My Big Fat Secret

It’s been some time since I dribbled my musings into a blog and as I sit here tapping this out, I have to say, I’d forgotten how good it feels.

But this post is going to be a little different to my usual style of Dystopic rant. For one, it will be significantly shorter….

In fact, consider this more a preamble to a short film I’d like to show you, made with the help of my good friends, Kristi Collard, Simon Joanes, Scott Johnson and Emma Francis – to whom I am deeply grateful.

When Kristi first asked me to join forces with her and enter the short film competition that my company runs once a year, I was hugely flattered and only too happy to jump in. Had I known that my involvement would entail me becoming the subject of the piece, I’m not sure I would have been quite so acquiescent.

Honestly, it has been one of the most challenging projects I have ever done.

Nevertheless, with it now shot, cut and poised for its grand unveiling to a roomful of judgey, jaded media types, I’m surprised by how blithely ok I am about it all.

You see, the whole process has been a wonderful opportunity for me to face something that I have spent most of my life running away from. A shameful thing that I keep tucked away and buried…deep.

Laying it out for all to see in this film has been a form of mental surgery. Like excavating a monster. And now that it’s out, I have this weird sense of completion. Like a heavy weight has been lifted. And all the suffering I went through was for a reason - to serve me and deliver me to this point. Right here. Today.

Whether you think me brave or downright barmy, this film has helped me to make peace with myself…to move on…and my hope is that it might also elicit an alchemic reaction and turn my poison into medicine for others.

To wit, I now present you with my ‘shame baby’, of which, ironically, I’m enormously proud…

My Big Fat Secret

Why Slum When I Don't Have To?

Some of you may be familiar with Indian Slummer, the blog I’ve been writing for the past few years as I’ve thumbed and slummed my way around India. For those of you who aren’t, here’s a chance to catch up as I bring it all delightfully to life in rhyming couplet format….

RIP INDIAN SLUMMER

I took myself off to India in search of a small slice of happy. I thought I could do it without hair mousse. My hair looked consistently crappy.

I traveled all over the country on the sleeper buses for which India’s renown. I found it quite thrilling. To be whizzing about. On a flat bed. Sprawled out. Lying down.

I stayed in shacks and shitholes, which were cheap but a far cry from cushy. And every night, I became a mosquito’s delight and was devoured just like human sushi.

I visited temples and ashrams. Met sadhus, swamis and sages. I stopped eating meat and got back on my feet by doing more yoga than I had done in ages.

I studied Vedic Dharma and had a go at silent meditation. But then I got sick with severely bad shits and needed hospitalisation.

I splashed about in the Ganges and I scaled Himalayan mountains high.  I lolled lazily about on white beaches until my pale skin started to fry.

I met some incredible people and I made a great many friends. I dated some dudes. Drank too much booze. And I had a colonic cleanse.

Then six months ago I met Max. He was handsome and kind. A real treasure. He captured my heart. Right from the start. I thought he would be mine forever.

I moved into his place in South Goa. Looking back, I wish we’d gone slower.  Because living together isn’t that clever, when you’re with someone who don’t really know yer.  

A few weeks later I became ill. I discovered I had a stomach tumour. Then things went downhill, when blood started to spill and near death led to my lost sense of humour.

It took a good few months to recover. And I wasn’t much fun to be with. But by the time I was fine, Max was no longer inclined, to have me in his life as his lover.

I came home without further ado. My Indian dream’s now a thing of the past. Why slum when I really don’t have to? When I’m happy with life at long last?

Duvet Day

It’s Saturday. To some, it’s the best day of the week. A free day. A day to do what you need to do to get things done. Or a time to go out, let your hair down and have some serious fun. 

But I’ve decided to take this Saturday off.

I have chucked my To-Do list down the toilet. Fecklessly fired off a salvo of texts to cancel my arrangements. And I’m now pronouncing Fun Club officially cancelled.

I’m having a duvet day.

Not that this is a well-earned or particularly warranted way to spend the day. I’m not working at the moment, so pretty much every day is a Saturday for me. But when I woke up this morning, the desire to shower, prise myself out of my pyjamas or do anything that required wearing knickers and/or a bra simply wasn’t there.

So here I am. Interned in my 10.5 tog. A quilted hostage. Helplessly horizontal. But hopelessly happy.

I like the decadence of a duvet day. The whole dressing gown and slippers, I-don’t-give-a-fuck nature of of it. It makes me feel ever so Noel Coward. I get to bask in my own company. Wallow in the slightly stale delights of my own unwashed odours. Eat breakfast not just for breakfast but for lunch and dinner too. And sleep. Whenever I fancy.

I may choose to watch a movie at some point. Or do something wholesome like meditate, read a book, or finish the scene of a screenplay I’m writing…but deep down I know I won’t.

Tomorrow, I’ll get up. I’ll spring into action. I’ll tick off my tasks. Put the world to right. Be the life and soul of the party.

But today? I intend to be joyfully frivolous and pointlessly indulge in the art of doing absolutely nothing.