Procrasti...hell, I can't even be bothered to type the whole word...

July has always been a busy work month for me. Sometimes, I've been on holiday in July, but the weeks I've been "at work" have still been hectic. Other years, I've gone away in August and found the whole of the month pretty frenetic.

And hey, guess what? 2011 is no exception! I've told my clients I'll be away in August, meaning I'm NOT away in July and well. Work, it just keeps on coming...

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not really complaining as I'd rather have this "problem" than the opposite one. But my natural tendency for leaving things to the last minute means I keep on wasting time and end up having to work all night. *sigh*

It wouldn't be so bad if I at least did something fun, or useful, whilst not working. Do you know what I did this afternoon? I got back from the university (last oral exam till September, woot!), made myself a ham sandwich, read the magazine I'm subscribed to (and that arrived by post this morning while I was out) and then... and THEN... (I'm embarrassed to even admit this)... I "watched" the live coverage of today's stage in the Tour de France.

Seriously - what is less interesting than watching a live cycle race over 226 km in the rain? Nothing, that's what. I absolutely couldn't give a toss who won (couldn't actually tell you, to be honest, even though I saw it. He was Norwegian, I do remember that), who's leading the overall race, bla, bla, bla.

But could I peel myself off the sofa and do something else? No, I couldn't. I couldn't even summon up the "strength" to have a nap - which would, at least, have made this evening easier.

Damn cycling. It's boring as hell, you can't tell who's who (and don't much care), it lasts FOREVER. Yet... yet... that's how I chose to fill the latter part of my afternoon.

So now, at almost 11 pm, I have a 13-page research article to proofread and a 1-page translation to correct for one of my students.

The only logic behind it that I can think of is that it allows me to look at the muscly thighs of lots and lots of young men (very muscly, I must say. Not so sure about those distinctly dodgy Lycra shorts, though. And I would rather look at the thighs of Johnny Depp, or Jon Hamm or Pat Monahan than those of random cyclists to be honest). You get your kicks where you can, I guess.

"Off" switch

Holy crap, I wish there were some kind of "off" switch for my brain. I just CANNOT LET GO. Whilst my body morphs into something resembling a sloth (a sloth that spends waaaaay too much time on the Internet, drinking Diet Coke and eating crap, that is), my brain runs on, a hundred miles an hour, non-stop, all day, every day and (particularly) every night.

It's driving me batshit, I swear. I've got to the point where I just don't know how to relax. All the time, in my mind, I'm having imaginary conversations. Sometimes, I'm having conversations with people that only exist in my fantasies (these can be kind of nice conversations - I feel appreciated and loved by these wonderful people, but the return to reality is rather brutal as a result). And sometimes, I'm having conversations I would like to have (or would like to have had) with real people. The latter are often ranty in nature, which does nothing to help calm me down.

I seem to have a gift for only finding the appropriately biting response to some kind of irritation or put-down once it's actually too late.

I make lists in my head, lists of things to do, planning out the order in which I have to do them. I run through all kinds of useless information, often involuntarily (like counting the number of steps up from my part of town to the centre of town (104, if you're interested) (which I know you're not) (but I'm telling you anyway because hey, if my brain is going to be filled with useless crap, yours may as well be too)), but sometimes just as some kind of test. Perhaps my mother's slowish-but-early decline into total dementia is behind this constant need to test my brain power. Or maybe I'm just certifiable.

Whatever. My brain is always in full systems GO! mode, whizzing and whirring like a crazy machine from a Tex Avery cartoon, often waking me up at night because of a thing I forgot to put on my list. Or a thing I forgot to do. Or whatever.

I suspect I'm headed for some kind of heart condition - my stress levels are always high and this brain-whirring thing can be damn disturbing. Especially when I'm still writing out lists, or crossing stuff off lists, at 3 in the morning with vision so blurred I can barely see the lines on the paper.

Can anyone tell me where the goddamn "off" switch is?

Open water

In those hours - nanoseconds - before you wake, your heart starts pounding like crazy. Somehow, you know you're dreaming, nightmaring, but it still feels horribly, horribly real. Panic sets in, you don't know what to do, you don't know how to react, you're going to die, you're going to die, you really ARE going to di...

BAM.

You're awake, a sweaty mess, trembling and hyperventilating. The shadows on the wall move eerily and you don't start to calm down till you've clicked on your bedside light and disturbed the sleeping cat at your feet.

Of COURSE it was just a bad dream. You knew that. You know yourself well enough to know that you'd never go that far out to sea. For God's sake, you can't even swim, or not properly anyway.

But it felt so REAL. The coldness of the water, that salty taste in your mouth, the unmistakeable smell of the sea. The bits of seaweed floating in the water, twining around your legs - GAH. ARRGH. GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME NOW! - the odd bit of flotsam, the squawking seagulls.

Your pale limbs flailing, your mind flashing to the fact that you can't feel the fucking sand beneath your feet so you're on your own and you are going to drown. Oh shit. How did this happen?

Oh yeah, that's right, it's a dream, it was a dream, a bad dream, a goddamn nightmare.

But, I swear, it DID feel real... It might be improbable, impossible even, but I was THERE: on the beach one moment, then easing myself gently into the sea the next, gasping as the cold water touched my hot skin. Walking out, further and further, to get away from the kids horsing around and splashing like crazy.

Buoyed up by the gentle waves, floating a little, drifting even. And then. Oh, Christ, and THEN. That moment of realisation that I'm out of my depth, that I'm actually going to have to swim to get back to shore.

Heart pounding, pulse racing, fear gripping my mind. Flailing, crying out for help, hoping, hoping, hoping someone will pay attention...

But it was just a dream. I keep saying that, but perhaps if I say it often enough, I'll calm down, start to believe it and finally go back to sleep. To dream of something prettier, safer, happier.

Open water? Hell no.

Patriot

Until I was 23, I rarely, if ever, considered myself to be patriotic. I was born in Britain of an English father and a Scottish mother and raised with a very real awareness of my British-ness (rather than Englishness, as the rest of the world would have it). To be honest though, I have never, even for one minute I don't think, actually felt Scottish - I like the country and I like to visit it, but it doesn't feel like "home". I'm much more comfortable with being simply English (sorry, Mummy dearest, I know this would have you spinning in your grave, but it's true) and, if anything, the 4 years I spent at St Andrews (admittedly the most English university in Scotland) reinforced that.

There were brief forays abroad - a 3-month period in Salamanca in 1990, another 3-month period in Paris in 1991, but they were just that: brief, and left no lasting impression on my identity (though I certainly had a lot of fun in Salamanca, I must say).

Since then, though, I've lived in France, moving to Paris in July 1992, then Lyon later that year (September) and finally Montpellier in August 1999 (still can't quite believe I've lived here almost 12 years...).

Don't get me wrong: I like living in France and have made it my home. I miss certain people in Britain, but not particularly the place itself - the odd visit now and then is perfectly sufficient for me. I have made friends in France, I work here, raise my children here (they were born here and are far more French than British). My life is here.

But I most certainly do NOT feel French, and I don't think I ever will. I have yet to even apply for nationality, actually, though I know I'd get it without a problem.

If I'm cornered into watching some sporting event, I don't feel any compulsion to wish the French victory (and even take a certain sadistic pleasure in seeing them lose, to be honest), just as I don't usually want the Scots to win either. But I do invariably kind of hope the English win. I'm not seriously bothered one way or the other, but that Englishness of mine is there, buried below the surface.

Today is Independence Day in the US and there have been many tweets and posts about pride in being American. This is something I admire greatly in Americans, their genuine pride in their nationality. Their sense of unity behind their flag, their history, their culture. They may all be of various diverse origin, but their American-ness unites them, unifies them, strengthens them.

I'm not proud to be British, it's just something I am. I frequently feel greatly embarrassed, even, as Brits have a horrid tendency to behave atrociously abroad. I may support England teams in their endeavours up to a point, but when they (invariably) lose, I certainly don't lose any sleep or cry any tears. I like the Union Jack flag, but never wear one, even though they fashionably adorn all kinds of things here in France (I do have things with the flag on, but they're all things that stay at home. And they match the "décor" of this flat, if you can call it that).

I suppose I feel English (not British), but really only when I feel my culture, my heritage is being attacked or criticised. The French are quick to criticise Britain in general and England in particular, and that is the one thing always liable to rile me. I'm dreading the girls' middle and high school history lessons - I've seen text books and I know I'm going to be irritated by the lying by omission, false representation, etc. I've often had to defend British cuisine (universally derided here (D, to be fair to him, was a staunch advocate of British cuisine), British weather, British politics (a tough one - a) I know little, b) I care less and c) it's been so long since I've lived there that I'm pretty much out of touch), etc. My patriotism is merely a defence from attack by the French.

Today is US Independence Day, and next week is the French National Holiday, Bastille Day on 14 July. There is no equivalent day in the British calendar (England's St George's Day is a travesty of invisibility, especially compared to the Irish effusion over St Patrick) and I sometimes wonder - usually on 14 July whilst I quite willingly ignore all forms of celebration - if I would feel some pride in my nationality if there were.

After 19 years living in a foreign country, I think I am actually without nationality. My Englishness comes out when I'm under attack or when England play someone in sport, yet I feel totally detached from life in my country of birth. I don't feel French, ever, though, yet I fit in (I think) pretty well, fairly seamlessly to be honest.

Patriotism is a pretty alien concept and I do, truly, envy Americans this holiday of theirs, this day on which the nation feels pride in its achievements, families and friends get together, eat, drink and watch fireworks.

Happy Independence Day, my US friends!

Snap

I had a project, way back in October or November. I "set it in motion" (which is basically just a very fancy way of saying I spent a couple of hours on the Amazon.co.uk website doing research) and it finally came to "fruition" this weekend.

Gosh, that sounds impressive, right? Basically, my idea was to teach the girls how to use a camera (they've taken pictures with disposable cameras, but it's very hit-and-miss, especially as I can't see what (if anything) they're doing wrong until we get the prints back, by which time it's too late). They've taken some fairly decent pictures, but more by chance than anything else I suspect.

So, on Amazon, I did some research. I eliminated all the over-priced "licence" cameras (Hello Kitty, Barbie...) first because they're unbelievably naff, and second because they're pretty crap cameras.

I decided on a 5 Mega pixel camera (one in red, for C, and in yellow, for L) at a pretty low price. I ordered them in early November with the intention of giving them as the main Christmas present.

Unfortunately, they weren't in stock and there was no delivery estimate given, so I gave up on the idea for Christmas.

The red one arrived around the end of January, but nothing for the yellow one. Eventually, I got a mail saying they'd had stock supply problems and probably wouldn't be getting the yellow one at all. I was, understandably, pretty fucked off.

A couple of months later, I pre-ordered a pink one, but again, it had no estimated delivery date, so I wasn't hopeful.

And then, last week, I got a promotional mail from Amazon (as I do just about every day, actually) and it had a yellow camera for the same price, but a different brand. Of course I bought it - and it arrived yesterday (and I promptly cancelled the pink one - we don't need that many!).

I'm not sure when to give them to the girls, though. It's quite a big gift, and seems too much for just a "little surprise". But, at the same time, I'd like them to be able to use their cameras over the summer (and in Italy in particular). C's saint's day is coming up, as is L's (they're about 2 weeks apart, with mine in the middle), so I might use that as the pretext.

Whatever. I'm probably more excited than they're going to be, though I do hope they'll have some fun with this and get some good use from their cameras. They're not expensive things, so I won't be heartbroken or furious if they end up breaking them (though if they break them too quickly I may not be responsible for my actions, I must admit), but 5 Mega pixels is reasonable for a first camera.

I'm no great shakes as a photographer myself, but I have some pretty decent snaps, and photography is something I've always been interested in (I did a course in St Andrews on developing photos way back in my first year - it was fun, but too advanced for my complete beginner status).

If the girls take anything good (and I'm sure they will), I'll post a few pictures here. In the meanwhile, here are a couple of my favourite pictures from this spring!

Taking the plunge

So. I took the plunge - figuratively - today. In two ways, actually.

First, I decided to not only wear a dress that I would normally consider to be outside my comfort zone, but even to wear it with pride.

Don't get me wrong - this is no Lady Gaga-esque number made of meat or cling film. It's probably a stunningly boring dress by Katy Perry standards (no exploding whipped cream). But it's quite short, it's a halter neck and it has a somewhat plunging neckline (hardly a "neck" line at all, in fact, more a "rackline" to be honest). And, because of its halter-ness (and the princess line) it requires bralessness to boot.

Strangely enough, I put it on almost without thinking this morning. I went out, off to the market to get my week's supply of fruit and vegetables, and didn't think once about my bralessness, bare-backedness, more-thigh-than-I'd-like-showing-ness. I felt cool with myself.

I've said before that I have no pretensions, illusions or delusions regarding the way I look, but with this simple, cotton dress (madras-sy type check in turquoise, taupe, cream and red if you're interested), I felt OK. Good, almost.

Quite a novel feeling, I must say.

My second figurative plunge into unknown (or at least unfamiliar) waters also occurred this morning, while I was out.

Before hitting the market, I went to the hairdresser's. Again, I know this doesn't sound earth-shattering, but a) I have always, always loathed getting my hair cut and b) given (a) and my mounting debts, it's been easy to push this ordeal to one side on the pretense of "saving money", so I haven't actually been in about 18 months I shouldn't think.

First, I got appointments for the girls (who haven't been since spring 2010 and have straggly string-like hair down to their waists). Next Wednesday, 2.30 pm. Much snipping will be in order.

And then, I sucked it up and took an appointment for me, too - next Friday, 2 pm. I even told the young girl that I want - gasp! shock! - a "change". Of course, I immediately qualified that with "nothing radical, though". She mentioned layering (which I don't think I've ever had done). I'm both horrified at the thought of having to go through with this and, at the same time, weirdly excited. My hair at present is a disaster - almost waist-length, straggly, unkempt. The only good thing is the colour - not a hint of grey, still a pale red (I like to think of it as "strawberry blond", but it's probably not quite as blond as that. But not coppery or even fully ginger either). The idea of having a proper "style", instead of just requesting that a chunk be cut off the bottom in a straight line, is terrifying and exhilarating. I do feel kind of sick, though.

Despite the fact that I did bugger all for the rest of the day (I even sank as low as "watching" the first stage of the Tour de France (cycling! Me, watching cycling!) on TV), I feel more than a little proud of myself for actually achieving something today. Nothing major by most people's standards - I'm well aware of that - but fuck that. Major for me.

(sink or) Swim

(By the way, I'm totally going to say I succeeded in NaBloPoMo last month, even if one of my posts didn't actually appear on the right day so it looks like there's a day missing.)

I've made it my mission to do NaBloPoMo again, and this month's theme is SWIM.

My relationship with water-of-the-swimming-in kind has always been somewhat strained. In fact, one of the surest ways to turn me into a blubbering wreck when I was a kid was to mention the words "swimming" and "lesson" and "school" in the same sentence.

I remember the horror of swimming lessons at one of the many primary schools I attended. Eight-year-old me, sitting, blue with cold, on the icy, wet tiles surrounding the local municipal pool. Shivering - with cold, yes, but also with absolute terror. Waiting for the swim teacher to stand behind me and push me in, suddenly. The waiting was almost as bad as the entry into the wet stuff itself. Almost, but not quite.

Hyperchlorinated water burning my eyes, ears, nose. Gasping for breath, arms flailing helplessly. Tears pouring down my face, scrambling back to the side, struggling to climb back out and then back to the start - sitting on those damn tiles, the rough edge cutting into the backs of my horribly skinny, white legs, shivering, gulping back the sobs, waiting for the next push.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't learn to swim at school. I was given the "10 m achievement" badge, but I think everyone got that as long as they turned up to class. I have no recollection of ever being able to swim 10 m as a child.

As we're talking about 1970s/1980s Britain, private pools and hot summers at the beach didn't feature highly in my childhood. My father absolutely didn't have the patience to teach me, my mother was worse than I was, swimming just wasn't a priority nor even, in reality, a possibility.

I never really learned to swim, in fact.

I took classes as a young adult (with my mother, for the love of God), and failed. I took classes here in France, after the death of my first child, in an attempt to accept my body. Amazingly, I DID learn that time - I could do a pretty decent crawl and breast stroke. But I never liked diving in (or even jumping in), and I still flinched if I got splashed by someone else. And I didn't really enjoy it. I never felt "in my element" (how the fuck could WATER be my environment? I mean, seriously? Do I have gills?)

I became pregnant again, had hideous, hideous nausea and sickness for the entire time, tried to swim - in the sea - only once and it was a disaster: the Mediterranean has no nice, reassuring handrails on three sides, no (visible) boundaries and MOVES ALL THE TIME (OK, the waves are pretty pathetic by oceanic standards but still. More waves than a damn pool). Oh, and there can be seaweed and jellyfish and... So. Yeah. Not so much the swimming in the sea stuff.

And now, 10 years later, I think it's safe to say I am back to not being able to swim at all again. "They" say you never forget, I beg to differ. In 2000-2001, I could swim, quite well, underwater even. Now, I can't. I've rarely been in a position to try, it's true, as I avoid it as much as I can (example: I live 10 km from the Mediterranean and went to the beach exactly 6 times last year, going "in the water" (up to my waist) only 3 of those times, plus once in a hotel pool on holiday in Spain). I can't bear being splashed, or pushed, or jostled. I can't bring myself to LIE DOWN in WATER. I CANNOT DO IT.

I pretty much loathe my body, particularly in a swimsuit. I feel white and pasty and deeply, deeply unattractive and self-conscious. D was of no help with that, frequently making fun of me and making me feel worse. Now, as a single woman of 42, my self-consciousness is in the stratosphere.

I react very badly to chlorine. My eyes go red in minutes, they start streaming, stinging, hurting.

The sea is totally out, for all the reasons mentioned above.

I feel the cold very, very easily (it's 35°C here today, but the sea's probably no more than 24°C - my teeth would be chattering within 5 minutes; swimming pools are no better) and rarely find the right balance of air temperature/desire to get wet/water temperature that would push me into "going in".

That said, I would love to be able to swim, sliding gracefully through the water, at ease in an element that feels so alien to me it might as well be Neptune. I would love to be able to have fun in the water with my girls, instead of having my heart racing in a pre-panic attack of what the holy fuck I would do if one of them got into trouble and needed my help. I know I've missed out on so much.

I love the fact that C swims like a fish, actively asks for swim lessons (she's been going for years now), loves the water and is totally at ease. Even L - who refuses lessons and has reacted very badly when forced to take them - loves the water and isn't far from teaching herself to swim. Even D, for all his faults, is a great and enthusiastic swimmer.

That just leaves me, fully dressed and under the parasol, feeling like a freak. I said I only went 6 times to the beach last year - it's true, but it's not a sob story: I hated family trips to the beach. I hated feeling so marginal, so much of a freak. I resent not being able to go, sure (no car - D has it - no other means of getting there), but not the actual beachiness of it.

But I always have the sneaking suspicion that maybe, just maybe, I could have become a swimmer. It's a sport that might have suited me, it would have given me a healthy activity, as well as a way to have fun with my girls.

Swimming. Another area of my life in which I have fucked up totally.

Sink or swim? Sink, without a doubt, without a trace.