their presence?

 ‘Til next time, Pandora

Women on Top - Death of the Alpha Male?

As usual, the weeks preceding Christmas tend to be oversubscribed with too many things to do – work schedules are in over-drive with over-time to complete all of the things we won’t be doing from 23rd December, shopping lists over-indulge in goodwill to find good gifts to all men and social schedules overdose in over-eating and over-drinking through an endless chain of Christmas parties, only to be followed by over-compensating in painkillers (or regret) as we wish that it really was well and truly over….

This week I too have started this very Christmas crusade but as I get race-ready for the back-to-back marathon that will keep me always-on from dusk to dawn I wonder ….are we all equally as capable of being festive-effective or, when the seasonal stop watch is set to non-stop, is it prime betting odds that women will come out on top?

Transitioning from office floor to shop floor, the championship Christmas bout of email vs retail is a no-contest knock-out for the female. Multi-task trained to buy gifts galore, the female Christmas shopper swiftly weaves between stores and, within a matter of hours, has the challenge fully wrapped up and under the tree.

The adversaries of the advent, however, the belts and braces brigade result bruised from their crusade and, as I watch them searching in solitude to box their affection to perfection I wonder …. how is it possible that every yuletide year, the simple task of getting our gift right results as a ribbon-wrapped raffle as uncertain as marmite?

Balancing the boardroom with the bar, however, is a festive task our men embrace with a little more zest and, as we change from our trousers of decision making into something short and sequined I wonder….how much of this revived interest is related to the appearance of a little black dress? 

What would be traditionally considered as crossing the line during office time suddenly gets lost in the male non-rule book of Christmas time and, as eggnog and bubbles seasonally flow, our business men go where none should respectably go….the quest of morning-after regret office party mistletoe. Is it a life of TV cocoa and elasticated waists that makes our men forget boundaries when faced with a night of short hems and lace, or ...as we successfully climb the corporate ladder with each step we take do we need the same caution on the seasonal social ladder not to land on a snake?

So, as I look forward to the magic of Christmas, I wonder …is the real reason for the Christmas season a Darwinian dilemma that Santa stamina has just 24 hours to keep up, or is it Mrs Claus that is actually on top?

 ‘Til next time, Pandora

Wish You Were Here…

This weekend I was tasked with the arduous chore of après-voyage luggage laundry - the one that separates the worns and washing from the wardrobe replenishing and that repacks the clean and pristine, ready for another week on the corporate machine. Due to sheer practice, it could be said that I have evolved the order of a suitcase to championship status but, as I swap out the old and begin the refold, even I have to question my relentless urge to add increase my carriage, and how much of the ‘in-case’ will actually ever leave my case?

Regardless, however, of what I pack to depart my roller case is guaranteed to return more like a shopping cart and, like many, the one item that is never missed from any of my trips is the prized possession that maps every new destination - the treasured tat of the souvenir fridge magnet...

Unwrapping the trinket tackiness from my packing always makes me grin because this travel acquisition has come to represent a sibling competition and, as I add my latest magnetic force to the family fridge door, I reflect on what each one means on our life experience and I wonder ...as we travel and wander what can really be caught on camera, or what are the true moments of magic that make us truly nostalgic?

For each of us our memories are diverse from our places traversed and as much as we aim to capture our memories and moments in our presents and photos...for me, my most cherished times are defined by the things that I find. 

My passage to India recalls strong colours and noise with crazy cars giving way to sacred cows.

In Thailand I found peace and enchantment with a humbling memory of trekking with elephants.

Manila, perhaps a surprise, embodies art and style but every perfect moment is caught in a smile and where, whether from wealth to poverty, kindness is coveted.

New York will always have my heart, for the pace and the pie, fab yellow cabs and just reaching the sky. In Europe its Rome that I would happily call home, fashion with passion that speaks con i gesti and embodies divertimenti.

And I have had many moments of wonder when travelling down under, from Sydney to Perth saw all of Australia’s worth, but my most treasured embrace was the huge sense of space and I recall the hours on a beach with infinite reach.

.....and my thoughts could go on but, as I explore the well-journeyed fridge door, I consider how quickly we allow to get lost are our memories and thoughts and wonder ....can they be truly endorsed by this magnetic force or how do we ensure we don't lose this hidden treasure, and perfect our connection with our best recollections?

'Til next time, Pandora

Elementary, My Dear Watson...

This week has been one of the fortunate weeks of my schedule than combines far-away travel with travail, taking me to one of my most coveted locations in Asia. If I consider all of the places I am so fortunate to visit, there is simply nothing more terrific than working from the Pacific - unless of course your journey has also replaced unexpected snow time with well respected sunshine…

Travelling to work in a completely opposite time zone, however, has challenges of its own and, as my working days flip to working nights and the minutes of my wall clock tick in reverse to my body clock, I find myself falling into a deeper non-sleep that has lost all concept of time and any ability to unwind.

Feeling appeased at my ease to avoid the big freeze, it would appear however that by escaping one set of elements I am now faced with the need to embrace another. My inability to rest presents a new elementary quest and, as I fall deep in the trap of insomnia iniquity I wonder ....how long it will be before I re-discover tranquillity?

In an effort to break the cycle of insomnia, I embark on a journey of the Chi that uses the Five Elements as the perfect sleep defence and where the daily design of your element sign promises relaxation through yin-yang harmonisation.

Day One I am told my element is Earth – a sign of peace and harmony, I am at my best at night and dislike the cold...Impressed, I undress to de-stress, once the story told the massage is sold!

Day Two it seems my element is now Fire – charismatic and loyal with a skill to inspire, still at my best by night I'm told I have vision and insight but , as I get ready once more for my yin and yang to restore, I am how desperate to know if sleep is to follow....  

Day Three, the clock chimes nine for my back-to-front breakfast time - as I proceed outdoors to have tea in thirty degrees I am now much too tired to even try to be inspired...

So, as I bask in the bright light of what is in fact night, I think back on my luck at escaping the snow and rain and I wonder ...am I in fact proof of the paradoxical refrain or is it indeed true that for every pleasure there is pain?

'Til next time, Pandora

Blowing Hot and Cold – Symptoms of the Travel Menopause

As exhausting as it sometimes is to be on the non-stop traverse of transatlantic flights, there is nothing more exhilarating than knowing that you are embarking on a journey to somewhere new or to somewhere warmer than from where you have left. This week I have done just that, escaping the onslaught of Europe's snow and ice to touch down in Asia Pacific, guaranteed to be sunny and nice.

There are challenges to be faced, however, with the trek for higher temperatures, starting not least when departing in multiple cold-defying layers. Admittedly arriving clad out in wool doesn’t bode well by a pool but, when crossing continents from storm to warm, there is no easy transition from ugg boots to swim suit. As I await my connecting plane to transport me from the rain I wonder if perhaps I have been somewhat zealous in my cold weather dress as during my wait between flights I suffer the onset of a temperature plight and need to peel off in a rush as I endure another hot flush.

Ironically, for the corporate traveller, the global 9-5 may indeed follow the sun but, as we cross office time zones, it can be the one element that we see least of.

Amidst the drag of jetlag there is nothing more rewarding than a morning in the sunshine but there are perils to be suffered for the joys of working in a sunnier clime and, as the rays start my day and beckons breakfast in bikini, I wonder ...how can it be easier to survive the harshest of cold spells without falling unwell yet, once in the sun, to suffer the sneezes from the slightest of breezes?

As a self confessed heat-freak I am not one to get a thrill from the new winter chill and although at home I am accustomed to layering up from the big freeze I am quick to maintain my climate control as we retreat from the cold of the Poles. It is when travelling abroad that I am hit most hard for, whilst outside its hot, inside its not and chilling by the poolside by day can quite literally mean really chilling by your bedside by night.

So, as I find myself turning off my fan to keep warm in my tan, I wonder ....just how do we cater when placed closer to the Equator? Can a nation truly adjust to a new destination without some pre-conditioning to handle the air-conditioning or is the rush of the hot flush the first cause of travel menopause?

'Til next time, Pandora

There’s No Business like Shoe Business

Today, once more, I found myself helplessly entering into the rodeo where no self-confessed poor-willed follower of foot fashion should go and, as predictably proceeds on every occasion, was quickly caught up in the rope of no-hope that is the shoe lasso...

Like a moth to a flame, attracted by the bright lights of shoe delights, it takes just one glimpse of the eye to stop walking by. Then, like a mouse to cheese, to be irreversibly tempted, without sense or sanity, towards the savouring scent of new leather that quickly builds into an uncontrollable hunger that can only be satisfied with yet another pair of killer heels, tall enough to defy gravity.

I often marvel at the marketing psyche of shoe-traction. There is simply no deciphering the secret clue of  the sudoku of shoes - it can only be a waft of eau d’opium that triggers the early intoxication at the door of every shoe emporium and, as each cautious step sinks further into the deep pile of plush carpet, even heels that should demand safety wheels seem to have more comfort than our oldest slippers can feel.

So, teetering in my latest whim for Louboutin, I take my precarious practice steps to master my new levels of tall without taking a fall and yet, despite needing the sales assistant’s arm for standing support, I am convinced I cannot possibly live without this court.

For those of us unduly afflicted as a shoe addict nothing should prevent the perfect shoe investment and, as I scramble to sustain my high heeled pre-amble, I reflect on how far back did I actually graduate from the calling of the cookie jar to the styling of the T-bar….

It may not be surprising, therefore, that my first ever job was in fact in a shoe store where my weekend pay was more often than not already shoe-spent before the end of each working day.

And, as I look back, I recall how my own passion for foot fashion may have influenced (often by means somewhat improper) the buying decisions of my own shoe shoppers ‘….of course they will stretch, you should carry an older pair in your bag as you break them in, try an insole, try two…wow, isn’t that just the perfect shoe?’. Indeed, I wonder, how much of my early-life obsession with new shoe possession has, quite possibly, curtailed an earlier recession?

So, firmly believing if the shoe fits, invest and if it doesn’t fit...well, try your best and, as I prepare to pay for the joy of sore vertabrae, I wonder....even from such a young age how much responsibility do I have for others' foot agility? In fact, with our Achilles heel clearly our killer heels, how many more coveted shoe collectors are now investing in the cures of an Imelda Marcos chiropractor....?

'Til next time, Pandora

Living the Thanksgiving

Traditionally a time for merriment, family reunion, feasts and meals the true grace of Thanksgiving acknowledges all of the material possessions, good luck and kindness that has blessed each person’s life throughout the year so, on this US Thanksgiving, I thought it appropriate to take a brief rest and reflect on the best of my very own blessed...

As we all look back on our past year there will have been good times and bad in all that we’ve had. Helping us stay strong is the fortune we share from the people that that care but, conversely, for everyone whose year has been great there are others who have had less than good fate.

In our own ring-fenced world  we may have more than enough but we are surrounded by another that is much less well off and, as I consider my own good luck and achievements of the past 12 months, I wonder ...is the truth of Thanksgiving something we are all capable of re-living?

We live in a world of such fast pace that we are often too busy to pass on our grace. Time is increasingly precious yet we spend it mostly on work. Our homes are our soul yet we focus more on the ‘stuff’. And, although our loved ones are our rocks, they are sometimes the first that we drop.

In a world that keeps taking, I wonder...how much are we mistaken and do we too often forget the simplest thank you for the things that we do? So this Thanksgiving, as turkeys roast and glasses toast, lets take some time to re-consider our aptitude for showing real gratitude and make a timely reminder to be that little bit kinder...

Happy holidays,
'Til next time, Pandora

Work Hard, Pay Hard

With the busy demands of duty on our daily lives we all know and recognise the importance of protecting our inner sanctum, saving our sanity and sustaining our stamina. The reality for most of us, however, is that the constraints of time, demands and expectation of our weekly 9-5 more often than not runs well beyond the controls of an 8 hour day and the equilibrium that is meant to balance our proverbial work-life becomes permanently weighted with an imbalance, towards the work. 

As days merge to weeks and to months, finding time for time requires as much discipline as the diligence of the day job. The decadence of self-indulgence today has become lifestyle-necessary rather than a nice to have accessory.

This week I had the rare chance of double decadence by indulging in zen with a group of great friends. Despite exploring different walks of life, we share similar daily strife and whilst we all live our lives to the max, there is just never enough time to relax. Regardless of the where and what of our demands we all share a common need for calm and, as we continued on our exploration for relaxation and played the pipes of peace we all wondered....how much do we in fact need to pay for the price of peace?

Surrounded by soothing scents and smells to make us feel well and devoted to lotions and potions that slowed down our motion ...what actually happens to the thrill of the chill when we are served with the beauty bill?

Indeed, and as we cash up $100 creams to keep us serene, I wonder, does the cost of our exhaust in fact tamper with the pamper or can we only truly work hard/play hard on the strength of a loaded credit card?

'Til next time, Pandora

Feasting the Festive Fastivities

Well, it’s getting close to that time again - all the major cities are sparkling with fairy lights, shops are staying open longer, shepherds are watching o’er their flocks by night and the seasonal Coca Cola trucks are rolling through town to let us know the holidays are coming.

There is nothing more encapsulating than the first Noel – chestnuts roasting on an open fire, the twinkling of trees and the chanting of carols, and the beginnings of a party season blossoming at full Christmas bloom. But, as I saunter towards the season of Santa and consider the fun and frolics for the coming weeks of St Nic, I am forced to set down my eggnog for this brief yuletide blog as I wonder….are we facing a fattening folly by embracing the Christmas season too jolly?

Every year we seem to start a little sooner, tempted from late November to make it a Christmas to remember. But before we revel in the myriad of mistletoe and wine, should we stop to give some thought to the perils on the waistline?

Whilst ‘tis indeed the season to be jolly, unless rolling around the office party in a red suit is our Christmas wish, then the real santa clause is to quite simply put down the dish. For every mince pie hides an unpleasant surprise, every ginger bread latte a step closer to festive fatty and, after all, it doesn’t take St Nic to tell who has been naughty or nice with the cinnamon and spice when there is nobody rocking your Christmas stocking and the only way to go under the mistletoe is with another shot of eggnog to kiss the office frog...

So, before we hark the herald angels sing, I wonder .... if we want to offer peace and goodwill to all men (or at least a few wise ones), is it about time we embrace the true fast-ive spirit of the season? Or, to really sparkle and shine this Christmas time, do we need to say no-no-no before its time time for ho-ho-ho?

'Til next time, Pandora

Check your Totem

Ok, so I am a few months behind the red carpet release on this occasion, but this week I finally caught up with the cinematic phenomena of Inception and, in the spirit of its sensational script and screen, I was suitably blown away.

Now, although some may say that I can be somewhat of a dreamer myself, it is a hobby that is not habitually harnessed simply due to the fact that I am intrinsically an insomniac by nature. Coincidentally, and not unconnected to this blogspiration, any typical decanting of anything de Capriesque would be on the basis of leveraging his acting ineption so to induce a deep sleep (you may have guessed, I am not particularly a fan) however on this occasion, and this will mean more to those of you who have shared the movie marvel, I would be prepared to risk the deep sleep sedation required for Limbo to spend more time with this storyline. Inception, by my judging, is most definitely the di Caprio exception, and quite possibly his perfection.

The movie is built on the concept that ‘an idea is like a virus.  Resilient.  Highly contagious.  The smallest seed of an idea can grow.  It can grow to define or destroy you’.

But, without entering into the seven complex levels of a dream (you can dissect that puzzle when you watch the film), it is this potential of the influential on the ongoing sequential that has set my post-movie mind meandering and led me to wonder, outside of slumber… just how much of a domino effect do we really have on our peers, or how does our choice of friends actually influence our trends?

Looking around it is clear our society does tend to gather in tribes - like-dressed fashions and music and similar tastes, a sense of commonality breeds a joined personality. But how much of our behaviour can actually create a similar flavour in others? Does a tattoo lose its taboo, just because our friends have one too? How many of us join a gym because our peer group is getting slim? Conversely, how is it we suddenly 'enjoy' a social life indoors just because our pals have turned into bores?

In keeping with the guidance on how to grasp the Inception reality, I wonder if outside of the dream we should all carry our personal totem as a check on our control of consciousness.

Are we really confident that our every choice is driven wholly by our own voice or, as we consider the many changes of traction in our actions, I wonder ...just how individually minded are we or do we all need a little inception to find perfection?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Fast Forward to Rewind…

This weekend I found myself faced with a quite literal real-time rarity on my blackberry - settled on a Sunday afternoon with the unexpected utopia of untarnished, untouched, unallocated time. For someone who is stereotypically always on the go, time is the one thing there never seems to be enough of, so the apparition of a multitude of miraculous minutes was like an immaculate conception along the long route of the proverbial Holy Grail. Ironically, however, finding this free time was in fact more time consuming than not having it at all….

My conundrum was further compounded by the fact that the sudden apparition of the said free time had controversially presented itself at the end of my just completed me-time. Having just finished a long-awaited long weekend break I should, in theory, be feeling more inspired than tired. However, as I reflected on what I actually had had to do in order to be able not to do, I realised how much time I had actually invested in my pursuit to find time to get rested.

In true chicken and egg theory, for every 1 day of holiday there are at least 2 previous working days needed to catch up on things that would be done if you were not going to be away.

Following the logic, my 4 day break had in fact already chalked up a 64 hour time-stake.

Add to this vacation equation the hours needed for pre-departure preparation, a quota of a rota left almost always to the last-minute of the most precious midnight minutes the night before the get-away, 'Day One' of time-off is most likely lost to nodding off.

So, with my 4 days off now mathematically having only 3 days left, the race to use the free diary space suddenly has to pick up pace. In my attempt at non-working, however, I had forgotten to schedule the time required for the social net-working - reading book replaced with facebook, the holiday postcard has become a daily post on a wall board and, as I complete my own daily update on my latest status, I wonder if today's retreat requires time to re-tweet in order to be truly complete, is it really possible to have a vacation that includes relaxation or is there really such a thing as ‘free’ time?

Caught up in a life on the go, it seems we sometimes lose the ability to stop. Faced with an eternally packed itinerary during up time and down time I wonder....does the reality of time off from a busy schedule mean that we have to fast forward in order to rewind to be able to unwind or have are we in fact responsible for making ourselves so busy with a self-fuelling diary it has actually become a self fulfilling prophecy?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Greyed Expectations

This weekend saw me scheduled for my routine visit to the salon, a Saturday session that has suddenly gained increasing frequency and, as a result, has become more of a surgery than a sanctuary.

Greeted by a ‘Back so soon?’ surprise from my colorist, I am reminded of the quite literal root cause of my rapidly recurring rendez-vous. Coffee before coiffeur, served with a mix of magazines, I am soon adequately attired in my colour cape and placed face to face with the mirror-reality that shows how I have, practically overnight, generated the groundings of the perfect Cruella Deville DNA. Ahead of harnessing a century plus one of doting dalmations at my ankles, I quickly scan the seasonal samples of henna hues that are needed to de-stress my tress-stress and I wonder... what is it that allows men to be so free of the folly of fading follicles but women to be committed to colouring in order to escape going grey disgracefully?

Clooney, Gere, Pitt…one by one the poster-perfect princes of our past-passions build prowess with their prime and mature to even higher finery, like a vintage wine. Admittedly for some of our men, this vintage victory can often be a little too full bodied to the point of pot-bellied. Indeed some even aim to mystify a receding hairline by hailing it as the balding beginnings of a venture with virility, however isn't it interesting how quickly they re-brand themselves in the packaging of a mid-life crisis sports car as the process to the polished head progresses?

Nevertheless, as our men grasp their grey with grace, I wonder how it is that they have managed to master the mystery of their man-years through a miracle that women can never manifest?

The converse, indeed controversy,  for women is that the colour palette of au natural paints only a picture of feel-good fatality as opposed to one of femme-fatale. For the self-preserving female the question remains ...is an acceptance of ‘distinguished’ enough for the collar and cuffs? Or, as we denounce the signs of demise of our sexterior design, I wonder ...is it really that important if the carpets and curtains are not a perfect match?

So, as I check out my change to chestnut and confirm my salon return for another 4 weeks, I wonder ….when faced with the fearful find of the fading follicle should we really give in to the gratuity of maturity and go grey gracefully or, when the choice of colour co-ordination becomes permanently bleached, is colour revival the real root cause of our survival?

 ‘Til next time, Pandora

To-Do or Not To-Do…?

This weekend I had my first proper return in some time to what has become an increasingly unfamiliar territory, aka home. No flights. No trains. No taxis. No commute to the office and meetings.

Psychologically I had been tracking the days in my blackberry, planning my lounging wardrobe for ‘working from home’ with more precision than I normally pre-plan packing of 10-day suit and heels ensembles, looking forward to a temporary routine of 9-5 home-office, evenings out and re-kindling the relationship with my settee.

When the long-awaited day arrived I got up promptly at 6am, sorted whites from colours and began the laundry cycle. I efficiently re-categorised the contents of my suitcase to their acutely colour co-ordinated hanging order in my wardrobe and generated a new dry clean bag to be deposited later that day (...2pm in blackberry - check).

By 8am I embarked on dialling duties, confirming the long list of consult catch-ups – doctor, dentist, optician, hairdresser, nails. 

By 10am I had caught up with a backlog of bills and admin in order of overdue date, renewed my house insurance online before settling down to a well earned coffee to commence my first conference call of the day.

5pm home-office clock-out klaxon called time for an evening stroll, supermarket-sweep style, to replenish a rather rudimentary fridge, followed with expense claim processing and the straggler emails and calls with my US colleagues.

By the time bedtime was upon me I had succeeded in being as rested as Sherpa at the summit of Mount Everest and, as I stared at the ceiling with a case of impossible insomnia, I wondered….when was the last time I actually relaxed long enough to relax?

Day 2, perfectly planned to complete a second checklist of chores (the same-street doctor and dentist combo should never be missed in scheduling) interweaved around a calendar of calls and comms, I am beginning to ask has the timer for true time-out actually already timed- out or do the high demands of today’s diaries mean the death of a day doing nothing?  

So, as my down-time rapidly becomes catch-up time and my photo album collects coveted memories of a visit to the bank and washing the car, I make a solemn promise to re-schedule the real essentials of life that should not require a reminder via a flashing light, and ask... are we really capable of the discipline of not-to-do? I guess only time, and timing, will tell....

‘Til next time, Pandora

Man-handle With Care….

Yesterday morning I found myself eavesdropping with bemusement on a conversation between a very quintessential English couple in my hotel lobby as they observed the social behaviour of today’s youth that were passing back and forth, baggy pant and baseball capped, from reception to breakfast lounge.

It is fair to say that my habitual hotel hideaway in London falls into the fashionable chic-boutique category, a mecca for the creative arts and music scene and, being a Saturday morning, most are grabbing a breakfast snack before they go to bed rather than having just woken up. To say, therefore, that Lord and Lady Manor may have veered off the beaten track of their tailored-tweed bloodline for this weekend break is probably an under-statement, however their tête-à-tête on teens and twenties’ taste has served as an entertaining interlude between coffee and croissants and as I shared their morning showcase I have since found myself wondering ….for today’s modern man in the making, is his understanding of how to be a gentle-man irreversibly mistaken?

The simple meet and greet on the street has become as truncated as a text message - ‘Hello’ has been replaced with ‘Yo’ and, whereas the strength of a handshake was previously indicative of the status of man-stakes, the trend today requires a class in choreographic digit-dancing to know when to spud, shake, snap and click.

Men also continue to be uncomfortable when they come into contact with fellow humans, especially females. For the late twenty and thirty something's there continues to be confusion on just how many cheeks should get a kiss on a new face embrace and the dreaded discomfort with the man-hug is a fornication with femininity that frightens them!

As for the boys-2-men brigade, there is no boundary with their desire on attire. Day to night dressing typically carries the same staple wardrobe of denim and sneakers, regardless of location for wining and dining. They have waved good-bye to the tie, indeed it is only if and when the dance-floor door policy stipulates a shirt that we see the subtle shade selection from the Pantone palette of pale blue to true blue, or perhaps an array of grey. (...brief pause whilst male readers of all ages nod...?)

It seems, too, that today’s modern man has forgotten how to court – he doesn’t do dates, to send flowers would negate his man-powers, in brief to woo is 100% man-taboo. But perhaps our chaps need to seriously realise that, as long as chat-up lines are cowardly non-spoken via chat-lines and the internet becomes a dependency through which to interact, by the time a virtual relationship leaves cyberspace to make a face to face embrace… is second date fate doomed to be killed by poor social man-skills….?

So as we consider how best to manvest I wonder.... has our evolution to equality come at the cost of chivalry…and, in a trend of hip-hop, have real men taken the chop?

‘Til next time, Pandora

There’s No Place like Home…..

Ironically one of the real splendours of leading a life in the fast lane is, in fact, the appreciation that one quickly develops for home comforts - wholesome, soul-some, there's simply no place like home. For when the minutes and hours of precious personal time are involuntarily invested at no-return across shares of land, air and sea it is very rare to get time-out on a sofa, in front of a TV.

Admittedly the corporate city-commute carries its own comfort, but it is an executive trouser-press type that comes with miniature toiletries and hotel laundered towels, as opposed to home made soup and apple pie. The handcrafted 'Home Sweet Home' sign that should hang as a welcome on the front door is quickly relocated to an electronic screen saver, home-cooked meals come pre-packaged or served by a waiter and the white picket fence that protects a finely manicured lawn becomes a virtual personal ‘surround’ from trespassers on coveted personal space.

As a roaming urbanite, the city-bound Dorothy swaps her iconic blue-checked dress for a black pinstripe suit and wholesome, soul-some Kansas is but a keepsake....

In this version, the calm before the Kansas storm is usually the result of a self-induced coma to catch up on lost sleep. The vortex of the twister typically builds up from Sunday evening and, by Monday morning, it has the world successfully spinning at speed, appeasing only to make the drop back in the fast lane to Friday.

But even on a transient temporary leap onto the yellow brick road (or tube) it is a challenge to be more than a passer-by – in the fast moving reality of the city, friends can be merely acquaintances, loyalty faceless in a busy crowd and promises made are too often just passing prophetics. As I pack up my bags and begin my journey to the Great Oz to return me back to Kansas, I reflect on how unfamiliar my companions on the city brick version of the yellow road are to their movie counterparts - in the city the scarecrow doesn’t necessarily use his brain to think of others, the lion doesn’t always demonstrate courage or morals and, whilst there are many tin men, very few really have a heart...

So, as I check out once more from hotel 'Home Suite Home', I wonder ...who is it, in fact, who really needs to click the heels of the ruby slippers and discover the green, green grass of home...?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Please Fasten your Seatbelt…

With 15 flights under my belt (or wings) this month and a circadium rhythm that is pulsating double time, I thought it was time to push aside my departure lounge coffee and share my thoughts on the glamorous world of the jet-set traveller.

Admittedly this has been a month more weighted in the clouds than normal. My journeys have chartered me across timezones and continents and checked me in everywhere from upper deck to chicken coop along the way, but it is this changing travel class that has made me wonder...when flying, just how much are we treated by where we are seated?

At the top end zen of the travel ladder is fast track security, priority passes and peeled grapes in the lounge. AKA the exec-mecca. No stress. No mess. Zero sleeplessness. When flying 'First' I can quite easily clear check-in to departure gate faster than Usain Bolt blind-folded. My familiarity with airports means I have a precision routine that removes my liquids, laptop, shoes, belt and jacket, in that order, with every step as if the security lane was a catwalk that leads me seamlessly to the exec lounge to grab a few zzzz’s over jazz and fizz before being quite literally ushered to my leather seat (soon to be extended to a bed). Air hostessing for the gold-card holder is as we knew it before the spills of the no-frills – the butler-esque, personalised silver service that treats your taste buds with food that fulfils as if it was cooked from your grand-mother’s secret recipe. High priced yes, but high life ohhh-yes.

At the bottom end, be prepared for slow to no-go.

Sitting in the bedlam of London’s Heathrow at mid-term break is a flashback to the summer of holiday hoards. Security lines are 3 times longer than normal and move at snail pace as the city-break masses grind movement to a halt. A lack of security readiness is not cured by an apology (so probably best to save it) but be the perpetrator of the body search grid-lock and do not expect pleasantry of any sorts.

Pre-flight coffee is further delayed by the barista queue for kiddie frapps and smoothies and if you are lucky enough to find a seat you are likely to acquire some form of jammy hand print on one or more of your gadgets or your dry clean only suit. Probably both.

On board the sardine-packed tin, I’m not sure if there is a lack of journeying respect for fellow travellers or if it is in fact the folly of infrequent flying, but there should be rules for head-butting with a recliner seat and limits on the number of toilet visits you take if you choose to sit at an economy window.

So as I impatiently tap my foot in the queue to retrieve my overhead hand luggage I wonder...Is the trick of travelling dependent on the ticket you travel on, or have we commoditised travel in the air to the point that nobody cares? I certainly do. Do you?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Service is Not Included…

This week has found me in New York, the city that never sleeps and whose insomnia is powered by coffee-consumption on every corner to cater to the tourist and traveller from dusk to dawn. Assuming, that is, that you include a pre-defined percentage for every moment of pleasure and leisure in your payment!

The tipple of tipping, US style, is of course an assumed line item to any bill, regardless of service. I confess that I am not typically an advocate of acceptance ‘in advance’. When ‘in Rome’ (or New York in this intance) I do tend follow suit of local custom but, if honest, I believe that tipping should be a reward for a return, not a presumed pre-payment for the simple practicing of purveyance regardless of the standards this provides. Indeed, as a frequent traveller and someone who has an inherently high dependency on the help of hotelier hosts and hospitality, I have developed my own Michelin-esque merits on what determines the star rating between standards, satisfaction and success…as well as what frankly just sucks.

This week, however, I have been inspired by the hospitable nature of the New Yorker. Service is always with a smile and, even if that means that it comes with a supplement with or without compliment, there is undoubtedly a sense of sentiment that is second to none. However, just as I have spent this week submersed in the synchronicity of superior service in the social sense, it has caused me to look at the people around me and I have reflected on just how much we play (or not) by these rules in our personal lives and wonder... do we truly do onto others what we would have done onto ourselves…?

If street service has an expectation of a proverbial smile as standard, why is it that making a contribution of kindness to our inner circles it is often conveniently discounted?

Despite living in a world that encourages goodwill and to give generously it often seems that the satisfaction to be gained from the gesture of a personal gift is now just a hopeful cherry on the cake, served with a disappointing reality that despite goodwill we do not always get the sugar coated topping from giving the treat.

The power of an unspoken thank-you can be the most rewarding silence you can ever hear yet strangely for the recipient they are often some of the hardest words to utter. So, as I distribute my own gestures of goodwill this week, I wonder, have we become so programmed in verseing our gratitude gratuitously on a comments card that we have forgotten the courtesy to do the same in a greetings card, or is it just a fact that the joy of giving has suddenly become the joy of taking....plus 15%?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Life’s a Beach…

Today my travels have taken me tropical. Tropi-local, actually. Kind of like a day at the beach but on the high street, sunbathing without the heat wave. In lieu of my typical 5 hours in an airplane cabin, today I have spent 5 minutes in a sunshine cabin. A tanning booth – the concorde flight-path for an overall tan, sun-kissed in seconds.

Off-boarding my tanning tardis I exit with a glow that would make Willy Wonka’s Umpa Lumpa’s proud, without the sizzle of a sun-bed and safely sprayed without the risk of harmful rays. Simultaneously, however, as I leave I am surprised to see how a queue grows for this quick glow-to-go and it is this tan-thusiasm that has rallied my reflections to wonder about the nation's addiction to the infamous tanorexia and indeed what is it that has driven us all to be such a fan of a fake tan…?

In an environment that is more electronic than ecological, we are encouraged to embrace the eco-nomics of our ergonomics – our gasoline is unleaded, our packaging is biodegradable, bottles are recycled, our kitchen basics are organic, our offices are paperless and as a result our carbon footprints are gradually reduced. But are we as equally e-conscious about our eco-selves as we are for our eco-system?

Programmed to protect our personal packaging from the problematic penetration of the sun and the ageing attack of the elements, today's eco warrrior is just as focussed on our physical well being as we are on our coastlines and countryside.  

Slowing down the effects of time has become an industry in itself and our investment is a small price to pay to save the person from the perils, as well as the planet. The return on the personal investment has short term gain, as well as protecting our future asset – a trip to St Tropez can be as convenient as a trip to the local convenience store, a Barbados bronze is more easily acquired from a bottle than from a beach, and the only place to endure turning and burning is the barbeque rather than the beach towel.

Conversely and somewhat ironically, however, the price we have to pay for this type of sun gone wrong can take a little longer to recover the loss. A glow gone glorange needs patience and time to reduce the redness, not aloe vera. Lesson learned - glo with caution…

So, as I watch my Umpa Lumpa siblings appear one by one from the bronzing booth to dance the tango, I am left to wish for the bliss of a successful sun kiss in 24 hours' time and wonder, in an effort to go green in our physical lives are we running the risk of turning orange in our personal lives?

 ‘Til next time, Pandora

Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda….

If ever there was one man who knew a thing or two about life it was Albert Einstein. A rather random male muse for my meandering mind, I admit, but as I find myself today amidst the quagmire of yes-no-maybe mayhem of a seasonal spring clean, never have his sage words of wisdom been more apt…

Einstein tells us there are 3 rules of work: ''Out of clutter find simplicity; From discord find harmony; In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity.”

For me spring cleaning is ubiquitous to the seasons, and as frequent as time allows. Controversially, to live so much of life from a mini mobile wardrobe on wheels, it almost borders on the ridiculous just how much excess baggage you can actually acquire along the way. But there comes a time when the garage door (or the suitcase) just won’t close anymore and the only thing to do is get ready for the boot sale and donate the rest to charity.

Through observing Einstein rules #1 and #2, I have in fact succeeded in metamorphosing the science of de-cluttering into an art. My religious ritual for riddance is duly and divinely correlated to the healing power of my equally religious retail therapy. Make space. Replace.

Whilst there is something refreshingly rejuvenating in re-arranging your wardrobe with new additions, tags still on, Einstein's #3 goes beyond the material things in life and despite life's hectic pace, for this rule the ostrich must pull its head from the sand to find, or make, the space to re-place and keep the proverbial glass half-full.

Categorising clutter into yes and no is fairly simple but, regardless of the boredom from hoarding, are we all guilty of protecting the 'maybe'….just in case? These decisions are never just as straightforward - its always exciting to step out in new shoes, but there is a lot to be said for the comfort of the classics that never go out of style.

As I consider the difficult destiny of the maybe pile I am reminded once more of my movie nemesis Ryan Bingham and I set about the arduous task of re-packing my back-pack within the weight restrictions for the next trail of travel - Wil I wear it, or won’t I? Do I need it, or don’t I? Do I want it, or don’t I?

So, as I procrastinate but promise to unearth the buried treasure from the sand at the next best opportunity, I wonder - is it possible to have our cake and eat it, or when our needs are met, do we actually need them anymore?

‘Til next time, Pandora