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