Going for Gold, Ending up Burned.

They say that hindsight is a wonderful thing and indeed, when it comes to the behaviours of sun-tanning, my own hindsight is indeed filled with wonder. I wonder from what age and how we adopted the obsession with sun tans? I wonder how I physically survived the years of hardcore sunbathing in spf-free sun oils, never mind a teenage fixation of sunbeds? But, most of all, I wonder ...how is it, despite a modern society’s awareness of the harmful damage and the ease of non-sun alternatives to achieve an all over glow, this same obsession and battle remain unchanged for the youth of today?

Good wine may mature with age, and there is nothing as succulent as a well cooked aged steak but this week, as I watched the rows of sun worshippers sizzle in the European sunshine, I couldn’t help think…is our age an indication of our impatience and inexperience to cook up the perfect tan, regardless of the risk of burning or at what point do we pay attention to the smoke alarms?

My own Confessions of a Sun Worshipper has as many follies as bronzing oils - carrot, coconut, lemon, olive and any other oil that promised me to be a golden greek goddess from a fortnight on the Costas. But, accepting that nothing less than a full body skin graft would give me the 365 day olive skin of the Mediterranean, I soon found my niche in winter spray tans and summer spf that ensured I too could have a healthy glow from the sun that could still ensure my escape from the granny prune club.

Lined up like a row of sausages on the barbeque, I contemplated the spectrum of colours that rainbow from pink to golden to mahogany burned along the sun jetty and wondered….have we become so accustomed to quick-hit microwave dinners that nobody really checks the cooking instructions any more?  

The fresh skinned teens, a mix of pink from not covering up in the midday sun or day-after raw like a steak tata, coincidentally all harbouring the lemon, coco, olive oils in their beach bag beside the jumbo sized bottle of soothing aloe vera.

In the middle are the prime cuts - the succulent ones that catch your eye, a combination of seasoned steaks braising perfectly around the desired medium rare, turning regularly on each side, oiled with the perfect spf to create the desired golden finish to complement the origin of the meat, yet with room to cook for longer if the skin and the taste so desires.

And, at the opposite end of the grill, getting gradually closer to the left-over plate, the aged-steaks - dry and creasing from being too overdone yet, surprisingly, still layered in olive oil to cook some more, but little to no chance of looking succulent ever again.

So, as the buzzer sounds to call time to turn the meat and drizzle with oil once more, I consider how much better it is to go for gold with a barbeque that is so much tastier when its executed with time and effort and wonder...for those who quite simply ‘Can’t Cook, Won’t cook’….perhaps the booth is a better route to bronze?

‘Til next time, Pandora

The Trunki Junkies

I must admit, when I first saw the colourful quirkiness of the Trunki wheel pass me in London's Heathrow, I smiled. I think everyone does, they are bright and kooky and fun, so we all smile, in the way you smile at cute babies and fluffy toys. Well, before you remember that cute babies have not so cute lungs and fluffy toys have incessantly annoying built-in music.
 
And so begins the demise of my novelty for the aforementioned Trunki, as weeks pass by, and suddenly it  feels like every queue in every airport seems to have a Trunki gridlock as its epicentre and the kooky child carrier quickly morphs into the frequent flyers worst nightmare and I wonder...at what stage is it that natural loving parents all fall folly to post-natal amnesia that seems to forget that the average attention span of their toddler(s) is typically less than 10 minutes? 

As a frequent flyer I am all about convenience and travelling light, but I have pondered if there is some form of subliminal marketing messaging that accompanies the call of the Trunki? I wonder… can it be true that the USP (unique selling pitfall) is an instant parental sense of delusion that piling a child's must have toys and personal effects into another mini suitcase is, in fact, a weight offloaded?  

Even during the fun child-Trunki bonding (which last approximately 15 minutes) the entire family slows down to a vitual stop and, with that, a queue of restless airport commuters (or me). Perhaps it is the excitement of gleeful kiddie faces that means the general rules of  child safety are forgotten, but I wonder...where is it overlooked that children mounted on Trunkis cannot be pulled at speed, without it becoming a rodeo that inevitably ends in screams and occasional blood. Please note, crash helmets are not included

For older children the carnage takes a whole new format. More steady and better balanced than a wobbling toddler, they are capable of Trunki manoeuvring the departure lounge as if it were the Monaco Grand Prix. A whole new world of pain and tannoy announcements that also inevitably ends in delayed flights and buggies at security.
 
For the remaining 45 minutes of the hour, the remainder where the child-Trunki bond breaks when they have to actually trail it behind them, the risk of lost kiddie luggage can only be prevented when there is no other option but for it to be assumed the latest dad-bag. And a great look it is, too.
 
Admittedly not a parent myself, but I wonder....is it wishful thinking that our 3 year olds could be capable of carrying their own luggage, fending for themselves through a summer busy airport, or if they should get ‘lost’ at least they would have a night' s change of clothes and a squeaky toy?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Up Pompeii

Before you read this blog it is important to know that it is not intended as a call to to bring back dictatorship or an way an accolade for Frankie Howard. In fact I cannot attest to being in any way near knowledgeable on any of the above subjects, and can categorically confirm to having no interest of any form in the Carry on genre at all.

No, this week my random wanderings have taken me on a visit to the ancient city of Pompeii and with it an insight to the tumultuous history of events that saw its creation by the Romans, destruction from a volcano in AD 79, its belated discovery in the 17th century, rebuild by the Italians, and semi re-destruction by earthquakes in 1980 and 2009. As I embarked on my historical education it occurred to me that the hard work of mankind was constantly at the mercy of something more powerful and I wondered....to what point are we really in control of our destiny, or merely hamsters on the wheel of life that has a pre- determined outcome that we cannot avoid? 

Admittedly there have been countless natural disasters since the eruption of Vesuvius so many hundreds of years ago, all of which have caused tragic loss of life but as I explored the remains and artefacts from the excavation of this lost city I wondered ...if the ‘censorship’ of the modern world really provides as compelling an insight to human loss today, or are we protected from living the power of the possible that the natural world has over us?

Despite the speed of the Internet and live TV footage, I was never more moved than by the compelling artefacts (if you can call human form such a thing), as the plaster casts that were created from the ash protected ruins, despite Pompeii laid lost under ash for so long. A city created in AD, intricately designed with all the comforts we have in modern society with bars, bakeries and a Roman spa – the pain of the demise of our same day to day activities are captured powerfully through a bust of a twisted dog chained in his home and unable to escape, a pregnant lady holding her unborn child as she faced death...long before HDTV.

Years later, and re-tumbled in part from earthquakes, Vesuvius remains an active volcano that has a scientific question of certainty that says ‘we don’t know when, but it will erupt soon’. Yet, for the Italians living in the new Pompeii, and there are thousands, including those with child and with dogs, there is a sense of acceptance that one day this will come, that life will be lost, but life will be rebuilt.

So, as I left this incredible creation I wonder.....does the belief that we shape our own destiny allow for a more fulfilling life of the things and time we have, or is the sense of ‘more’ gained from working harder and having more give us the false escapism that we really need to survive?

 

‘Til next time, Pandora

Embarking on the Tourist Trek…

Its somewhat ironic that after a June that was abnormally busy with business travel spanning continents, my eventual time-out to return to blogging should begin in an airport! Well, they do say there is no place like home and, given my regularity with inter airport transit, as always it tends to be a common source for my blogging muse, if not on this occasion, amusement.

Travelling à la tourist tends to mean travelling with an airline of less familiarity (the ones that pack in as many holiday makers and their beach gadgets as possible), and with them the unfamiliar territory of the pre-flight wait without an exec lounge. As much as I may be guilty of lounge snobbery, as a result of more time spent chez terminal than chez home, as I wander in search for solace and a socket in a rapidly filling departure lounge, I wonder ….what it is that brings out behaviours of the infrequent flyers, than those of us who start red-eye and end the 9-5 on the last flight home?

I have numerous previous airport writings, all openly admiting my self confessed impatience in a terminal which, by the time a Friday business flight is called, is quite possibly insensitive to the fact that not everyone spends their morning and evening rush manoevering check in and security. However, looking around, although I recognise familiar pinstripe suits from the frequent flyer club lounge, I am surprised at the usual lack of control and precision displayed, now as glaringly absent as the colourfullyclad neon Bermunda shorts and I wonder….does a summer vacation automatically mean mayhem for even the seasoned traveller, or does the switchover to travel with the 2.4 children and boarding with more than a brief case and a blackberry call for a mental switch off of all things controlled?

The disciplined precision of time, pre-security planning and minimal hand-luggage is quickly little more than a distant postcard from Corporate as the family holiday commences and the proverbial Brits on Tour begins – security queues get longer with prams and groups, trays are overloaded with kiddie coloured ipods, family-sized mobile phone collections, teenage jumbo headsets and the inevitable  Nintendo DS ('cos it really wouldn’t br right if the electronic puppy died of starvation in the 2 weeks away, would it?...)

Once into the common room departure lounge, I watch as the travelling masses separate like the parting of the waves – ladies and children to the WH Smith mecca for the obligatory stock up of boiled sweets, full collection of weekly magazine issues, flight pillow and '3 for 2' book offer, whilst the non 2.4 owners (and the odd escaping husband) prop up the closest bar to top up their 6am tequila shots with beer and bacon sandwiches – and I wonder…does our holiday brain exert a certain vacation endorphine that pre-programmes us into a pre-defined airport itinerary, and indeed, at what point did my travelling maturity leave either, or both, of these tourist traits behind?

Notably however, I wonder if in all of this chaos it is just I that is panicking to find the socket to charge my blackberry, and if the last minute business is the real start of the non-business? So, flight called and ready to join the vacation nation, I wonder ....what is it that will really make the perfect holiday - tourist-topped up hand luggage packed with a giant sized duty-free Tobelerone or simply the will power to switch off my mobile phone?

‘Til next time, Pandora

What Happens When the Cat Stays Home…

We all know the old adage that when the cat’s away, the mice will play. I doubt that there is not more than a few of us that doesn’t harbour a secret cat-cation story that is best kept just that. Don't get me wrong, I am not encouraging anybody to wander on unholy ground. Time-out, home alone, doesn’t have to be intrepid, or guilt-ridden, by any means. But isn't there simply a sense of relief that, every once in a while, you know there is an opening where you can forget about keeping up appearances, remove undue effort, live without compromise and simply be who you really want to be, solo, or in company. Slouch, party, stay in bed...effortless you-time as you wish to use it.

This week I have come to consider these eagerly awaited fun moments in life, when the cat’s away, and how is it that have we managed to reach such a place. Life's responsibilities take over and, as the pass-out for time-out gradually becomes the exception rather than the rule, I wonder....what does that say about the other 300+days of our year when the cat stays home, and just where are we in the path from purr-fection to the mouse-trap?

The institutional path of life guides us from the innocence of youth, through study and work and, sooner or later, into relationships, marriage and kids. There are no rules on how you make this journey - some go about it faster or slower, some in a less Victorian order and, indeed, some have come back for the second time around. But, regardless of the flight path, for such large decisions that shape the next chapter of your life, what strikes me as strange is how any retrospective look back on time will always reminisce as the ‘good old days’ and I wonder …. is there an unavoidable point in the journey of life where we are obliged to compromise on who we really are, and close the door on the ‘you’ of youth?

Conversely, in a world where we are encouraged to explore individualism and live life to the max, is it in fact the case that we actually crave convention to control our destiny? In the life game of cat and mouse, I wonder …..is there safeguard in acquiring the cat that provides a get-out clause from admitting conformism or is it simply contentment for unconditional love that makes us feel more secure?

So, as the pitter-patter of 4 little feet evolve over time to 2 and onwards to a brood, do we need to stop and think about what is truly picture-purrfect, or I wonder...do we all proceed only in the comfort that every cat has 9 lives?

‘Til next time, Pandora

One Small Step for Man, One Giant Leap Back in Time for Mankind...

With the amount of city hopping I have packed in during the last few weeks, I would normally have a host of random thoughts and sightings to ponder over but, as it goes, there isn't typically a lot to catch your eye when caught in the middle of paranormal summer weather that feels like windy autumn. Except the pavement.

Controversially, however, despite my line of sight being tunnel-visioned to the sidewalk to avoid the wind and rain of May, I have been inadvertently immersed in a Boot-camp that has left me mesmerised about the misguided steps of the feet on our streets, wondering….when it comes to putting on their shoes, where do our men get so lost between fashion forward and stepping back in time?

I do confess to focussing on a good outer presentation, a standard no-one should apologise for and, indeed, I go as far as to suggest that our men may have an easier battle in looking good – a good suit, good jeans, tailored clothing (even for casual dressing), in general, will excuse many an imperfect physique and really showcase those fortunate to be less than imperfect. But this week, as I console myself at the state of passing soles, I wonder ...do men just get bored by the time they get to the shoes and socks, or do they really believe that one style fits all? What is it that makes men think they can go through life with a single pair of shoes?

Now, we are not talking sub 25 year olds today (indeed there is a certain male stylista of any age that can rock sneakers casual or formal). No, this is the grown up shoe problem…

The unexplained je ne sais quoi in the male Adult-shoed brain that thinks that ye-old-faithful pair of black elongated pointy shoes they relentlessly wear for work are inter changeable with jeans and suits. The misguided belief that having a fall-back pair of brown antiquated leather (probably more pointed for the weekend and unlikely to be real leather) at the back of the wardrobe keeps them ready for every fashion. And the Zoolander of foot-fashion faux-pas - the flash of an overtly exuberant (aka pass me my sunglasses) brass buckle, sometimes two and painfully often three.

By this stage I am at the verge of a fashion intervention or a scream for the style gods of Sweeney and Smith to descend from the rooftops!  For once glad of the winds and rain, I remained eyes-down for fear that an elevated line of sight may lead me to the crimes of denim that would undoubtedly be hoisted high with a belt as garishly buckled as the clown shoes and, as I continue on my path of shoe sin I wonder ….just where did the penchant for pointy start and end?

Do our boys not realise that having a buckle is admitting adult velcro and, if your shoes are so pointed they start to curl up like a jester, they are indeed the joke...?  Indeed, at what point does man fashion DNA turn DOA?

‘Til next time, Pandora

‘Half plus Seven’ – The Calculus Cure for Cougarville?

A ubiquitous lifestyle means I spend frequent down-time in hotel bars and lobbies, strictly (of course) to break the cabin fever of hotel living. With the right locale, and I admit to being stylishly picky, there is no better company than a fresh mojito in the ambiance of low-key loungerino Café del Mar-esque tunes and the muted shades of mocha décor to put you in the perfect people watching mood. This voyeur approach to social networking, however, doesn’t always go unaccompanied, albeit it is mostly unsolicited, but this weekend as I settled back in my locale du choix, I wondered….do the boundaries of dating get blurred after dark or, has anthropology infact taken over mythology when it comes to ‘Half, plus seven"…..

If "Half, plus Seven" is  considered the age-old dating rule for men, designed to justify the socially acceptable age threshold for dating of younger women, I wonder …just how much of a malculus is behind the logic of this anthropological genius and if it was so suitably ‘scientifically’ calculated by a male mathematician?  

I mean, observing this theory, a buff 30-year old can comfortably continue to ‘go-Dutch’ with a 22 yr old at the Student’s Union. Equally the maturing 40-year old can, in theory, legitimately beauty-parade a fresh 27 year old in his mid life crisis yellow sports car. Ergo, if the math follows male logic, then I wonder... is this why, even at the north end of the dating ladder, the worst category that the dating man can reach is the Platinum Sugar Daddy Club, itself a kudos of supreme levels at the 19th hole and Saturday full-time whistle?

Conversely, however, is it a case that the dating female counterpart has the freedom of dating only in her early years? The femathematician can round down at just a fraction of her male predators - a 30 year old female dating under-30 is critiqued for cradle-snatching yet promptly, from the ripe old age of 35 she becomes a cougar cub and the short years that follow to 40 are clearly spent marking her territory for full cougar adulthood. Ridiculous as this may sound there is a large, indeed growing, population of females who wish to savour the assortment of soft centres, caramels and rich pralines before the taste buds are restricted to the abandoned sugar-daddied jellies and Turkish Delight but I wonder…..has society already established a pre-conception of acceptance that means the sugar-free reality for the untamed cougar park quite simply has fewer choices from the candy box and a much shorter ladder than the ‘Half-plus-Seven’ Men’s Club?

So, as we continue to break shackles of conformity and feel empowered to self-preserve by defying gravity and shorten the hemline with every birthday, I wonder...is there really an escape from the birth certificate or are we destined to enter the cougar reserve park and await the retirement of the Manther?

‘Til next time, Pandora

To know me is to fly with me….

This famous opening monologue of Ryan Bingham in ‘Up in the Air’ is one that has been a regular reference point as I share my travel-blogging tales however, this holiday weekend, as I sit amidst the laundry of a southern hemisphere suitcase and plan the contents of an uncertain weathered northern hemisphere suitcase, I have stopped to consider if my cinematic counterpart is, in fact, more of a nemesis than an alter-ego.

My accrued April airtime, so far, has crossed 3 continents in 15 days and has resulted in a climate control and sleep navigation system urgently requiring re-engineering. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing as rewarding than the great fortune to travel the globe and see so many far flung places but, as I unpack and repack I wonder perhaps…is the real redemption for frequent flyer air miles a catalogue choice of multiple personalities every time we cross multiple time-zones?

When the novelty of life in a suitcase becomes commonplace it is hard to recall the glamour of the jet set that is so commonly perceived by the average land lubber. We may no longer have to face the early morning daily commute at the wheel, but I wonder …does the jet-set rush-hour road-rage simply check-in as a new OCD in the sky-high human bird cage, or is the trauma of travel a dilemma that evolves with age?

I never feel too great after a flight, regardless of travel ticket class. Thinking back I recall days of the girls summer trek to the Costa, where tightly packed on an economy flight with a paid-for piña-colada was a dream come true. Now, by comparison, even with silver service meals, a personalised protein menu, cashmere flight socks and sound proof earphones ...how is it that the only thing I really want to do when I reach my destination is to get on a plane for a vacation?

A flat bed is a must, unreservedly. But, regardless of 8 hours DVT preventative sleep, there are certain lines of latitude and longitude where travelling elegantly seems to take a leap from the plane in parachute silk, only to be replaced with the prospect of excess baggage charges on arrival rather than at departure and, despite checking in for top-deck jumbo, I am sure to check out as ground-level blimp...

On-board, my gold membership of the frequent flyer club boasts an obsession with cleanliness that would be the envy of any terra firma home-maker. My roll-on bag, forever electronically equipped for a full shift of onboard business, is now as chemically ready for a total blitz of airborne germs and illness and, as I stock-check what were once dedicated pockets for sockets with new wipes and antiseptics I wonder .....at what stage will my in-flight oddities qualify as an on-board paramedic?

So, as I fast forward airport CCTV to complete my latest travelling photo album I wonder ....does the essence of being a frequent flyer simply mean the airplane cabin is now my castle or, just how many miles remain before I claim squatters rights?

'Til next time, Pandora

Aussie Rules - Who Dares Wins...

As strange as it sounded to many, during my recent Asian travels I took a weekend break to Australia. Admittedly not the typical place for a few days away but, already located south of the Equator and with acute synchronisation of the red-eye travel I normally try to avoid, I was able to engineer close to a full 72 hours for a refresher visit with family and still make it in time for the office on Monday.

There are many myths about life Down Under and whilst I can dispel those that people, animals, cars, trains and buses do not in fact operate upside down, that the only people alluding to a Crocodile Dundee cork trimmed hat are the tourists (usually drunk) and that water does not flow in the opposite direction, as I embarked on my 72 hour whistle stop tour of WA I did have to contemplate….is the slow pace of life down-under as simple as the effects of  the laws of reversed gravity or, is it simply the sunshine that slows down life the further south you move from the Equator?

Akin to their northerly neighbours, the Australian pace of life is as aligned to the equatorial equilibrium that is found from Europe to the Americas, where days get hotter then life gets slower.

However, as I moved around my western slice of Australia, I wondered…does the mañana theory really transcend to every sun filled city between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn or just how much of Aussie rules is actually less about laissez-faire and more about self-service?

With coffee shops and bars lining every street, harbour, beach and mall it is clear that tea- breaks and pit-stops play a priority time-out in the the Australian every day game and, if Aussie Rules is the game of ultimate invasion, then surviving a trip down under needs first division tactics. Stand in queue and you may very well wait to mañana - in the Aussie rule book ‘queue’ is spelled ‘me’ and there is no such thing as first come first served. Shout and be served, follow etiquette and fall to the back of the non-line.

So, as I dispel another myth of sunshine hospitality, I search to re-unite with my city blinkers and wonder …is there a speed limit for life in the fast lane down under that should be introduced to colder climes or do we all, in fact, play by the Aussie Rules?

'Til next time, Pandora

It’s the Inside that Counts…

We are indoctrinated to believe that it’s what's inside that counts, that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I don’t necessarily disagree with the mantra, but I do prefer to be a little more practical – always aim to please the beholder but most certainly endeavour to maintain an inner chi. I mean, let’s face it, is anybody perfect?

Before we get too caught up in a debacle over the importance of the inner you versus the outer you, however, my blog this week reflects on the importance of interiors of a different sort – our handbags. Not medically proven to be totally the root cause of my current consultation for back pain, this week as I listened to the advice of my lesser fashion-conscious physiotherapist I wondered ....could it really be down to my relationship with LV that my big bag trend is impacting my ability to properly bend?

Just as mobile phones threatened our brains and a life of texting and gaming risks a population with preposterously large thumbs, I wonder…is the ailment of the fashion victim to be health hindered dependent on the size of his / her handbag/manbag?

I’m often bemused at the constant magazine articles that tell us the 6 things in the A-lister designer bag that they just cannot live without . As I think of my own day to day changing needs in a routine that that morphs day to night without the A-list demands, I wonder if perhaps it is the advertising endorsement of the 6 essentials that is so life critical, espeically when there is an entourage to lug the rest on their behalf? Indeed, for the average ‘NeverFull’ Handbag Joe, isn’t it more realistic that what we really want and need is a never empty?

Wallet, lipstick, mobile, camera, flat shoes (heels to change), mints, boarding passes, passports, bottled water, keys, sunglasses, mini umbrella, ipad, ipod and the travelling plastic bag of liquids and cosmetics – not one of the more than 6 essentials could realistically be removed from daily life and, as I satisfyingly return the contents of my latest possession carrying obsession, I wonder ...is the reason we buy big not really because a life 'on the go' doesn’t mean that we can go without?

So, before you rush out to purchase a padded neoprene rucksack to carry life’s little essentials, stay true to your fashion judgement and 'Go Large'. That, or find yourself a different fashion accessory who is happy to carry your keys, phone and high heels on your behalf…

'Til next time, Pandora

Tweeting with the Frenemy – The Chicken and Egg Conundrum of your Social Network and your Social Life

Growing up I had a very merry band of friends – some best friends, some acquaintances, new and old friends and friends of friends. Conversely, along this journey and indeed regardless of age, there were many departed friends from the ‘inner circle’ as a result of the usual playground tiffs, schoolgirl rivalry (often adult rivalry), births, moves, travels and marriages. Despite how wide the friend network grew or depleted, however, there was always an unspoken clarity. The friend-gagement - the most special relationships stayed strong, many still remain in place, the less special became memories of people you met along the way and, when a split happened, it was definitive, no ties, life goes on.

This week, however, as I set about familiarising myself with my expanding private and personal social networks I have reflected on how the rules of friendship have changed and I wonder….in a world commodotised by real time updates, has the BFF been replaced by a BFNetwork?

We are lulled into a false sense of security that the ability to grow friends en masse from one Saturday night to another indicates popularity, but is this race to add faces the sign of the utlimate 'in' crowd or can real friend loyalty really be generated from 4 'likes' and a poke. If forced to meet as friends every week, could I really afford to call my new top 20 every other day to make plans, treat them to drinks at the weekend, or would I recognise them if I did? Indeed....at what point does the facebook friend tally tip from Best to Rest…?

The same consideration applies for the relationships we decide are not worth the investment. Before the days of electronically tagging our friends with the hot iron of facebook branding, friend territory was managed on the simple rules of trust.

Simply we parted company with those that didn’t work out, avoid going where they go, study the cracks in the footpath if they passed by, removed their number from our phone. If the art of making friends the facebook way is speed dating, then the art of defriending is like a messy divorce – public viewing of the breakup, sides taken on why you have made the cull, gossip, tweets, posts and a incredibly stark revoke from pokes. In today’s open-call of who’s who and who knows who knows you, wonder, have we lost the ability to quietly slip out the back and ease away?

So, as you rush to accept you next entourage of friend requests consider the chicken and egg situation of your social network within your social life and ask yourself do you really know which came first or has the desire to be popular leave us no choice but to keep our friends close and a multiplying group of frenemies closer?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Search for Design Intervention...

They say that a gentleman’s home is his castle. As is a lady’s, I would add, although the latter is possibly slightly better colour co-ordinated and, in the ideal world, surrounded with the aroma of freshly baked bread and home made apple pie.

For the jet set community (understandably I deflect from categorising a travelling community) that may sleep half of the week beyond the motte and bailey, however, home has a tendency to be more of a weekend retreat. Monday to Friday dwelling, therefore, demands an expectation to at least meet the same comfort and design as we are used to at home - room service and daily change of linens is, of course, a perk, but to be fair it is offset by the fact that any welcoming scent of roast dinner or morning toast is guaranteed to come with a 10% tray charge.

This very mecca for design intervention has been the inspiration for my blog this week, if not every week, but a long week that has been somewhat of a pilgrimage of personal down time and professional up time, moving from city to city. It may seem like a simple request that Home Sweet Home can be found away from home but, with a life as ubiquitous as a colony of ants, the reality is that it takes intricate research and forward planning to ensure each night’s remote sleep doesn’t result in an episode of 'Holidays from Hell' and, as I reflect on what lay behind many hotel doors this week I wonder ….does living a life on the road or in the skies have to come at design compromise?

The Holy Grail of chic sleep for me is easily met with cool décor, friendly service, working wi-fi and a good fish menu. Get this and designer bathroom cosmetics, well the sign of a real winning formula is one less plastic bag to trek through airport security…

Last minute hotel hopping is as dependable as camping at Glastonbury. I have gained some level of routine in that at least 75% of my time may frequent the same 6 cities in any given month, and with that am unashamedly particular on where I stay. The seasoned traveller will know that Holiday Inn and Best Western may not always truly represent the branding, and anything promising the sun, moon and less than 4 stars is a galaxy where no man, or woman, should honestly venture. Indeed, a simple rule of hotel thumb, if it comes with a wallet sized card to promote loyalty, chances are you are no more than an unknown six digit plus number in their database, not a preferred guest, and first come is usually still first served.

My personal penchant is the boutique hotel – an eagerly sourced menagerie of tried and tested intimate abodes that cater to the personal whims of any Mr or Mrs Smith (or Skies) and where repeat visits promise personal service with a smile and an upgrade, not a loyalty card. Monday to Friday décor is guaranteed to recreate a home away from home or, on occasion, ignites new concepts that have been known to spark a chez-moi remodel once the Friday evening key is turned in my own front door. 

So, as I flick through the pages of my coveted little black book for next weeks stays away, an A for Abode through to K for first Klass at K-West and D for divine at Du Vin, only one question really remains…Would you live in a place like this? (Oh, and when will my home phone dial 9 for room service!)

'Til next time, Pandora

Darwinding Down - The Origin of a New Spa-cies….

There should, quite possibly, be a new tag-name for people like me, and by me I mean a 'we', those of us who, whether for escapism or plain unadulterated pleasure, have developed an addiction to pre-scheduled relaxation.
Spa-sionista, perhaps? Noun: she who can ubiquitously pinpoint, on demand, the exact must-have treatment in the next must-visit spa, customised to every budget, needs or dream from a pre-defined stack-rank scoring system that rates pleasure to painful from her own personal experience.

This week my blog has been inspired 'in-spa' - fortuned by lady-luxe, my spa-venture upgraded to first class, I was blessed with sampling the pampering of the crème de la crème of beauty treatments with a 2-hour soaked and stroked spa-cation in Crème de la Mer.

Stepping out of the Harrod’s lift to the pent-house 5^th floor Urban Retreat was as decadent as a 5-minute Wonka elevator ride in the chocolate factory. I was immediately surprised, though, that even as early as the turn of the morning key there was no room to spare on the velveteen banquettes that decorated the waiting area. Recession was certainly not hindering relaxation, golden tickets were in plentiful supply and any more attention from the welcome reception would have demanded a paparazzi spread in Hello magazine.

My next 2 hours was a spa-volution time-lapse that was to take me and my spa expectations to a whole new level of unwind where whales and panpipes would, quite simply, no longer be enough and, as I mastered my new life in this pent-house spa-cial territory in the virtual sandy cove of ‘La Mer’, I started to consider …does the reality of a life in the fast lane mean we need our relaxation pit-stops to up their game? 

My visit to La Mer served not only to de-stress but to confirm the value of having high expectations and, as I allowed myself to embrace the Darwininan spa-vival of the fittest, I realised that scented candles, incense, fluffy robe and a bowl of fruit are no longer sufficient to dress up a glorified back rub or a toe polish that has been tinkered by a max-factored beauty.  No, with our time, money and tolerance tight, when we choose to invest we have a right to demand a guarantee of good rest. If and where the price is high, then the environment, products, treatments and service need to reflect real experience, not work experience...

So, as I left my penthouse pod with my head emptied from thoughts and my voice hoarse from silence, I accepted that where there is a trend there is always a spend but, in a world where our nine-to-five stretches to seven-eleven and where escapism for relaxation is rapidly becoming a weekly reminder on the fridge door, I wonder ....should we, in fact, value our ‘me-time’ as precious a commodity as the massage oil that unashamedly caresses our wallets with its boutique price-tag?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Power of Pie...

So it's National Pi Day. Yes, its own National day of hurrah. Not the cream or apple type, the multi decimal point mathematical type. I think everything has its day of celebration, these days - cupcakes, popcorn and pancakes...so, let's just make this more appealing to everyone and throw in the less academic pie to Pi Day, too.

There is, in fact, a rather uncanny correlation between the mathematical genius of PI and the alphabetical ingredients of PIE. Read on, grab a spoon, Its time to get somewhat pie-eyed over pie...

It's quite possible that my life-long dessert dilemma, 'To Eat or Not To Eat', has triggered this sudden revived obsession with pie possession. I mean, faced with a life of refute and abstinence, I wonder...have my taste buds subconsciously been on an eternal search for some form of scientific pie-thagarus theorem that might justify the calorific conundrum that challenges every post-dinner endorphinal rush?

Interestingly, by its own proven mathematical calculation, pi is an infinite decimal and as such is mathematically known as irrational, so I guess it is really no surprise that my recurring third-course mental dialogue always results in denial winning over longing...

However, this week, since unearthing this pictorial peace-maker I have found myself exploring my thoughts on the power of pi on pie itself and I wonder....have I finally discovered the secret to having my cake and actually eating it?

By definition, pi is the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its diameter. Stay with me -  Pi is always the same number, no matter which circle you use to compute it, large or small.

If we consider, therefore, our circle to be our plate and our slice of perfect pie to extend the width (diameter) of this plate....then doesn't the logic follow that regardless of the size of the plate, your pie will always be the same? Genius. Where is that waiter...?

So, next time you ponder over pavlova or exchange banoffee for a boring coffee, ask yourself ....is the restrain worth the pain or if, in just 3.14 scientific seconds, you can truly enjoy your just desserts...?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Devolutionary Seven Deadly Man Sins

We have all made the unspoken 'promise' to our parents - the one to work hard and be a good person, settle down with someone with good prospects and who will treat us well. Keen words, but unspoken or not, it is the delivery of that promise which is the arduous task and, this week, as I checked off a busy list of social to-do's, i found myself unexpectedly submersed in a menagerie of social to-don'ts that made me wonder....have we somehow mastered the work-hard promise, only by over compensating on play-hard, to the point of being die hard?

Whilst there is no handbook to guide you in the fullflment of the aforementioned unspoken 'promise', my blog today acknowledges the changing behaviour of the local wild-life and the risk it places on its success. Is it a case that we are reverting to a nation of cavemen, suffering perhaps from the ecological impact of global warming or does the new neanderthal mean that social engagements have, in fact, become a social experiment?

As a self confessed social butterfly I have evolved the skill of  maintaining a flexible balanance of professional networking and crowd mingling (both dependent on the order of the day or night). This week, however, schdeuled in a week-long nocturnal tour of diary duty, I found my stamina challenged, willingly surrendering any interest or desire to flutter my eyelashes at even a fraction of the pace that I may have been fluttering my social butterfly wings and as I watched the beervolution of the male species I feared the survival of the social butterfly may be under attack from a Darwinian nemesis, and I wondered....is survival of the flirtiest at risk of extinction from a new male race for survival of the un-fittest?
In order to protect the female species and return our new millennium primal prowess, I reflected on the meanedering behaviours of our neanderthal bar-flies, and considered the guidance of the seven deadly sins as a solid mantra.

Gluttony - every pride of lions has at least one gluttonous male who takes on way more than he can chew, unable to say no to friends, but much more at ease ofsuch retort to his lioness. The best redress is to refocus energies on what really counts with a simple counter 'no' in all things carnivorous. Hunger will always win in the end.

Pride - It comes before a fall, so if there there are signs that your man holds higher concern on being the eye candy rather than reciprocating the flattery towards his arm candy, then that eye is definitely roving. Conversley, caution to a lack of pride, and if they can enter and leave the loo faster than they can say I forgot to wash my hands, this is a sure sign of long-term 'leave the eat up' syndrome.

Greed - any desire for material wealth can oftern lead to a non-desire to share the wealth and where you may need to specualte to accumulate, if this is anyway connected to horses, casinos or poker nights, you should probably get a pre-nup. Lust and excessive cravings lead to a lack of focus. Everything in moderation, and remember that absence can make the heart grow fonder. Unless the absence is addressing the excessive cravings, of course. Envy can come from the previous two, or standalone, but either way is usually related to insecurity whereas Wrath is a no brainer. Anger although not attractive, works both ways and, if honest, it is simply better to just never be the woman scorned, ergo manage expecations from the outset. Lastly, Sloth - an easy one where first impressions don't dress to impress, but my advice is to revisit this one a few weeks in. Frequent Friday night sickies, Saturday soccer sofa syndrome, or a general willingness to be lifted and laid by his mother - none of these, single nor combined, is a good sign.

So, as I stand aside and observe the devolution of the once crave-man turned cave-man, I wonder ...can to-day's dating game really ever become the mating game, or what is it you now need to to do to get engaged, if what you really want to do is, indeed, get engaged?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Early Bird catches the Worm..

This week I have had the opportune good fortune to add a little glamour to the daily humdrum of corporate plate spinning, A somewhat cheese puff to caviar experience, I swapped out the spinning of the corporate crockery of the boardroom by day, for a more refined and elegant fine bone china after dark, as I wined and dined with canapés and crudités at a number of oh so socialite London Fashion week private events.

Fashion Week season is one of frenzy. Well, weeks of frenzy really, as it catwalks from city to city on its global trend setting road-show that transforms the must-see into the must be seen in, the must-have to the must-wear. And so, duly accessorised with the must-have invite to the VIP 'IT' parade, I embarked on my champagne catwalk, let my Choos do the talking and socialised with the socialites…

Grounding me in my brush with the high-life, however, was the reality check that my real life is one of airport runways and not fashion runways and, I skilfully multi-tasked on blackberry as I sipped on elderberry, in the hope that at least my inbox wouldn’t suffer the morning after the night before. I was rather bemused to find a lack of schmooze, however, and to discover how other party revellers filled open hall ways and corridors to equally network with their handhelds. Fairly confident, though, that not everyone was harbouring the same secret life of pinstripe underneath the sparkle of Halston, Kane and Gucci, I wondered …in today’s socially connected real-world, just who has become the dedicated follower of fashion?

If a keen eye and a sharp mind can keep you top of your game in business and a step ahead on the corporate ladder ...to be really in the know (and known) on the fast pace of the social circuit, does it take a little more than a mean Manolo?

Several nano-second tweets and shrieks of excitment later, I became reliably educated that, to be really seen on social scene, you not only need to be the follower but the followed and, as fickle as I abandoned last seasons lace for leather, I discarded my satisfaction with next-day news and had my passport stamped for Twitterverse….

So, as the kind of person who most definitely likes to be on the front foot and well used to new journeys, the only question now remains….to tweet to who?

'Til next time, Pandora

The Stupidity of Cupidity…

I have felt somewhat of a moral obligation not to write this blog until this week, or at least not until the fragrant scent of eternal love has had a chance to truly blossom from is entwine with St Valentine. But, now that the novelty of romance has passed us all by, I feel I can comfortably rant without the risk of Cupid blasting me with his full quiver of arrows, for reasons not related to his search for unrequited love.

It may seem strange that I choose to relate the avarice of cupidity to the innocence of Cupid’s arrow. I mean how could there be a correlation between uncontrolled greed and chubby baby with angel wings that we associate with St. Valentine's Day? But, as unserendipitous as it may sound, this week as I have joined the drowning masses in a sea of love movies on TV, subliminally reminded to remember who I love and commercially encouraged to demonstrate my caring at a cash register, I have come to wonder….is there really such a thing as love at first sight, or is long-term love dependent on the price tag being right?

At the risk of bordering on hypocrisy with my anti-valentine advocacy, I will openly admit my own penchant for a posy. Indeed, had Valentine decided this year not to be mine, there quite possibly would have been a bigger price to pay than cupid’s stupidly over-priced bouquet of roses that were delivered anonymously to my door.

However, as I scrambled to duly return my obligation to bestow appreciation I wondered ... if love is really blind, then why are we so fixated in paying over the odds to be kind and what does love really say when delivered on Valentine’s Day?

Can the Cupid who covets extravagance really mean romance, or is it done because he needs a second chance? For the Cupid with a curfew, only able to be thine up to nine, is it because he has a significant other Valentine? And is the Cupid on a budget not worth it because he waits to the day after to show his love at half price, or is he the real true love, because he can in fact show his love twice for the same price?

So, before you see red for not being surrounded in red this Valentine’s, consider how the stupidity of cupidity might actually send a shiver through our real true-love Cupid’s quiver and think ….is being stalked by the SWALK really just all talk or what does it really mean to turn the act of love into the facts of love?

‘Til next time, Pandora

The Metamorphosis of the Bag Lady – Trolley to Oh Golly!

It is said that the shoe doth maketh the man. Ok, perhaps I have said that myself, but I add jeans to that refrain and a great suit, and most definitely the watch. Get these right and we are already at Clooney standards. For the lady, well we promiscuously fleet from the heels to bags, sunglasses to scent, according to the call of the season. The portfolio of ‘IT’ accessories is a rapidly growing one, where past seasons join the vintage wish-list and new trends are urgently the must-buys...

There are certain cities and countries, however, where people just get this right and style is in the DNA – they see the value in authentic and they know the mistake of going fake. Asia, without a doubt, leads the way and, on my recent travels, I found myself scrutinising the statement-item scream of style that adorned the arm, foot, wrist of anyone who was anyone in the coolest of bars, stores, malls and…..airports.

Yes, the 'IT' bag has grown up, had kids and sent them to college. The family shopping list has expanded to having cool luggage and, as I peered above my over-sized shades at the cool collection to walk the reclaim carousel catwalk, I could see the big names were all there…Rimowa, Tumi, Mandarina Duck and old favourite, Samsonite (spinner-full set-alu, of course), and I wondered….was the secret of suppressing the recession in any way related to the mass purchase of over-priced suitcases?

We have all had that moment - hop off the plane, wait in the faceless front row queue for the carousel to start, hoping your bag is the first out to make it through customs and step straight into a waiting cab. 

Hopefully, anyone reading this blog has NOT had the other moment….the one where the ‘What were you thinking?’ bag comes out of the carousel. The multi-coloured, neon bright, floral chintz bag that may have seemed as the best bargain of all time but has haunted you ever since. Or the makeshift, time to dig the grave and bury the antique bag, that comes out with its contents strewn behind it on view for the public giggle. And the 2 people that are waiting at the very end of the carousel, no rush whatsoever to start their holiday….they own those bags, happy to be at the end of the taxi queue, wishing they had thought ‘Accessorise’ and not ‘Bargain’

So, as I sign the mortgage papers for my next fashion victim addiction, I wonder...how much I will need to spend to stay on travel-trend or what is the cost not to be disgraced by your battered suitcase?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Home, James!

It’s a fair assumption to share that, for those of us who lead a life of travel, we would get accustomed to the highs and lows that this entails and get used to the distinctive public transport systems that keeps every city in motion – the fights for a New York yellow cab, the queue turned squeeze on a London double-decker bus, the faceless efficiency of the Tokyo bullet train, the mexican-wave payment up a Jeepney in Manila... Well...no. Not quite. Not I.

As with every proverbial pleasure in the world, there closely follows a proverbial pain and, just as I embrace life in the skies as my daily commute, my pain factor is administered in full dosage on the ground. This week has been a double dosage and, as I cringe yet again at the wave of perspiration that surrounds me in another train station, I wonder...is the pleasure of a sky-life-high-life doomed to be a go-slow-low-life when back commuting on terra firma?

Most of my friends will attest to the fact that I am not a great one for public transport. In fact, being frank, I rarely succumb to its economical charm at all.

I will happily share a plane with a few other hundred people (although I do much prefer to be up front where the purse strings permit it….who doesn’t?).

Rail makes me frail - trains I just can’t explain, bewildered from the moment I enter the station, worse when I am on a seat facing reverse to the direction I am physically travelling in.

Fuss over a bus? I won’t even waste words - buses just don’t happen and haven’t done since I passed my university entrance exams and left school...

Already this year I have been on 17 flights and, by the logic of my travel math, 17 flights in 41 calendar days equals at least 34 cab rides. Allow a ballpark 20% uplift for casual back and forths, and we can safely call it a round 40.

Yes, taxis are my guilty pleasure, maybe my innate need for speed, but today as I switch on my air-con I really do wonder….is there anything to warrant the bus chase with a suitcase, or isn't it just better to leave it to the experts to flap about maps and get stressed over GPS...?

‘Til next time, Pandora

Creatures of Habit...not Habitat

With the time demands of travel at the start of my New Year, it has been a few weeks since I have dipped into my electronic inkwell to share my thoughts and observations of my changing time zones. As such it is somewhat coincidental that my returning rhetoric has randomly progressed my thoughts from my last blog, which pondered the folly of abandoning our cultural heritage when we opt to place our roots in new territories, far away from where we are born...

Today, although somewhat related, my new random soliloquy ironically reflects on where our habitual actions may not in fact change from place to place…

Regardless of our intrinsic cultural identity (or transient, for that matter, if you have had the pleasure of reading the preceding blog of the Culture Vulture...), it is the whole-hearted consistency of our behaviours at the table that has repeatedly caught my attention in the last few weeks, as I crossed cities and continents. So this week, as I make yet another morning elevator ride, across the hotel lobby to yet another hotel breakfast buffet, I cannot help but constantly recall the scene from The Jungle Book where the animals rush to their watering hole to strategise on the bear-necessities of life...

For me, one of the true joys of travel is to embody the local customs and cuisine wherever I roam but once more, as I float past the queue-less breakfast noodle bar each day to squeeeeze through the pack of wolves that hunt by the bacon and egg factory line I have come to wonder…when it comes to feeding time at the zoo, how many of us who live ‘global’ actually do eat ‘local’…?

The feeding pattern for the local wilde-life is never-changing and, as I fast forward to another morning re-run of this Discovery Channel, it is perplexing to see how set we have become so set in our ways, perfectly developed creatures of habit, totally unaffected (or enriched) by our surrounding habitat...

...Early sitting (pre 6am) is busy with the eastern menu offering, just in time for piping hot noodles, rice and breakfast fish and sushi.

...Central Europe filters through, in pockets, unrushed for perfectly proportioned pickings from the fruit and charcuterie bar and slowly savoured over the morning paper with a sugar-rush Danish and very strong coffee.

...The smell of waffles and pancakes then rise and shines the Americans out of their pyjamas in time for juice, but the choice here is as varied as the lifestyle of the visitors – carbs and eggs for the busy business man, smoothies and fruit for the accompanying wife, coloured cereals and lots of half-eaten leftovers for the so clearly not waste-not-want-not kids.

And lastly, unsurprisingly and like a flashback to a summer holiday on the Costa del Sol, the British gentry appear, finely timed to glide past the carnivore's carvery for a 'one of each' hot breakfast build up, washed down quickly with filter coffee (whatever is brewed) and an indigestion pill, for a record breaking exit to showcase with the customary drop of ketchup on his tie.

So, armed with my chopsticks and ready to continue my battle to keep up international appearances, I consider what buffet menu might be purveyed along my next flight path or indeed….do I need to reset my alarm to ensure I’m not late for my next feeding time at the glocal zoo?

‘Til next time, Pandora