Paying it Forward

It's nearly time to go home.

After three weeks of sand, surfing, cliff walks and beach barbeques, it's back to reality on Friday.

It'll be a flurry of washing, ironing, buying new school shoes, dental check ups, hair cuts, and all the other minutiae of getting three children back to school in a presentable state after weeks of being feral.

As I've been mentally packing away our holiday in a little memory box labelled 'Cornwall 2016', I've been thinking about what holidays are for.

In the drinking days I was pretty clear on this point: holidays are a reward.

After months of being good - working hard, bringing up children, doing all the endless chores, here are a few weeks of the year which are pay back time. Time to let your hair down, go wild, time to indulge - 'me time'.

And all of that is important. But I took it to extremes. Because, as ever, 'rewarding myself' meant never applying the brakes.

The minute I, or anyone else, even thought about criticizing my behaviour, I'd reply But I'm on holiday!

This meant that by the time I got home I'd have gained a stone in weight, I'd be held together by toxins and mentally and physically exhausted. In need of a good holiday, in fact.

The following few weeks would then be all about payback. I'd go on another fad diet (only raw food, or no carbs, or nothing after 5pm).

I'd try (yet again) to keep a lid on the drinking (not drinking during the week, or only drinking beer, or not drinking at home).

I'd vow to be a better person.

Then, after a few months of trying, and failing, to do all of the above, I'd need another good holiday to REWARD MYSELF.

Repeat, ad infinitum.

I see holidays - like everything else - differently now.

Now I see that it's actually about paying it forward.

This last year has taught me that we really have no idea what's around the next corner - particularly as we get older, so having reserves in the bank is crucial.

After three weeks by the sea I've caught up on sleep, fresh air and exercise.

Three weeks of carrying surf boards up and down the hill every day from our cottage to the beach has made me feel fitter than I've been for ages.

Three weeks of spending pretty much every minute with the three children means I feel like I've got to know them all, in this current phase of their lives, fairly inside out.

Three weeks with the husband might not have completely rekindled the fires of young love, but we have at least warmed the embers.

So I feel like I'm all set up.

Set up to weather the endless battles over homework, the squabbling over household chores, and the inevitable next big challenge that life will throw at me.

And these weeks of being immersed in nature - huge skies, crashing waves, towering rock faces - have made me feel ready to appreciate the energy and buzz (and reliable wifi) of the city.

Instead of going home dreading the next few months, and ticking off the days until I can go away again, I'm going home thinking BRING IT ON.

I'm ready.

Love SM x

Then and Now

This is not my first time in Jamaica.

Almost twenty years ago, when Mr SM and I had just started 'dating', we were invited by another couple - great friends of ours - to stay with their wonderfully eccentric cousin, M.

M was an artist. He'd emigrated to Jamaica, along with a bunch of other wild young things, back in the 1970s when the lifestyle to which they'd been accustomed - living in large houses with butlers, cooks and maids - became unaffordable in England.

M lived in a fabulous Jamaican Great House, up in the hills, but he, the house and the staff were becoming increasingly decrepit. When Mr SM and I lay in bed at night we could see the stars through a hole in the roof.

Dead romantic, until it started to rain.

M was a wild and extravagant host. Over the years everyone who was anyone, from Princess Margaret to Marianne Faithfull had been to stay.

The days revolved around sitting on the terrace, drinking cocktails, planning the next meal and talking about life, the universe and everything with an endless succession of visitors, from famous reggae producers to M's various Baby Mothers.

We'd get up late, and as it was practically noon, would drink Bloody Mary's or Bucks Fizz pretty much straight away. We'd carry on drinking through the afternoon, and party into the night.

By the end of the week I was only held together by the toxins. It took me at least a week to recover - mentally and physically, and I was young back then.

Do I regret it?

Not a bit.

Would I do it again?

Hell no. It'd probably kill me. This time I'm doing Jamaica a different way.

And that's where I am in life right now.

Do I regret any of it? Not a bit. Would I do it again? Hell no, it'd probably kill me.

I'm doing it a different way now. And that's all good.

Love SM x

Anticipation...

Back in November, when I was in the middle of he whole cancer thing, and it was still possible that I didn't have long to live, Mr SM asked me a question.

He said "SM, has this whole experience made you look at your life and wish you'd done anything differently?"

This was a bit of a shock to me. Mr SM is an Old Etonian. He thinks that asking if you take milk in your tea is getting too personal.

I thought for a while, then I said "You know what? I don't think I'd change anything apart from one little thing."

"What's that?" he asked.

"I haven't had enough room service." I replied.

(I am aware that this is going to make me sound terribly spoiled, but please bear in mind that at the time I thought I was dying).

It struck me that for the last twelve years (since #1 was born) we hadn't had one holiday without the children. Plus, every holiday we've had has been self catering, which means that I do all the cooking, washing and cleaning, as per usual. Different setting, same chores.

So, I said "If we manage to get through all of this, can we please book a week away, just us two, somewhere hot with a glorious beach, where I don't have to do anything but lie on a sun lounger and order mocktails?"

Usually this sort of request would be dismissed out of hand, but I had picked a moment when Mr SM was feeling weak, and he agreed. I made him book it, and persuaded my sainted mother to hold the fort at home, before he changed his mind.

So, this Friday we are going to Jamaica! And I am beside myself with excitement (mixed with equal measures of panic about how my parents will cope with the three children and dog while we are gone).

Preparing to go away is a nightmare of pulling favours, writing lists of instructions and trying to anticipate what might go wrong. But I know that the more stressful the build up, the more amazing the feeling when we get onto that plane and fasten our seatbelts (and isn't that a great metaphor for life?)

I confess that I've had a number of moments when I (accidentally) picture myself holding a glass of chilled white wine, or a cocktail - when we're on the plane, the welcome drink at the hotel, the cocktail at sunset my the beach - and I feel a pang of regret like a kick in the stomach.

But I remind myself that the last few holidays I've done sober are the best I've had in years.

We're only away for seven days, I may never get the opportunity again, and I do not want to waste one minute on a hangover, or all blurry. There's going to be enough to get high on...

Whoop! Whoop!

Love SM x

Doing the Time

It's glorious here in Switzerland. The snow isn't great, and the pistes that are open are very crowded, but the skies are completely clear, except for a myriad of coloured paragliders.

It's so beautiful that you have to constantly fight the urge to break into a rendition of 'The Hills are Alive With the Sound of Music.'

(I actually did this once yesterday, until I noticed that the whole family were standing several feet away from me and pretending not to be related).

Now, I'm not a good skier. I started way too old. The rest of the family, however, are demons on the slopes. Even the seven year old will ski any black run at full tilt. They all call me Escargot.

Today, as I skied gently down a red run, admiring the scenery, I felt an analogy coming on.

You see, learning to ski is very much like giving up the booze (here's the analogy!)

You have to spend weeks and weeks constantly on your arse, aching all over and feeling like an idiot. You think 'I am never ever going to be any good at this, and what's the point anyway? What's wrong with walking, for God's sake?' You curse the people swishing past you and assume that they're just built differently.

But the truth is, you just have to put the time in. You have to train your muscles over and over again to work in a particular way, until one day it's just instinct.

Then, you suddenly find yourself gliding down a slope feeling the most incredible high, because it's amazing! It's WAY better than walking. And it's all the better because getting that point wasn't easy.

You are literally, and metaphorically, on top of the world.

Because nothing in life that is really, really worth having is easy to achieve.

I watched an amazing documentary last week about the early days of Queen: one of the greatest bands of all time. They spent YEARS travelling the country playing in dives. They once played to an audience of ONE.

J.K.Rowling spent years living on state benefits, writing in a cafe because she couldn't afford to heat her appartment, and was turned down by several publishers.

Behind every 'overnight success story' you'll actually find there's years and years of effort, of disappointment, of picking yourself up and trying again.

And going sober isn't easy. You have to do the time (we certainly did the crimes, didn't we?).

It takes about 100 days to get through the worst, and six months before it starts becoming second nature.

But the rewards are worth the effort. And way more.

So don't give up. Put your skis on and fly down that mountain. I'm with you.

Love SM

P.S. I had a great moment today when I had to go to the ski shop and ask them to adjust my ski bindings because I am fourteen pounds lighter than I was when we were here nine months ago! The sober diet: half a pound per week, slowly but surely. But, be warned, it often doesn't kick in until you've done about 100 days.

Oldest Habits Die Hardest

Apparently, changing habits is only 5% down to the conscious mind, and 95% down to the subconscious. Which means, in effect, that you just got to give it time.

You have to drown out all those past (drunken) associations with lots of shiny new (sober) ones. Baby step by baby step. It's one of the reasons why they say it takes 2 years before you stop getting withdrawal symptoms (see Post Acute Withdrawal Symptoms).

It seems to me that it works on a 'last in, first out' basis. My recently acquired alcohol associations (like drinking at lunch time) were the easiest to ditch. I hardly ever get cravings at lunch time now. But the deeply engrained associations (like drinking at parties) are a bugger to shift.

Whatever you tell your conscious mind about sober being better, not needing alcohol blah blah blah, your subconscious still pipes up "Party! Oh Goody! Pour us a drink, why don't you?"

We can try to avoid the most problematic situations, like refusing party invitations - but that's just postponing the problem. By doing that you don't create the new associations to fight with the old ones. Plus it's no fun. There's no point being sober if it's going to ruin your life.

Another cheat is to change the routine slightly. I've realised that I've been doing this with evening meals. I don't find not drinking at home in the evenings tricky now, but that's partly because I've got into the habit of eating 'on the hoof.'

I pick at the children's left overs. I snack. I no longer wait to eat until Mr SM comes home. I don't lay the table for two. Having a formal dinner just makes me miss the wine too much.

Changing the routine has made things way easier, but I'm missing out on my 'adult time' with the husband. Our tiny oasis of romance. I've got to bite the bullet and re-instate dinner.

Yet again I'm reminded of the children's book Going on a Bear Hunt. "We can't go over it, we can't go under it, we've got to go through it."

There are no short cuts.

It's another reason why it makes sense not to slide all the way down the slippery slope to rock bottom. With every year you keep drinking you're creating more and more deeply ingrained associations. Making it harder and harder to quit when you eventually do.

So, I'm starting to pack for our annual trip to Cornwall. Three weeks of surfing and sandcastles. And it struck me that part of the reason I'm so excited is that I have, relatively speaking, very few drunken associations with Cornwall.

My father's family are Cornish, so I've been going every year since I was born. I did a fair bit of drinking there, obviously. I've done a fair bit of drinking everywhere! But the drinking memories are totally overwhelmed by loads of sober ones.

Hot chocolate and donuts on the beach after surfing. Catching crabs in rock pools. Hide and seek in caves. Long, wind blown cliff walks. Building walls of sand to stop the tide coming in. Picking blackberries. Making blackberry and apple pie. Flying kites. Frying sausages on the beach. Finding hidden coves. Spotting seals. Riding bikes. Paddle boarding. Water skiing. Ice creams. Cream teas. Cornish pasties. Swing ball. Frisbee. Building damns. Floating boats down streams. Sandy toesies. Burnt nosies. Brown paper packages tied up with string (oops. Wrong list.)

Last year a lovely American friend of mine came to meet us on our regular beach with her family. She's in fashion. She turned up wearing Jimmy Choo strappy sandals and pastel silks, perfectly made up and coiffed. Dressed for The Hamptons. She was horrified to find us in wellies and waterproofs, sheltering from driving rain in a cave, crazy hair matted with salt water and faces wind burned. We looked feral.

Cornwall reminds me that the best things in life don't need dressing up for. They are both free and priceless. And sober.

2 days to go!

Love SM x