The other side of the 8 year itch

I’m sitting on the plane on the way to Ubud, Sari Resort (in Bali) for a full health retreat week, to detox and give this body a full overhaul. To detox, means to remove the toxins from your body. We think of toxins as the physical, tangible elements we put on our bodies. Alcohol, nicotine, sugar, saturated fat, chemicals, additives or the horrible MSG. We can understand theses are toxins because they are well publicised, written about and taught to us by our doctors, the media or friends that too much of these things are bad for you.

The other side of the toxins we put into our bodies, are emotional toxins. Feelings that we suppress caused by experiences that we invite into our lives yet become an unbearable source of pain. The instant gratification that tastes so sweet one moment, but then once it sits with you turns bitter and ugly inside. Poignant toxins that you think have no impact because you’ve shrugged it off and said, “I’m fine”, but what you haven’t realised is you’ve given it a nice home to live and bread somewhere inside.

I think we’ve all gone out and got drunk and said “I’m fine”, gone for a run and thought, “ah, that’s doesn’t matter”, over indulged in hedonistic activities, had sex with some one just for recreation, done retail therapy to dismiss the blues or kept ourselves ultra busy to with an industrial hover to “sweep it all under the carpet”. All to feel anything but the emotion we don’t want to connect with.

It’s kind of a “fuck you emotion”. But what many don’t realise, is the other side of this self congratulating ‘bird’ to the hard stuff, is actually the hard stuff fucking you right back.

The Chinese say that emotional pain stays with in our organs for us to 8-9 years. They lay scars on our organs that weaken them and can lead to further illness of repetitive sickness in one particular area. I’ve had a run of bad health, and it’s starting to make sense why.

I said to Judith this week, I’ve been single for 8 years now. When I say single, I mean I haven’t lived with anyone, or been serious about anyone as my life partner (accept for Richard, but that doesn’t count, because he turned out to be engaged!) for 8 years.
She said to me, “…and what have you been doing in that time?”.

Bloody good question. What have I been doing all that time? Filling my life with everything and anything but what is right for me. So busy not wanting to deal with my emotional-toxins.

Eight years ago I lost what looked on paper as the perfect life and happy ending. I had a gorgeous partner Andrew that wanted to marry me, we were desperately in love and would gush that we could live on a dessert island, no need anyone else to survive, eternally happy just the two of us. I was super successful at work, earning a mint, driving a convertible Mercedes CLK, I had put a deposit on a house in Battersea, a stunning two story cottage with a kitchen picture perfect for my cooking and we had two babies, George and Pippa that we loved and adored. You would think they were children, but no, they were our cats that we chose from a litter one Christmas from Andrew’s parents enchanting farm in Stroud, Cotswolds.

One night sitting on the sofa, I decided that if we were going to marry, we needed to have an honest start and chose to share a secret that I kept from him for our entire relationship. And just like that, I lost it all. And more.

I remember immediately flying to Australia, completely broken, and numb. I didn’t cry I didn’t talk about the break up I was in survival mode.

The other side of this break up was the master of keeping up appearances. Choices were made and I lost Andrew, I lost the house, my car, I left my job, I ran out of money, I cut off old friends, my family, disowned my mother and yet, created a whole new world that I lived with in, so that I didn’t have to deal with any of it.

I took a year out, did a diploma in holistic massage and foodie'd up in a cooking school in Tuscany, and then had three years of work hard play hard. London was a great “distraction”, just perfect for me to hide away in. There was a group of 40 of us, so there was loads of willing partners in crime at any time of the day or night; it was an easy playing field. Don’t get me wrong, I had some incredibly memories of those three years and I have some friends that will have for life. Most of you will be reading this. “Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end....” but they did, and they needed to too.

The frightening thing is, I’ve always had someone on the go over these eight years. Either as a surrogate boyfriend or Mr Right Now. It’s rare that there hasn’t been someone I’ve been talking about, thinking about, complaining about or laughing about. And laughing isn’t in the bitchy sense; it’s more about me and how my moods with these men could give anyone whiplash!

Owen, Max, Luke, Dave, Matty K, Del, Peter, Richard (Aka Bob), Mike, Bryan, Ged, Adrian, The Silver Fox, Mickey, Fraser, TC, Pete and the latest addition to the list was Kerry.

“…oh he’s amazing, he’s so funny, so intelligent, he’s so sexy, god he really has something about him, there is something different about this one” to the a few weeks later, “I can’t stand him, he annoys the shit out of me, he’s a lost dog, he’s completely self obsessed, he needs a mother, he’s a toxic cunt….”


The other side of spending eight years with the wrong people is about patterns that needed to be broken. As I have said before, we all have patterns, behaviours that we repeat over and over again. I call mine Fleur Syndromes – I have perfectly crafted and invested a lot of time in two of note. 1) The Surrogate Boyfriend Syndrome, and 2) The Lost Dog Home Syndrome.

A surrogate boyfriend is a man that I treat like a boyfriend, speak to every day, talk to about everything and anything, but don’t have sex with; the safe ones as I don’t have to have intimacy with them. The lost dogs are the ones that I do generally go to bed with, but a completely different ball game, it’s a different kind of avoidance of intimacy.

A lost dog is spunky, warm with charm and a real survivor. His dohey eyed and has a streetwise charisma that always gets him into the warmth where he can spend the night. This is no Lassie either, he’s not clean cut or pretty, he’s left of centre and different, unusual, cheeky and fascinating.

My lost dogs are cunning, with supersonic tracking devices and highly sensitive radars to pick up on the signals, my light is on and they can see it, they can smell my cooking, “she’ll take me in, and all I have to do is….”. Let play begin.

He’s cute and cuddly and incredibly alluring, he’s got all the tricks, because he doesn’t want to be out there in the cold for another night, alone, with out a safety blanket or dry surrounds. He’s a storyteller and has some tall ones as well. A master of disguise, because there are scars that he doesn’t want to show, they’re too painful to relive, and if you get too close he'll bite. After all, that’s what makes a lost dog, they wouldn’t be lost if they hadn’t been so badly hurt by their previous home.

You see my problem has been a massive sign above my head of “I’ll fix you”. I have spent years trying to change the ending for so many doggies; rubbing their bellies as we talk through their problems, sharing parallels of life experience, offering books to read and hours of dialogue discussing new avenues of inspiration on how to get him out of whatever rut he's been in - or just giving Fleur strategies on the “how”. Generally the how has become, how do I get into the next camp, kitchen or knickers?. I’m exhausted, my fridge is empty and they’re all ready for a new home, shiny coats and sparkling new. And what do I have?

You see, what happens is they fall in love with me because I’m so damn interested in all their tales and with the ensuing generosity of counselling and insightful advice, then they see me as the “the helper” or “the mother”. And suddenly, what do you know, I’m not attractive anymore. I’m not sure I was ever attractive to these people, but there was something about me that they needed. Altruistic - maybe? Mirror - maybe? That’s enough - surely.

Then there are the lost dogs that can’t get enough of love emotional porn; a great show that gives them a high, they feed off it, set it up so they can roll around in it and be glorious. Those juicy moments when you’re both on all high from the emotion, the fantasy the endorphins, “you’re amazing, you’re incredible, I’ve never met anyone like you” it’s so exciting you get dizzy, and I can’t help but tickle that tummy until one leg flies in the air and starts to shake - I’ve hit his good spot! On queue, I'd ask a real question, then POW, he’s vanished. The high has gone and the cold light of day has arrived, no promises kept, the Chum has run out and what’s left is a poof a dust and a chewed on Jimmy Choo. Woof, they’re off to the next dish of fresh meat. “Chum, it’s so chunky you could carve it”. Good luck sister!

To break the cycle, I learnt I had to take some responsibility for my choices and redefine what intimacy meant to me. Then be realistic about the fact that these men all had similar traits; they all followed the same pattern. A fascinating exercise to look at.

What I realised was, the very theme of intimacy, being completely venerable with a man warts and all, was far too scary to deal with. There was baggage stuck in the Tardis of my inner emotional sess pit that needed to be shifted.

Archaeology – Wikipedia definition:
that studies historical human cultures through the recovery, documentation, analysis, and interpretation of material culture and environmental data, including architecture, artifacts, biofacts, and landscapes. Archaeology aims to understand humankind through these humanistic endeavors.

I remember Owen saying to me back in 2004, “…. wow when you scratch beneath the surface there’s not much there?”. I was so offended at the time, but you honestly he would have needed to be an archaeologist to get to my core, or any kind of real emotions. I didn’t have the tools to even start the exploration of the site. My power-tool only had one speed back then.

In 2007, I’d started seeing my archaeologist compatriot Judith on a weekly basis - we got out the pick and fine brush and started to chisel and gently manoeuvre our way in.

I realised then why so many people choose never to deal with the deep stuff because what I was about to uncover was a pretty confronting and at times, a fairly harrowing experience. When I got back to Australia, something had to give, because it was like I was a freight train out of control that was going to hit a brick wall at full speed. And when that day came it was going to hurt, it would be carnage in fact.

I’d had such ‘control’ over everything I’d done for years, but what was about to happen would have power over me, rather me of it. I didn’t morn the loss of my relationship with Andrew until some 4 years after we broke up.

That day came when I was sitting at home watching “Medium” with Patricia Arcquette, and she and her on screen hubby were at the supermarket in a scene buying some milk. A simple scene really, of a couple walking down an isle, talking to each other about something completely irrelevant. Then out of nowhere, boom, smash, the obliteration of the wall. The freight train had hit at full pleat. All because of a simple trigger that unleashed what felt like a tsunami erupting inside of me.

That was Andrew and my thing, we’d do the weekly shop together and banter away all loved up and it was just life getting on with itself as we did. Seeing Patricia Arcquette reaching for the cow juice (and I don’t even drink milk), was enough, it was that fatal trigger, and I lost it. I absolutely lost it. I couldn’t breathe, the pain in my chest was like someone was crushing it with a vice, I had pins and needles all over my scalp and my head felt like it didn’t fit inside my skin. I was whaling through a paralysed dribbling open mouth, choking every 30 seconds on a silent gasp and too much mucus coming out. The sofa was my pillow, but all I wanted was it to have been a trap door that would let me fall through and this would all be over. That episode was relentless, and lasted for seven hours. The floodgates had opened up.

The other side of the flood gates was the introduction of a constant flow of anxiety that could not be controlled, or hidden. I was presenting to 25 of our top executives, brand new in a role, and front centre stage of the power base, and good Lord, it hit, two minutes into my speech. Oeuf, my cheeks went aluminous red and I started to sweat like I had a massive fever and running a temperature of 41’. My friend Brian was there, and I had to laugh it off afterwards with him to say I’d been suffering from some kind of early menopause. I was mortified; actually, beyond that, it was complete humiliation. There was nothing I could do right about it though; I couldn’t go back.

Needless to say, I learnt how to live with it and have some fun with it. My dear work colleague Rebecca and I would have hilarious coffee breaks regaling over my stories of a bright red Rudolf coming out to play in meetings. Thank god he’s not on staff anymore.

The other side of the emotional toxins is the ability to release them. My week in Bali is significant for more than just a chill out detox. I’m having a week of fasting, to rejuvenate my blood cells, massages, body brushing, meditation, and daily colonic irrigation to get rid of all the shit. And I don’t mean just the waste that I’ve had blocking my lower intestines. It’s a very spiritual experience; they teach you to meditate on releasing the emotions that have been repressed deep within.

I’m letting go of a lot of wasted time on this trip and the emotions all tangled in the choices I have made to keep me in this position for so many years. I wrote about being available for what’s available before, yet I realised, I needed to make myself available too. Eight years is a long time to waste with the wrong kind of people all because I’ve chosen to play in this space.

Apologises to the needy, but I have opted not to renew the lease on the Lost Dogs Home in favour of supporting the Cambodian Children’s Trust to fulfil my altruistic desires. What’s more, I am very grateful and proud to have some healthy “friendships” with men that I talk to as mates. All syndromes are treatable in my books.

When you’re breaking a pattern it’s hard, and we all struggle from time to time, but with new eyes it’s easier to spend time more wisely. Good news is - I’m starting to realise that there are some really nice fish in the sea that I should get to know, slowly. That, and I think we won’t need the neck brace for much longer to cure the whiplash.


The right light is now on.

Fleur

TBS

The other side of the Golden Bears

Sunday is a day of traditions don’t you think? Some people go to church, some people cook a big roast and have family around, some sit on the sofa and watch movies all day, some are comatosed from Saturday nights antics, or like a to do it all again and at their favourite little watering hole. I’ve all done all of the above, but now I’ve started a new tradition to hit the driving range bright and early, and have little game of golf for one.

To be fair, I was feeling slightly seeding after my dinner party on Saturday night (more on that one later) and when I have red wine, I generally can’t sleep well, or sleep in. Subsequently, bright eyed and somewhat bushier tale, I walked down to the end of my street; kitted up like a pro.

You see on the other side of that 47kg I brought back from OZ were a lovely, shiny new set of Jack Nicholson’s Golden Bears Golf Clubs, bought in the Melbourne Boxing Day sales. Not only a bargain, they are just right for me. They’re not pink or “ladies” or any kind of pretty colour, I’m not interested in fannying about with all that fluff, they’re men’s in fact and sleek. I’m not trying to be objectionable, it’s more because I’m so tall, and really, I just don’t do fluff or pink either. They’re a sexy metallic black; woof, I love them. The fact that I am neighbours with one of Singapore’s best golf courses, made my Sunday tradition a “walk-up-start” and easy way to get acquainted with my new friend’s.

The virgin run with these babies was when my girlfriend Leash was staying with me to mend a broken heart. We were keeping her super busy and distracted with an endless schedule of movies, gym, squash, more gym and then we opted to bring out my new set of clubs for a swing.

I found my rhythm so easily and they handled like a dream. Oh, the sound when a golf ball hits a wood, PING, ahhh, it’s amazing, and really does something for me - the sides of my mouth definitely curled. Anyway, I managed to hit some beauties that day and some absolute shockers too. But hey, it’s all good practice!

The other side of this activity was a beginner, and it wasn’t me. Leash, although enthusiastic, was a little sketchy on the “know how” of her swing. Brilliant, it gave me a chance to demonstrate the results of a season with my Golf Pro last year. I was impressed with my form and ability to break down the mechanics of the swing, as not so long ago, I was an absolute hack when I first started to play and that is being complimentary.

When I moved to Singapore my friend Stephen asked me if I was interested in taking up golf lessons with his wife Hannah. It was an offer to commit to a 12 week program, every Wednesday night, paying a reasonable fee of $478 for the privilege of working with a Scottish Golf Pro, Mark Brennan, and making a wonderful new friend in the process. Done!

Hannah arrived primed with her brand new set of ladies Pings, pink shoes, pink polo top, black shorts and gloves to match. She was looking like a contestant for the LPGA and I rocked up in some out fit that you’d more likely to where to a Sunday session rather than the posh golfing range. I’ll never forget Mark’s face when he saw me bounding along the range, beaming smile, clearly exited, ten minutes late, no clubs, and carrying a massive black handbag to compliment my outfit. He was horrified. Speechless, he diverted his eyes, and didn’t comment. To be fair, I don’t think he knew what to say to me.

The first lesson was a hoot. I borrowed Hannah’s clubs and whacked it like I’d always done, thinking I had a good swing. The lesson ended with us all committing to a time slot every Wednesday, and Mark telling me I had habits that needed to be broken and before he turned to walk away, handed me a print out of the Golf Club Rules; details of golf etiquette, suitable dress codes and language on the course. I’d possibly let out a few F bombs after swinging like a junior burger, I’ll admit.

The other side of Mark’s subtly is a loud statement. I needed to step up to the plate pronto, I was last minute Mary on this one, and it was not going to win me any medals. I got one hell of a statement on my visa; I’d clearly chosen to shop in the most expensive golf shop in Singapore. The next Wednesday I rocked up looking like Karrie Web from the LPGA championships and proud as punch, chest out as I bounded down the range, all matching, gloved up and looking the part. Ok, so I didn’t have the clubs yet, and still in company with the over sized black handbag, but I was on time, and I got the nod from Mark, tick, tick tick!

Ten weeks past and I frustrated the hell out of Mark. I was incredibly impatient, reluctant to do a practice swings in favour of 'getting into the swing of it', hitting ball after ball, and then when I did, my practice swings were too fast. Bugger, he'd get a cheeky grin and make some silly crack and I'd get the shake his head (but his eyes would smile, so I knew I was okay). When I did toed the line, I got the results and I then rewarded “the nod”.

Hannah, god love her is a schoolteacher and is well versed with discipline and the theory of “practice makes perfect”. She was so diligent, so accurate in her practice swing, so precise and slow and patient. I admired her and Mark loved her for it, the perfect model student - where’s the apple Hannah?

I was more the renegade student, loads of natural talent, but bad habits that he was going to have to work hard to break. Or I was rather. His way of complimenting me was just to give me a nod and a look from his big blue eyes under his cap. I got the feeling he thought I was too cheeky to give me positive feedback, and it would go to my head, so it was just a knowing that the nod was a good thing and enough to get me to continue practicing and getting it right. The more practice, the more nods I got. Funny that. When lessons were done, we all had a drink and Mark asked me out on a date to do an Indian Curry. He is another Silver Fox and had very nice eyes and something about him - on the driving range - off the driving range and without the cap on, maybe not. I think I told him I wasn’t ready for “Chicken Tikka with any one right now”; I knew I was serious about this game, and not finding out about the other side of the cliché.

The other side of the nod was a woman that was prepared to pay attention to get what she wanted. Like all golfers, to be consistent, hit the ball straight, and past the 200-meter mark. It was such a thrill when the ball would flirt with that sign marker out in the range, such a great feeling. But they were one off’s and not consistent enough yet for me to be ready to play.

Swing after swing, practice shot after shot. The way to success or the master of my new craft is apply Mark’s instruction and practice, practice, practice. To learn something new you have to rehearse it, study it, look at it, swing at it, time and time again. And then check yourself, be realistic about the mistakes you are making and learn how to correct them so you can improve.

The other side to practice is to have discipline; a skill that has not necessary come so naturally to me over the years. I have always had loads of vigor, great application, but yet, managed to fail in the discipline department at times. The results, simple; I haven’t been able to sustain or follow through on the dream, desire or latest craving for activity. I’ll try anything once. Once. Funny that.

I have been known to buy toys, thinking it was my latest hot interest, use it twice then forget it every existed. Like a Wave Ski I feel in love with, after being so inspired by my friend Dave who did it every morning before work. I borrowed my mate Gavin’s board, insisting to my sister-in-law Vikki, I was going down to the beach every morning before work to ride this baby and take advantage of the fact I lived a block from the Bay. Hmm, the problem was I didn’t think it through before I mouthed off about this amazing new hobby I’d adopted. From a vision of sexy Dave out there like an Iron Man, to the hard cold reality that it was a frickin heavy board, the Melbourne Bay was freezing and choppy as all get out at 6am, which meant I’d capsize every three minutes, and with no music out there and my GI Jane mission was just way too urgent, even for me. I stuck it out for four rides, some where better than others, then the toy collected dust for six months in my back yard.

I was convinced that Yoga would be a great idea to get some balance in my life so I set out and bought a DVD, some cool yoga clothes, a mat and I was ready for a home chant and exhale. Short lived, or not lived at all actually; the yoga mat was only unraveled and the plastic taken off the DVD by my friend JohJoh when she came to stay in Singapore some 6 months later….. and I still haven’t downward dogged it yet! Crickey.

The other side of Sunday driving range tradition is a newly formed interest and desire for discipline. Why? - to follow through and take my passions that one step further and really tick the boxes. I’ve always been incredibly sporty, but I believe I’ve discovered a sport that I have truly found some real pleasure in with golf. That, and I really should have a crack at this for at least another year to get a good return on my investment! These fads and excitement to touch and feel the new, whilst has been wonderful, it’s cost me an absolute bomb. What do I always say “….never put a price on experience…” Well, I’m getting older and wiser, and I’m looking at the yield now too. I believe I’ll always be curious for the adrenalin rush or an injection of some real gratification, but that’s just it, it can’t be the instant gratification any more, it’s got to be sustainable.

So today, I trotted off; Golden Bears strapped on, iPod in and got my place on the first level of the range. 100 balls, the only lady amongst a row of fine golfers and I was set. The Rolling Stones, “Start Me up” was my first song. It worked a treat, my swing was magic, it flowed naturally and I hit some beauties. I did a few Mick Jagger moves, silently of course, which the man next to me laughed at, his son watching was a fan too. Ok, I don’t think that’s in the guidelines of golf etiquette, so a little less enthusiasm is required. Although, when “Santa Maria (Del Buen Ayre)” by Gotan Project came on (a Latino tango piece of music), I couldn’t help but have some fun whilst I was getting into position. Bending the knees, slightly swinging my hips from side to side, in very subtle salsa style rhythm, head down, lips pouting up and focusing on the ball, it was a like my own “movie montage”. And like all the boys in the row, I swung, PING, and finished it all off statuesque, golf club extended over my left shoulder, hips and right knee pivoted, and that little grimace look golfers do to watch where their little white number lands. Great shot Glover! No one was any the wiser, not even the little boy watching me. Golf Tango anyone?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zD9W9SZj9w&feature=PlayList&p=F9C43C254243B78B&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=43

Great tune. The sides curl with this one every time.


I’m rusty on the golf lingo and still haven’t had a full game as yet in this town, and as the world always does, I was scouting for a Tee and I made buddies with people who ran a Golf Forum who invited me to join and have a game with them. I just love how the universe creates opportunities when you are focused on what you want! What’s more, Hannah and I are going to sign up for another season of golf lessons with Mark, and there will two model students attending this season. Lots of Nods ladies, lots of nods.

If you’re ever looking for me on a Sunday morning, try me at the golf range; I’ll be working on my swing. Tango, Mick Jaggar or just the sound of PING, I’ll be focused on the game or getting ready for one.


God love the Golden Bears, thanks Jack, nice work.

Fleur
TBS


p.s
My darling brother Guy wrote to me last week, telling me he’d loved reading my blog, and encouraged me to keep going. “..go you for following through Flozzie, make it happen..." Wow, what’s next?

The other side of the Immaculate Conception

What do they say, be careful what you wish for? Hmm, what I was I saying about having to join the SG Biggest Loser (got the spelling right this time though!) Well I just have, but it’s not for the Island, it’s a work thing. Four boys and me. What’s wrong with this picture?

I'll tell you what’s wrong with this picture, when I got back from Australia I walked into my reflexology centre and the hostess asked me if I’m pregnant? Ok, I will admit after a super indulgent December, no exercise because of my Faithless Knee incident and way too many trucky meals, I may have put on a few pounds over the silly season. But was this lady seeing something I wasn’t? I tutted, “no of course not, I’ve just had a very big lunch” and just like that, my petals went a lighter shade of crimson. Ouch. I put my ipod on for the hour that I lay there in denial.

I have this wonderful helper called Chat. She’s about 5 foot nothing, and has this incessant habit of practically humping me with excitement when she comes into my condo – this is her Philippino ritual greeting. It’s quite gorgeous and so is she, but it makes me get the giggles and I promise you, her face really only comes up to my navel, so it’s an unusual connection of bodies. Chat is a very direct woman, it’s probably why I have her here, very honest and a good Christian. Last Friday, it was the first time we'd crossed paths for a while and she said to me, after the hump, “Madam, Madam, (she normally goes in with the you look wonderful or happy, or fantastic, except for when I had really bad red hair, she certainly let me know that one)… madam, you’ve put on weight, are you pregnant, but with no baby!”. She laughed uncontrollably, and started to poke me, thinking it was hilarious.

“Well good morning to you too!”. I wasn’t laughing anymore, and she got a quick instruction on the washing details. Oh dear, I thought I looked particularly hot that morning. I had my True Religion Jeans on, which are a winner every time, sexy high heels, a little black top and a scarf, flowing (new) blonder lochs, and I felt rocking…. Well I did. There is nothing like a bit of honesty at 8am on a Friday.

The other side of this phantom pregnancy is a love my curves. I have an eight-foot mirror in my boudoir; it’s very French and leans against the wall, next to the window. It’s a magnificent feature that I it had made just for me, my fashion parade and night one as well. I have thankfully come to a point in my life when I’m accepting me as me – you know, “love me, love my bits”, I often say. I feel really good about myself. If the mirror is looking back at me saying, “you’re looking a little more in bloom Flowers”, that says to me “Bottecelli, The birth of Venus”, sexy women that were just meant to get nude, pose for the artist and be loved for centuries to come (even if in an oversized scallop shell). Do you know what I mean? It’s good to be happy with yourself, feel comfortable in your own skin even if you’re not the size you were when… when ever.

I’ve stood outside the Uffizi Gallery in Tuscany just staring at those magnificent erections of Italian icons, standing there in all their naked glory. Half of them don’t have willies any more, so there is no erecting literally, but they are just stunning figures. The Adonis Hercules and Nisus the Centaur, Apollo From Omphalos, Raphael, Michelangelo. I’m sure this is how men were really built, that or there was a “paint brushing” instead of “air brushing” in those days too, or may less carbs, but regardless, they did mankind proud. I love the male torso; it is so fine, so fine. I stood there for an hour one day, just watching them. I’m sure one of them moved and winked at me. Probably more like the tricks of the “Magic eye” book more than anything else. But it would have been nice. Note to self; don’t stare Flowers.

I have a set of four nudes on my wall in my bedroom also; my Granny JoJo sketched them in the Blitz in World War II. They are marvellous, a cherished gift from my mother Gaysie and one I will hand down to my daughters. The woman isn’t dainty or small, she is broader, slight tummy, but in form and athletic like I am. I absolutely love them, and as I’m a massive advocate for nudity in general, as I’m writing this, it makes me think about all the times I’ve been uncovered. (Evil laugh, Glover!)

I had a dinner party with my mates Jerome, Nick, Kimberly and KT one winter’s night in London. It was during the feast of Jimmy’s Launchershire Hotpot and about 6 bottles of red when the conversation turned to talk of the male body and what it presented naked, when Kimberley blurted out that she thought sometimes men were repressed. Instantly a good red wine debate kicked off and Jerome flippantly said, “well come on, get your kit off and let’s prove we’re not!” I nipped out to the ladies and when I came back my table was laced, full of banter, with naked people! Who was I not to join in?

It was like we were in the 1960’s high on sexual revolution. The boys were making penis puppets with the candle light on the wall, all of us taking a run up and sky diving, even body slamming each other onto my bed (I lived in a massive open space studio style apartment in London at the time) and then simply sat around drinking copious amounts of red wine, talking shit about god knows what, all starkers! It was brilliant, an impromptu naked dinner party, who would have thought when I was shopping at the Borough Market that afternoon I’d be brushing off my birthday suit? The funniest thing was, there was absolutely nothing sexual about this and as the clock struck 12, just like Cinda, every one bailed, fully clothed and that was that. It was a jolly good show.

People talk, and of course we did. We thought it was hilarious and word spread. I became famous for naked dinner parties. Before I knew it, I had people requesting another dinner party. You could always tell who were the devo’s in my group, especially my darling Italian friend Livio, who was always badgering me in the hours past midnight, “Flowers, when are we coming over for dinner…”. It wasn’t going to work that way, the special ingredient for those magic nights is spontaneity… and I wasn’t about forced undress either, it had to come from a place of freedom and the right energy in the room, gosh I’m sounding very hippy now, but it’s got to be natural, or after 3 bottles of good plonk, or nowadays, 5 martini’s! I’m sure we were not the first to do this. Mum?

A few years ago, I was a bridesmaid for one of my dearest friends Kimberley and funnily enough, our friendship started with nuding up together. We met in 1997 on Koh Phi Phi Island in Thailand. She, with her now husband Marcus, and I was with Mike. Mike and Marcus went to school together, so it was a reunion. We were all playing in the shallows of the bay, drinking, laughing, cavorting and by the time we had drank our mini bar fridge dry it was 9 pm and time to play “Hands, Scissors, Rock” to see who would go up to the bar naked and buy more beers in the packed “Charlie’s Back Packers Bar” down the beach. We were 23, fit and still kids. I’ll set the scene; Marcus 6Ft 5 rugby player – bronzed, big “cough”; Kimberley 5 ft 8, with the best “Big M” tits you’ve ever seen – bronzed with a big bush; Mike 5 ft 9, fit and bronzed; Moi, 5 ft 11, a weird combo of white and red, athletic, white boobies and big bush. It was vogue in those days, every one had a big bush; it was what you did back then. Men and women.

I lost, “Yes of course you did”, you might say. Unwilling to go it alone, I made Marcus and his big “cough” strut up to the bar with our Baht behind our ears and request “4 long necks of Tiger please”, spoken in his very deepest voice, I think that’s what men do when they want or “need” to be more manly! Kimberley and Mike hid in the bushes. Within moments some guy came up to us all in owe of our state of undress and said “you’ve gotta be Aostrawleyian!!!” The next thing I knew, Kimberley and Mike were out of the bush, and were all arm in arm, celebrating the fact that we were bonkers, with a bunch of fully dressed back packers having photo’s taken. Utter madness, but not.

The greatest thing about this rig of mine is, sure I can whack on a few pounds with over indulgence, but with a little focus and bit of exercise I can generally lose weight pretty quickly thank god. My mate Tim however has also been a saviour. We have such a laugh at work, so I shared my stories of the Chat episode and the second “you could be pregnant” comment, and after he’d rolled around in fits of laughter, nice, he told me there was a new “Biggest Loser” competition going on and should get on board.

Tick! The competition is to lose 10 pounds before Chinese New Year, and then another 10 pounds before Easter. Yeah, I love a competition, so I signed up. Ohh Good God Maria – honk honk, I weighted in at 182.3 pounds. Yikes… oh that sound of the semi trailer backing up again. Righto, there was a plan to be hatched, off to the gym, playing squash, playing tennis, some golf swings, eating good food, staying off the booze mid week, sticking to white spirits (not hard for me and the love “The Goose”) and a little trip booked and that would just about do it.

This move has been taxing on the old girl, I must admit. I chose not to take more leave whilst in Australia at Christmas so I could have some me time; down time to detox and unwind after what was a pretty stressful year. I’m off to Ubud, Bali to a health retreat at the end of this month. I have to let you know, this is not for the faint hearted. It’s a full detox, fasting and colonic’s, which will garantee the “au revoir” of at least 8-10 pounds in this one week. Yes, that means I’m not eating for week. Most think I’m a complete loon being such a foodie, but I’ve done this before, and yes, whilst it’s a spin out for the first day and your mind has a little spasm of “fuck can I do this?” - then it’s a bit like sex for the first time, a mass of anxiety at first, but then what comes thereafter is so much pleasure. It’s amazing the effect it has on you. I can’t wait to go; it’s going to be just what the doctor and scales asked for. I shall warn you now, there will most likely be some fascinating, out of the ordinary blogs posted that week. I’ll spare you the photos. Have a look it is going to be glorious.

http://ubudsari.com/

We had our second weigh-in this Monday and I lost 4 pounds! Yeah baby. I am nearly half way there and ahead of the boys but 2 pounds. I’ve been back at the gym daily, and all the rest of my sports, so I’m absolutely motivated to be back in my fight weight within no time. The other side is a thought of what I will actually look like having shed 20 pounds? I think I’ll slightly miss Botticelli; speaking of which, I have a massive scallop shell in one of my pools at the condo, very Venus like. I’ve been itching to take my petals off for a dip one starry-night, looks like I better do that soon then.

As Livi sang, “Let’s get physical”
I think this video was band in the UK because it offended fat people. Great track though. Have a listen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VQXECBdPgEA


The other side of this is it’s good to have some balance and I do feel like I’ve lost some weight and I can’t say it doesn’t make me feel good. I’m having a dinner party this week end and I can promise you there will be no nudity and I will go easy on reaching high for the horn, no truck driving through this DP. So Mr Doobie, what will the mirror tell me tomorrow, or next Monday, or after Ubud? Either way, good god Maria, there will be no “oh Jesus” from any Locals, hopefully more like a double take when I walk through the doors in my sparkling gown to the "Crystal Ball" on the 5th February; an event to raise money for the Cambodian Children’s Trust. “Oh la la”. Either way, I’m still smiling at the mirror.

http://www.cambodianchildrenstrust.org/

The other side one might argue, is to know when to find the stop button before you get to the position you’re joining a Biggest Loser competition.



Food for thought. But of course!

Fleur
TBS

**Will keep you posted on the progress.

The other side of the baby elephant walk

Leash and I went to the Night Safari tonight. It was an attraction that many had recommended as something, or must to do when you come to my Island. Even though I’m a native here, I had not been yet, and there was reason for it. Actually, Leash had suggested that we go to the Zoo the previous Saturday and I wriggled out of that one too. I had a real resistance to it.

The only time I’ve really enjoyed the zoo was to watch Marlowe’s, my nephew who was then aged two, reaction to the Orang-utans at the new Melbourne Zoo enclosure. He absolutely loved them, so alive with excitement, it was great to watch, but even then it still hit me. It was a real sense of sadness and anger.

We hopped on the night safari tram, the voice over telling passengers not to use flashes so to protect the animals. It made me snigger. Protect the animals? Ok, but had they not been captured to be imprisoned, away from their natural home, families and conditions? Huh? Whilst they looked stunning set in a perfectly landscaped picture of a what the voice on the speaker would describe as “the rain forest” or the African Serengeti’s or amidst some forests of South East Asia, they were literally just allotments, all set up for these animals to “keep up appearances” for the show.

I felt like we were in Jurassic Park, there were no cages or large offensive fences keeping animal and man separate, it just us in this stretch golf cart for 100 and the wild were munching on the fresh hay recently laid so us humans had something to marvel at. Any minute now a Tyrannosaurus Rex was going to come through the bush and eat Leash’s head off. But no, only a Malayan Tapir that looked like a giant anteater walking beside us that was enough to make her jump right out of her seat. I got the giggles anyway.

It’s dark, and the trees are incredibly lush, it’s the tropics so the air is thick and there is a definite mood to it. Then we'd hear the voice talking of the tragedy of the tigers being hunted, “it takes three of tigers to make one fur coat” she said, “and that until they stop buying, the killing wont stop.” . It made me think.

We passed the Himalayan Tahr, the Barking Deer, the greater Asian Rhino and I started to cry. Silently. There was this warrior, a unit of armour, standing solo in his patch of green green grass, with some mounds of dirt, a few trees and shrubbery, all landscaped to taste. But he was solo. The voice spoke of his incredible hunger and facts of how he could eat 90kg of food a day. Really -Wow, but what about the isolation and emasculation of this mighty beast? These animals are pack animals, they mate for life; they were not built to be lonely in a confined space for $22 a ride.

The Axis Deer, the Water Buffalo’s, the Golden Jackals, the Striped Hyena’s, the Lion, the Clouded Leopard, the Bearded Pig (or bush pig, it did make me laugh for a bit!) and then we came to the Elephants and I lost it.

There was Luk Chai, meaning the "Son of Triumph", 8 years old and he the first baby elephant born in captivity. Elephants are born to be families, a herd; that have a minimum of ten in each. Elephants walk in single file, more than 15 miles at a time to find the next watering hole. To be kept in a patch, isolated from what I could see were the two others in the opposite pen upset me.

There was no walking single file, truck to tail options here. When a male elephant reaches maturity, he is booted from the herd to start his own bachelor clan. He was never going to experience the realness of the wild, the chance to respect his matriarch and travel across great lands to find the next watering hole. Luk Chai would never freely mount a female when he felt randy; nor would he fight to the (near) death with other bulls to defend his territory or win his lady’s affection. So many moments, colourful herd rituals, he’d never know should exist in his life. He would just “smile and wave” to people like me. I thought it so sad, I had tears sliding down my face and my nostrils welled up too.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kPDeC7hyzRY&feature=related
- “Smile and Wave Boys – Madagascar”

The other side of of my protest Leash debated, was the need for education. She believed the people needed to appreciate how sacred these animals are, how real the treat of extinction is for many, and how the hunting of such magnificent beast for skins and hides should be exposed. Whilst I saw her point, I couldn’t entirely agree, the people coming to this amazing attraction were not the hunters, nor I suspected were people that would become activists either. I saw this more as a sensationalised excursion, not one that left you with a message as strong as “Save the whales”.

The other side of this is that the film Madagascar was a fantasy about animals in a Zoo, who all talked English and had their own fun, behind closed doors. But you see, even in this flick they broke out of the zoo because they had to know what life on the otehr side was really like - out there – somewhere. Well Madagascar actually. I wondered what tune Luk Chai would whack on when the trams stopped and he was alone, naked in darkness with no-one around? “The Baby Elephant Walk” maybe? Love that tune! Gets ya a great little groove on! Yeah baby!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_a6rA7hRUA&feature=fvsr

We dumped the tram then went on foot to get a closer look. Leash was ecstatic about it, so pleased we’d come on this adventure, which made me happy. She’d been doing it so tough this week nursing her broken heart, it was such a nice break in the wind to see her smiling and shiny with a warm colour to her cheeks rather then the grey.

I have to say, the other side of my objections was appreciation. It really was incredible, and we felt super imposed into these scenes of each animal. Leash felt like we were really in a rain forest, I just thought that was the sweat sweetie, but who was I to ruin the moment! But then we came to the Rhino again, and again, I wept. This poor poor lonely beast. He looked like he was on vellum, not ready to charge. There was certainly no “charge” there at all.

Leash turned to me and said, “the other side of your tears is probably a deep seed emotions of your own feelings of isolation”. Was she right? Was this buried emotions that I had surpress, linked to being sent to boarding school at 12, or being overseas away from my family for 8 years and only seeing them twice? Playing alone as a child when my parents worked around the clock running a restaurant and the boys had no time to play with me? Or when three days before I was due to face into a major battle to defend my core beliefs like David did to Goliath, my mother called to say she wasn’t coming to London to hold my hand?

The other side of this theory was that I had a long-standing fantasy of life in Africa, all born from falling in love with the story of Karen Blixen. Out of Africa. It’s ruined me for life. I love Africa, South Africa especially, or where I’ve spent most of my time. If you know me well, you’ll nod and say, “yes, she does love a Safer”. I do, I just love their attitude, their vibrancy, and the energy of that land is something you can only describe once you’ve felt it. My friend Penny wrote on facebook the other day, “…other beautiful day in Africa”. Oh, it made me inhale deeply and the sides of the mouth curled. Again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSO3DEcyxPI
The Out of Africa Theme Song
To me, the animals are as they should be in the wild of these wondrous African countries. Wild, in their natural form, living from the land or from each other, the strong survive the weak and the kingdom has its harmony and rightful ebbs and flows. It truly is that - a magical Kingdom. (I’ve stopped typing and I’m smiling. I've got a nice warm and fuzzy feeling in my chest.) Have you ever heard a lion roar, telling his pride he is home? Don’t watch it on “Planet Earth”; go see for yourself, you’ll never forget it for the rest of your life.

So who knows, maybe I’ve still got some issues to deal with and if is that case, I’ll have a chat with Judith - but really the crux of the matter is I honestly feel that we shouldn’t fuck with nature and way the universe was meant to be. Evolution and commercialism has a lot to answer for on all accounts.

The other side is I’m glad I went. It’s reminded me of my love for animals, Karen Blixen's story and everything wild about them.


There is always a silver lining. And hey, well all need a good cry now and again.

Fleur
TBS