Something I just threw together

Baking cakes is not my forte. Following a recipe, word for word, ingredient for ingredient, quantity for quantity, I resist.  I prefer to change things. Improve things. This doesn’t always work out well.

In contrast, cooking and fiddling around with savoury things, making it up as I go along, is easy. In my twenties, I spent an unhealthy amount of time watching Ready, Steady, Cook. That, coupled with a library of cook books, an excellent culinary pedigree (check out dad’s website!) and an insatiable appetite for eating out, has left me with the ability to combine pretty much any bottom-of-the-fridge finds, in to something approximating a feast, on the night before the ASDA delivery is due. Witness this hot mackerel, beetroot and chicory salad with balsamic vinaigrette. Dee-lish, if I do say so myself.

Baking, however, is more challenging.

Things often go wrong when I bake. Nothing terribly disastrous (although I have on one occasion mistaken salt for sugar). I simply get distracted easily. And if I don’t have exactly the right ingredient, I tend to improvise. I use baking powder that’s past its use by date and has lost its fizz. I slop in more vanilla essence than recommended. I often don’t have the right power tool, cake tin, or oven temperature. These kinds of things you can get away with in the world of garlic, lime, chilli and ginger. In the world of self-raising flour, caster sugar and cup cake cases, it often doesn’t work.

I once used up six packets of butter in one afternoon, as it took me three attempts to make a chocolate fudge cake.

However, I am eager to harness the power of baking. People will do pretty much anything for cake. A couple of years ago, I was asked to canvas support for a Fairtrade coffee morning in Abbots Langley. People were scurrying about on their Saturday morning tasks, and my most winning smile failed to persuade them to drop into the village hall. Then I hit on a new opening gambit ‘Hello, can I just ask, do you like cake?’ They were putty in my hands.

My mother is an incredibly good baker (as those visiting the village hall will have experienced). She does not like to change things. She follows recipes assiduously, even savoury ones. She likes Delia.  And measuring things accurately. I can see Delia’s strengths, and I have her Complete Cookery Course on my shelf as a reference tool, but I prefer the intuitive, Jamie-esque approach with his dollops, and sloshes, and glugs.

This doesn’t work for baking. And today it’s time for me to concentrate.

Keen to cement fledgling friendships with our new neighbours, I’ve extended invitations for Saturday afternoon tea and cake. Further motivation to bake comes in the form of a shiny new copy of the Hummingbird Bakery Cookbook (Christmas present from P, an exquisite example of self-interest). I want to make beautiful rows of pastel-frosted cupcakes.

Absolutely determined to do a good job, I select a recipe (vanilla cupcakes – the first cake in the book – I figure if it goes well I’ll work my way through the entire publication) and check ingredients (and sell by dates). Armed with a shopping list, I head into Summertown  (our new neighbourhood – North Oxford, all frightfully tasteful dah-ling, boutiques, wine bars, a yoga school, people biking past with their toddler on the back, singing Wagner)(the cyclist, not the toddler, though I wouldn’t put it past them). I successfully forage in Co-op and treat myself to two little bottles of food colouring for doing the icing (blue and red – I figure I can make pink and purple).

In anticipation of this baking event, P and I have already excavated my Kenwood (cast off from my mother) and handblender, from maze of boxes in the garage. We’ve not quite finished unpacking.

I get home. I lay out my ingredients. I preheat the oven. I set out my cupcake cases. I fire up the Kenwood. I get stuck in. I pay full attention. I’m listening to Sheryl Crow (but not singing along). I feel confident.

Then, a hitch. My superduper digital scales (present from my mum, obviously) appear not to be working. The battery light is flashing. Not double A or triple A batteries of which we have a stockpile in the flat, but some kind of obscure weird lithium battery. Gah, I think. How am I going to measure properly? In the past, baking in foreign climes with no scales, I have converted weights to volumes and baked in the American-style using measuring cups. Despite my excellent maths skills, this often hasn’t worked so well. The practical ramifications of fractions of eggs are a challenge.

I take the batteries out, jiggle them around, and replace them. The battery warning light goes off. Splendid.

Feeling the pressure ever so slightly (neighbours coming round in two hours, weighing scales about to run out of juice) I push on.

I weigh out the dry ingredients and pop them in the Kenwood. I spent a good proportion of my childhood watching my mum feeding ingredients into this Kenwood (I think it was this Kenwood – might be another, or a cannibalistic combination, my dad’s an engineer in case he hasn’t already mentioned). It’s a magical beast with a powerful motor that mixes, and beats, and creams, and whisks, and helps my mum turn out a bounty of wondrous confections. My mum attributes her excellent baking to the Kenwood, but I know the credit is entirely hers. It’s pure skill on her part. I have found it perfectly possible to turn out lacklustre cakes using the Kenwood (even with my mother watching). Anyway, I’m going to concentrate this time, so it’ll work.

The Kenwood growls reassuringly as I switch it on, and while it chugs away I measure out the wet ingredients. There’s a small amount of phaffing as I need 120ml of milk, and my measuring jug is divided into increments of 50ml. I find my old American cup measures and they oblige. Meanwhile I haven’t noticed the blue smoke.

The Kenwood spontaneously stops. I notice the blue smoke. And the funny smell of burnt out motor. I don’t find it funny.

Luckily I have my electric handwhisk to hand. This is not a piece of kit countenanced by my mother. However, the Hummingbird Bakery Cookbook says it’s a valid alternative, so I press on.

I whisk the wet ingredients into the dry. Very soon, one of the whisky things gets wobbly. Unbelievable. A crucial plastic bit has disintegrated into the cake batter rendering the whisk properly knackered. And my cake batter is contaminated with bits of knackered whisk.

Consultation with P (who claims to be trying to have a snooze and complains of interruptions, but has left the door open so is therefore fair game, and seems to be enjoying my struggle in any case) suggests that domestic baking equipment may not have appreciated being subjected to subzero temperatures in our garage over Christmas. He also confirms that the bits of plastic that I’ve rescued from the cake batter all fit together snugly. We deduce the cake batter is no longer contaminated.

Ignoring any suggestion that ‘God’ doesn’t want me to bake this afternoon (and an offer to go and fetch some Mr Kipling’s), I press on. Almost as strong as my desire to change things, is my stubborness. People bake every freakin’ day of the week. It’s not rocket science. It will work.

I reach for my hand whisk and apply some elbow grease.  It seems to be working. The batter (this is an American recipe – and produces a runny mixture, very different from the result of the British cream-together-butter-and-sugar-add-eggs-and-fold-in-flour approach beloved of Delia), is poured into the cases, popped into the oven and watched assiduously through the door. I do at least know not to open the door.

Meanwhile, I use more elbow grease to make butter frosting. I inhale a lot of icing sugar. And then, joy of joys. I break out my two bottles of food colouring. I remember what Nigella says about food colouring: be sparing, unless you cakes that look like they’ve been produced by Haribo (she didn’t say that exactly, as that doesn’t have a double entendre tenderly embedded within). I experiment with egg cupfuls of icing and teeny drops of food colouring persuaded off the end of a fork.

It’s tricky. Red and blue don’t necessarily make purple. They sometimes make maroon, or a very unappetising grey colour. Eventually I figure it out. I have three bowls of icing. Snowy white, baby pink and a fairly convincing lilac.

Despite the lack of power tools, the cakes have risen well (not as well as my mum’s obviously – she produces fairy cakes which look like little volcanoes on the top) and look beautiful golden brown. I’m still a little nervous that they are cooked through properly (I have not graduated to owning a skewer to test them and the results from a knife are inconclusive).

I potter for a bit and wait for the cakes to cool (icing warm cakes doesn’t work – I do learn from previous baking failures – doing the same thing and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity after all).

Once the cakes are ready, I slather on the icing and line them up in rows, a la Hummingbird. I’m not sure my mum would approve of this American-style icing… too much sugar I suspect. As children, we would ice the volcanic fairy cakes with melted chocolate and sprinkle them with hundreds and thousands, and wait for the chocolate to solidify. I would then peel off the chocolate slab, eat the cake out of obligation, and then eat the chocolate, crunching hard into the hundreds and thousands.

P and I test one of cakes (the Mr Kipling route has not been entirely ruled out– I really do not want to serve up cakes to my neighbours and find they have soggy bottoms, ha).

It has worked! Bloody marvellous. Light, airy, soft. Different to the Delia-plus-my-mum-and-the-Kenwood’s version, I grant you. The crumb texture is very different using the batter method. But it’s all good.

The neighbours turn up punctually (such is the power of the cake), and pay compliments to the cake. I of course receive the compliments and say nothing of the back story (other than referring to the Hummingbird Bakery Book – it turns out there have been several cookery books received as Christmas presents in the building, and I anticipate some reciprocal cooking over the coming weeks).

Downplaying this afternoon’s achievements, I do perpetuate the myth some of us just throw together a batch of fairy cakes on a Saturday afternoon without turning a hair. Or burning out a motor. You know better.

Benign influence

Earlier this month, I enjoyed three days in the most incredible space. This had a significant effect on my mood, demeanour and levels of motivation. It feels like I’ve been supercharged.

I spend the time working hard (although it feels like playing hard) on a residential course for 150 young people aged 13 to 19, hosted at Marlborough College (the swanky public school in Wiltshire). Students from all over the country, mixing in such distinguished surroundings, creates an air of Hogwarts meets Byker Grove. The programme is run by the Youth of Today (which exists to create leadership opportunities for young people). I’m part of a team of 100 coaches, facilitators, speakers, ops staff and project leaders.

We’re treated to beautiful food (I’ve never seen such an expansive cheese board) amongst centuries’ worn flagstones (riven with glacial valleys molded by a million footsteps) presided over by incredibly friendly, thoughtful and upbeat staff.

At one point, I’m finishing up a really challenging session involving an exercise where 16- and 17-year-olds, who’d met each other only yesterday, are challenged to fall backwards off an oil drum into each others’ arms (while a film crew interviews us). As an aid to maintain the high levels of focus and motivation necessary to keep everyone safe, I promise there’ll be refreshments provided afterwards. I hope very hard that the goodies will appear as the Fellows (as we refer to them) are sweaty, tired, exultant and in need of a cold drink. They’ve met me only recently and I’m working hard to build their trust. Wanton promising of non-existent biscuits is a sure way to lose friends and alienate people.

Walking them back to the courtyard, I’m greeted by six large trestle tables, flanked by staff in proper waiter-y uniforms, offering hot and cold drinks and… wait… am I seeing things?… an ocean of doughnuts, sat in individual little cardboard boats. The staff smile and chat and are positive about the Fellows, some of whom are studded with piercings, clad in hoodies and not the type one usually expects to find at Marlborough.

The physical environment however is not what prompts me to make the significant personal transition from the moment I arrive at Marlborough, to the time I leave. I’d turned up on Friday night, after a disrupted train journey, very tired, moderately stressed and in mild need of a weekend on the sofa with Grey’s Anatomy and a large bar of Green and Blacks. Three days later, despite (or perhaps because of) working 7am to 11pm days, running around, focusing incredibly hard, and putting a huge amount of energy into supporting the Fellows, I finish up full of energy, bounce and invigoration.

Of course the physical environment helps, but what really does it for me are my colleagues. A highly charged atmosphere often ascends when a room is filled with coaches (as in mentors/facilitators/supporting people…. not as in buses). (For the record it’s quite confusing organising a group of coaches to meet a group of Fellows (which we keep erroneously referring to as ‘students’ as we became accustomed to the terminology) as they arrive on a flotilla* of coaches (which we ended up calling buses for clarity’s sake).) In a roomful of coaches, typically, every single person smiles when you catch their eye and one can’t move for rapport. Questions are ricocheting around the room, slicing gently through the air of intent listening.

And we have all this, and more.

This isn’t your average roomful of coaches networking and looking for business opportunities. Everyone is at the Youth of Today to inspire, to challenge, to train and to support a group of young people as they work to effect change in their communities.  It’s all about the Fellows, not about us. And I have never experienced such esprit de corps.

Despite physical tiredness and mental drain, all interactions with team mates are upbeat, friendly, sincere and caring. Joined by a clear common purpose and with logistical support beyond measure (we have an exemplary ops team who can rustle up a white board marker pen in minutes, accompanied by a side order of banter and smiles) everyone is on their game.

And here’s the point of this post. That being on-their-game-ness rubs off on me. It’s impossible to be around this crew without becoming saturated in positivity, energy, and care. We’re supporting the Fellows, and in turn we’re being supported to be great at our job, and encouraged to look after ourselves so we can be even more effective. The feeling was so intense, so pleasurable and memorable, that back at home, facing the same stresses as before, I can conjure it up in seconds. And here’s the thing. That feeling was a function of the people who were around me.

So many of the people on the team I meet, or I already know and with whom I became a little closer, have achieved something incredible, are outstanding at their job, have amazing skills or a wise view of the world. Rubbing shoulders with such people is inspiring and motivating. And that’s even before we meet the Fellows. Some of them (still in their teens) have already set up huge community projects, are mature and impressive beyond their years, can dance like they’re on MTV, accompany themselves singing songs they’ve written, and tell tales of daring do.

I read somewhere that we tend to become the average of the five people with whom we associate the most. However true this is, I know that the people I hang out with have a huge effect on me. Their world view affects my world view. Their moods change or reinforce my own. Sharing their experiences colour my own beliefs.

I’ve been living just outside Oxford for six months now, in a little rural idyll rather isolated from the cornucopia of delights that the city has to offer. P and I have enjoyed perfect neighbours (and friends) living next door, and of course the cat, for company. That’s been supplemented by the wonders of the Oxford Tube ferrying visitors from and visits to London, and beyond, to enjoy friendships both new and long, all rich and enriching.

The cat and the neighbours are moving on, and the time has come to cultivate some more mates in our new habitat.  Their importance will be significant as our beautiful brains (and we all have beautiful brains) have a tendency to attune themselves to the dominant feelings of the people with whom we hang out.

Because we are gloriously sociable creatures, humans tend to harmonise their emotional states with those around them in a ‘symphony of mutual exchange and internal adaption’†. This has been described by scientists as ‘limbic resonance’. The theory is that our individual nervous systems are interdependent.  They’re influenced by the forces of empathy and non-verbal communication, as we adapt to and reflect the moods of those around us.

This means that when we spend a night on the sofa with an old mate who’s really chilled and happy, the chances are we’ll end up feeling more chilled and happy at the end of the evening than we were at the beginning (despite watching some truly low brow TV at the same time, old mate – you know who you are). Similarly, if we’re surrounded by moany people day after day, who drain our reserves of oomph and positivity, the effect is likely to depress our outlook, our behaviour and our success rate.

According to Daniel Goleman(et al)’s book Primal Leadership, great leaders spread emotions at the positive end of the scale (aspiration, compassion, connection, or purpose) which set fire to the part of the brain which looks after motivation. This is what happened to me last week.

Which five people do you spend the most time with and what effect do they have? Whose lead would you like to follow?

*I can find no collective noun for either coaches (supportive) or coaches (buses). Suggestions welcome.

†The term limbic resonance was coined, and the above description given, in a book called ‘A General Theory of Love’ 2000 (and with a title like that it’s going straight on my Amazon wishlist)

Ms Motivator

It’s been a while. I’ve neglected my blog, and I’m keen to re-enter the groove of writing.  To start with it’ll feel rusty and stunted, and I will persevere until it flows once more. Then it will be a joy, I’ll feel great and there’ll be ideas for new blog posts wherever I look. It’ll be a virtuous circle. I just need to get motivated to jump back in.

How to get motivated is a question that’s raised all the time in coaching sessions and workshops.  So that naturally forms the subject of this post! The trick is to know what motivates us personally. And then to do it. (The second part is always the crux.)

What’s working for me right now, is buddying up. Here’s why.

Sometimes, when I am ‘too busy’ to write my blog, a friend might unexpectedly call and ask for a hand. I then miraculously find time from somewhere (perhaps down the back of the sofa). This happened last week. From time to time I help out with an amazing project by doing some communications consultancy (writing press releases and the like). I received a call saying they needed a PR, and I knew that a couple of hours of my time would make a big difference. So I found time. And did it. Which was a big help to them, and fulfilling for me. It also illustrated that if I was suitably motivated (being inspired by the project, wanting to help my mate, knowing I’d get positive feedback)… surprise, surprise, I found the time.

I’m learning that if I have a tendency to do certain behaviours (be able to make time for other people, even when I claim to have no time for myself) sometimes, rather than changing that behaviour, it’s more effective to cunningly use it to my advantage.

So I have found myself a blogging buddy in the beautiful form of my dear friend, fellow coach and confidante, Karin. The deal is that I’d like to help her out with something on a regular basis . However, under the rules of our blogging buddy charter (discussed last night over a Nepali curry in Ealing), I’m only allowed to help her once I’ve written a blog post. So I borrow the oooomph I have to help her, and co-opt it into my blog writing. Genius. See how it’s working?

The buddying approach to motivation works thanks to benign peer pressure and expectation (we all know we’re more likely to go swimming tomorrow morning if we’ve promised to meet our friend at the pool).

There are several variations, which can be modified for purpose and environment. In the past I’ve emailed a bunch of mates, telling them about the big hairy scary things I am going to achieve that week, and promising to report back at a designated time to declare my success. They were given full nagging rights if I failed to check in. Because they’re a supportive bunch they responded with encouraging missives. It worked a treat. An alternative is to meet regularly with a buddy and report progress, share challenges and cultivate focus.

So, with all this in mind, I declare that I will be blogging once a week henceforth. I’ll be back shortly with some thoughts on external motivators (which come from a source outside ourselves, see above) versus internal motivators (where we are self-sufficient in our ooomph, which is far more sustainable).

In the meantime I’d love to hear what you do to keep (or get) yourself motivated.

Password policy

I know that I should check my email just once or twice each day. But I’m not built like that, and until someone invents a device that prevents me from checking obsessively (whether seized by fits of procrastination or not), it’s not going to change.

I did try and put myself off a bit by making my password fiendishly complicated (a random collection of upper and lower case letters and numbers with no apparent pattern or meaning). The problem is that if you type something twelve times in one morning, it soon trickles off the fingers with little effort.

Here a suggestion for picking a more user friendly password that may do  more favours than discouraging an email obsession.

Make your password work for you.

We might type in passwords for our email, computer, facebook or twitter accounts several times each day. Rather than using a cunning combination of the dog’s birthday and the cat’s maiden name, pick a password that will provide a mini pep talk each time it’s keyed in.

If you’re training for a marathon, or the local 10k, why not log in with ‘SuperRunner’? If you’re improving your diet, what about ‘HappyHealthyEater’? If you’re working on your confidence, try ‘IsAGreatNetworker’. And if you’re reconnecting with the lighter side of life try ‘SmilesALot’. Get the idea? Write in the present tense and make it positive. ‘IsANon-Smoker’ is far more effective than ‘WillQuitTheCiggies’.

I’m obsessed with my email and log in several times a day. Typing my little personal affirmation (which I’m keeping to myself thank you very much!) gives me a conscious reminder of what I’m working towards (or a bit of a shove). It also subconsciously stimulates the brain by associating one’s name with something positive. For example: Username: ‘Joe_Bloggs’; Password: ‘HasTheBodyOfAGod’.

Think it, write it, believe it, do it!

It’s not who you know, it’s what you do

Following the excitement of my trip to the IoM, here’s my column published in the local paper on the same subject.

Pay special attention to the comments at the bottom. The wisdoms from Onchan have generated an article which I paste here for your delectation.

Five ways to create your own luck and make things happen

Do you know someone who always falls on their feet and gets what they want? Do you feel an inward cringe of envy when they start another anecdote ‘you’ll never guess what’s just happened….’? Do you sometimes have difficulty believing life can be so easy for anyone? They meet exactly the right people at exactly the right time, and attract extraordinary offers of support with apparently little effort.

You may have uttered a deep sigh and moaned to yourself, ‘It’s not what you know it’s who you know’ or ‘I’m just not lucky’ or ‘things like that never happen to me’. You may be giving up on your dreams, convinced it’s just not meant to be.

Well, the excellent news is that you can create opportunity in the most unlikely of places, with little resources and a small amount of effort. And here’s how.

1. Be clear about what you want

What do you want? When? Where? Who would be involved? What does it look like? How does it sound?

You want to travel the world… which countries, what time of year, what will be your most eagerly anticipated destination, who will you go with, when will you leave, how will you fund it, what will you pack?

Or perhaps you want to appear on stage… what will you be doing, what will you look like, where will you be performing, who’s in the audience?

May be you want a new job… what’s your ideal position, where would it be, who would you be working with, what would you be wearing, what would you be earning?

A clear idea that you can daydream about in HDV and surround sound is much more likely to become reality than a vague and ill-defined notion. Your brain can’t tell between real life and strongly imagined scenarios, and will start to believe your dream is real.  The more you convince yourself it can happen, the more likely you’ll take action to bring your dream to life. That’s what generates what some people call ‘luck’. It sounds a bit loopy, but it does really work.

And if you know exactly what you want, you’ll be able to share your dreams with others and they just might be able to help you.

2. Talk about it

Once you’re clear about what you want, start talking about it. Most people will be inspired by your boldness, openness and honesty, and may offer support. That help may be the piece of luck that you’re after. If you know 20 people, and they each know 20 people, you have network of 400 people within easy reach – as long as they know what you’re after.

A note of caution. Dreams are often fragile. Do not share you excitement with doom-mongers and naysayers. Their cynicism and negativity may infect your beautiful dream, and destroy your belief that it can happen.

Find out where people who share your dream hang out, and go talk to them. Try Meetup, Facebook and Linked In to find like-minded people who will add to your enthusiasm, rather than trample on it. Lucky people generally have big networks, and are eager to help. So go and meet them! Get a business card printed, even if you’re not in business. It’s easier to exchange contact details that way.

And email them the next day to say it was good to meet them, and pass them on any useful snippets of information about anything you talked about. Show willing and cultivate your network!

3. Ask and it is given

Ask people for help. It’s not rude or pushy, unless you ask in a rude or pushy way. People like to be asked, it makes them feel valued and respected. Who can resist the approach ‘I’m really interested to hear what you think about….’?

Hint: Ask people for something small requiring little effort, such as an opinion or a contact, rather than any action. If you ask your friend if they know someone who could help, they may well end up offering to help you themselves. It’s easier to ask when a ‘no’ doesn’t feel like rejection.

Be bold. If the best person to help you is a world famous expert, drop them an email. It’s very likely they were successful in part because of their audacity. They will be impressed by your gutsiness.

Whether you get help from Richard Branson, or Sam next door, always say a sincere ‘thank you’ immediately, and then follow up with a note or an email. People who feel appreciated will try even harder to help you next time.

4. Put yourself out there

What skills do you have? Work out what you are really good at, and do it for the benefit of others. Even if they are unrelated to your dream, your skills have huge value in creating luck for others.

If you bake excellent cakes, hold a cake sale in aid of your favourite charity, or for your friend’s birthday party. If you’re an excellent declutter person, offer yourself up to help with the neighbours’ spring cleaning. If you spot someone in trouble, do whatever you can to help them. Connect your friends with others with similar interests.  Look for opportunities where you can be helpful and provide people with solutions.

Do this without agenda, and you’ll begin to enjoy it. And eventually, through some apparently unrelated route, the luck-laden benefits will come flooding in to you.

5. Say ‘yes’

When a new opportunity comes your way, say yes. Don’t think about it too much, just say yes. Even if it’s really unrelated to your dream, say yes. If you’re hanging out with like-minded people, the chances are there will be a link somewhere. Even if there isn’t, you will open up your existence to new opportunities and people, and that’s where the luck lurks.

Drop me a line at Melissa@MelissaMehta.com to let me know how this works out for you. And if it doesn’t work out for you, drop me a line anyway. If you’re properly stuck, I’d be happy to offer you a complimentary coaching session to get you going.

Happy dreaming.

Ebbing

It’s been a week full of new clients and bold moves. And consideration of a potentially life changing decision with only 4 days’  exploring and thinking time. And then falling over badly enough to get a scabby elbow, and drop my new laptop.

The last ten days have been full on. Mostly in a good way, with the obvious exception being the body blow from the pavement, and holes in my lovely new laptop case.

So when Monday morning dawned and I wasn’t feeling as enthusiastic as normal, I thought I’d take it a bit easy. Of course, not easy enough to stay in bed, as I have a business to build and a task list with plenty of room for ticks. But I did choose to do some of the slightly less demanding tasks as I’m in a little bit of an ebb.

I wrote a while ago about being in flow , which is essentially those times when everything is going right. The trick is to exploit every ounce of opportunity, be a bit cocky and capitalise on the good vibes that are in the air. The temptation can be to feel smug after the first thing goes my way, and have a nice sit down and a cup of tea. Chamomile, obviously. But it’s a shame to stop when things are going so well. I carry on bounding around as the successes tend to build up quickly.

We can’t be in flow all the time, and sometimes we’re at the other end of life’s oscillations. Like today, when I’m in ebb rather than flow. Now’s the time to have a nice sit down and a cup of tea, metaphorically and literally.

Today was a metaphorical, rather than a literal, sit down. I biked over to my old friend J’s office for a cuddle with Cara the Collie, some banter, and a bit of technological support. My initial bullishness on installing freeware onto my new laptop had waned, and it was time to ask for help.

An officeful of male techies is an amusing place. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, they cannot bear to exist nearby a IT problem. They descend on my cute little white computer with glee.  There’s the opportunity to accuse me of ‘user error’, and the usual anti-Microsoft diatribe. I spend a very enjoyable day fiddling around in their office, exchanging helpfulness and sorting myself out.

Using ‘ebb’ times to regroup, do routine and less demanding tasks (and have some fun) is a very effective use of time. It helps us secure a firm footing from where to take off into the flow when it hits next time. And it’s coming, so it’s best to be ready.

Day 4 on IoM

I get up at dawn to say goodbye to my host, and go for a run. Sunrise is almost as beautiful as sunset was the night before.

The sea is unfeasibly calm, and the sun low, making the mirrored surface of the water ideal for spotting things. There are plenty of cormorants, and the odd seal. Aside from the oyster catchers and the curlews pecking in the sand, I have the beach to myself.

I had been warned that the IoM is very windy and instructed to take hat and scarf. But somehow I’ve landed at the same time as an incredible four days of still, calm, clear weather. It’s 7am and I am warm even before starting to run.

I want to make it round the next headland, so I conserve my oomph and run slowly across the sand. I tread on the odd bunch of bladderwrack seaweed, sometimes crunchy and black, sometimes slippery and red. I’ve never smelt the sea so fresh, like a delicious seafood pasta.

On the way back I pass two young boys, playing alone  on the beach with their dog. People keep telling me that children can be sent out for the day, have unsupervised, outwardly-bound and wholesome adventures, and are home in time for tea.

After grabbing some breakfast and a shower (don’t-shut-the-door, don’t-shut-the-door) I wrestle my suitcase into the car and head off to find some kippers. I’ve given up on the idea of a whale watching trip as it’s too out of season to be spontaneous.

In amongst the sleepy quiet village of Port St Mary, I found the most fantastic seafood market and deli. Freshly smoked kippers stacked up in a pile, others shrink-wrapped for odour-free export. Whole crabs nestled in bed of chipped ice. Heaps of freshly made rollmops. A wet-fish counter with a dozens species labelled with tiny little chalked blackboards. And (joy) a whole separate counter of cheese, Milano salami, chorizo, prosciutto, parma et al. There are heaps of veg and meat too.

This is particularly noteable as Port St Mary so far appears to be the kind of place where they look at you oddly if you ask for herbal tea in a pub. Believe me. When I then proceeded to take out my laptop, there was a whole line of locals propped up against the bar looking at me curiously.

I can live without Waitrose (reports that there is a Waitrose in Douglas were hugely exaggerated), if there’s a good deli.

Determined to avoid a last minute rush to the airport, I make my way to the nearby Castletown. Where I find a tapas bar. With real live people in it. Yes, it is 11am, and it’s more hot chocolate and cake than tapas. But it is somewhere normal to hang out.

Douglas airport is tiny. It operates at a completely different pace to the likes of Gatwick and Luton. It’s perfectly possible to park within 50 yards of the check in desks, and to wander in 40 minutes before your flight is due to leave. My luggage is a little over weight, thanks to jam, kippers and rocks, but the check in chap tells me it’s not really worth worrying about. I realise I have a huge unopened carton of juice in my carryon bag, and no time to drink it so I donate it to the check in chap instead. There’s no suspicion that I’m trying to cause some kind of terrorist incident or drug anyone. He simply takes his gift in the spirit it was given.

The security checks are hilarious. The checker of passport and boarding card verbally explains the whole process “Take of your shoes, and put them in one of those trays over there. If you have a laptop, do you have a laptop dear – oh yes I thought you might, take it out and put it in one of those trays over there… etc.” He then segues into an individual chat with each passenger.

In the departure lounge I find my host, on his way to London. It’s clear that bumping into people you know in the departure lounge is a common occurence. My host is chatting to an old friend, who becomes my new friend in the (practically non-existent) queue at the gate. Explaining my situation, she nods and tells me that it’s really important to find likeminded people. I think I may have found one.

Landing at Gatwick I brace myself for the onslaught of London. I have sensory overload and everyone looks miserable. But I manage to keep a bubble of calm around me, knowing that only 3 hours’ away there is a place of blissful quiet, friendly, clean and beautiful contentment. I float through Clapham Junction station and back to P’s, for a much needed nap.

After supper at Giraffe (ticking those quiet and friendly boxes) where I talk more than I eat, I lie awake in the orange glare of the street lights which slices through the blinds. The sirens, the footfall, the shouting seem much louder than normal. I can even hear the brakes of the trains and the sound of people walking up the stairs. Tomorrow’s task is to buy some ear plugs.

Day 3 on IoM

I shall gloss over the bit where I manage to accidentally lock myself in the toilet for the second morning running.

Wednesday morning sees me head over to Douglas for a series of meetings. In between them I wander around, and find my funky independent coffee shop. Jabberwocky is small, the proprietress is beautiful and arty, the chalk board menu is witty and amusing. They serve chamomile tea complete with a dinky little jug of water so you can cool it down and keep up with the regular tea and coffee drinkers.  There is a bookcase full of books to browse. There is wifi. Sigh of relief. This is what I was talking about.

I wander around more in between more meetings (it is a brain mangling day). A menu in a shop window catches my eye, all goats’ cheese tarts and pine nut salads. On further investigation the café is at the top of a department store. As I pick my way through the menswear department, I spy interesting shirts, beautifully cut jackets, and classy cufflinks that I suspect P would like. He probably wouldn’t like me mentioning it, but he has a keen sartorial eye.

While the merchandise is high end, the building is ‘Are you being served?’.  Wood panels, brass fittings, and a tiny little lift. At the top I find the café. I settle myself in an elegant leather chair in the corner and tuck into a pinenut and goats cheese quiche, accompanied by three different salads (all exactly right). Thank goodness for that.

I size up my fellow diners. Ladies who lunch, but who also run consultancies, by the look of them. Yummy mummies out with their tots and their mothers. Couples, probably on holiday. All normal, and all look like they could be me friends. Phew.

The third meeting is at the Department of Trade and Industry. I literally just called them up and they invited me over for a chat. No messing around.  And it is a useful chat. The most memorable part of the visit is a trip to the ladies (toilets have featured heavily in the last few days for some reason). In among the handcream and posh soap, there are copies of Heat magazine. I know someone who would especially approve of this.

By now I’m hitting the wall. I’m too tired to meet any new people, have any more ideas, check out anything else I’ve never seen before, or think about big life-changing decisions. I need to go and stare something immobile.

I have a spare hour for a sunset wander along the coast. The sky is pink, the sea is still calm, and snakes of mist weave between the purple hills. I take lots of photos, and send one to P, who battling through the Clapham traffic on his bike. I can’t quite believe that all still exists.  I wander along the beach, picking out interesting rocks for to take home for me and my mum. I chose some pale grey ones with Emmanthal cheese holes in them.

Tonight I’ve been invited along to a rehearsal of the IoM Symphony Orchestra. One of the boxes that needs to be ticked for me to be happy is some sort of musical endeavour. Doesn’ t need to be anything flashy. But it needs to be something.

The sun has set, so I get back into the trusty VW and head north to St John’s. As I walk in to the rehearsal room the string section is playing Karl Jenkin’s Palladio. (Yes, you do know it, it was in an ad for something I think. Anyway, it’s all very uplifting. ) By the look of the orchestra, I’ve found my likeminded people.

The last rehearsal before a concert, of which this is one, is always a strange beast. Everyone is on edge, following the lead of the conductor who is determined to get through the invariably ambitious rehearsal schedule. And if the conductor is worth his title, he will also be playful, teasing and jocular, to compensate for pre-performance nerves in the ranks. When things go horribly wrong in that last rehearsal it means they won’t go wrong on the night, or so the argument goes.

Despite all this, the conductor finds time to come and chat to me. And members of the orchestra catch my eye while they’re counting their rests, and smile. There’s no opportunity to chat with them, but I can tell they are definitely likeminded.

As I’ve driven around the IoM over the last few days, I’ve been listening to Manx FM. They seem to have been playing a collection of important tracks from my life, leading to much bellowing out of hits at the top of my lungs.  I’m not at all superstitious, but there’s something about a significant song coming on the radio at a significant time that gives me goose bumps, and it’s happened a lot.

So when the conductor explains that the Symphony Orchestra is doing something a bit different this concert, and is playing ‘pop’ classical music (hence Karl Jenkins) and backing a popular singer who is performing some covers, like Alanis Morrisette, I inwardly smile. Alanis has been with me at some important times. I sit looking at the orchestra and listening to the singer, wondering whether some of the people I’m listening to will be future friends…  and then tell myself to stop being so bloody sentimental and go home and get some sleep.

The drive home is spooky. It’s so very, very dark. The sky is still clear and the stars peep down through the tunnels of trees channeling the tiny country lanes. I turn the air onto cold to keep myself awake. The lights of Port St Mary are a welcome sight. I reverse the car into the extremely narrow driveway for the last time (don’t-scratch-the-car, don’t-scuff-the-alloys), and take my laptop to bed.

Tomorrow I need to buy some kippers to take home, and find someone to take me whale watching. Apparently the crane’s arrived in Peel harbour so most of the boats are being taken out of the water for the winter tomorrow. I may have a bit of a search on my hands before catching my flight back to reality.

Day 2 on IoM

Sunlight glinting off the bay, horses grazing in the morning mist, dappled skies. Blah, blah, blah. I am feeling bleary and need to pee. I wrap myself in my dressing gown and pad across the hall, into the loo, shutting the door behind me.

Bugger.

My hostess had told me the day before that the handle is knackered. Pulling the door shut makes it highly likely you’ll be trapped in the loo. She is right.

First priority taken care of, I remember that my host would already be at work, and my hostess had a 7am gym session planned, to be followed by horse exercising session.  Uncertain on the exact time, I stand quietly listening to the house. I try a bit of banging on the door and yelling, but it’s futile. No one stirs.

I could be stuck here for hours and I have a meeting with the Chamber of Commerce chief exec today.

The cold morning air falls onto my naked feet as I open the tiny window. The driveway is empty. I check for climbing out of the window potential, and quickly dismiss the 12 foot drop. There’s nothing to climb on, and the landing would be rough concrete. No fun without shoes.

Final idea is to dismantle the door handle. The screws are tightly fastened, and I need a tool stronger than my thumbnail.  I try taking apart a picture hanging, but none of the bits of metal are thin enough to act as a screwdriver. I bang and yell some more. Silence.

Bugger.

I open the window again and look for passersby. The back door is probably unlocked, and if I could find a helpful soul, they might be persuaded to come in and let me out. I notice the driveway is no longer empty. This lends renewed vigor to my yelling and banging. It takes another ten minutes or so for my hostess to hear me (it’s one of those houses with well fitting doors that cause soundproof air locks), and I’m free.

Behind on the activities before breakfast tally, I go for a run. There’s a healthy dribble of traffic headed to Douglas.  I run past a field of ginger cattle who all stare at me, they’re haloed by the sun low behind them. I rest halfway on the beach, scaring away the oyster catchers, and looking for skimming stones.

Today I will do a lot of driving. I want to check out my perimeters. I imagine I will find some coffee shops and sit writing in my notebook. Perhaps chatting to the odd local, and striking up new friendships. I head to Peel. It’s quiet and pretty. Very pretty. And very quiet. So quiet that it feel like one of those disaster movies where everyone’s disappeared without trace.

There are tea rooms, not coffee shops. And they are closed. This worries me. Coffee shops are where I go when working from home is grating on me. Or where I have serious chats with P. They are where I do some of my best work. There’s a chip shop (closed). A haberdashery (closed). And a few pubs (closed) that are clearly not gastro.  Hmmmm.

There is, however, a deli. I’m so delighted I buy a homemade, outdoor reared pork pie and a teeny tub of olives. The olives are more expensive than the pork pie. Both are delicious.

Sit on the harbourside, I tuck in while a juvenile herring gull stares at me. Me eating a porkpie is probably the most interesting thing that’s happened today in Peel. This hypothesis is reinforced on the way back to the car, by the response I get from a bunch of scaffolders. Their behavior might have perhaps been proportionate had Ella Macpherson, Naomi Campbell and Kiera Knightly all walked past in their swimsuits.  Clad in my stomping-around-having-a-good-explore outfit, I really did not merit whoops and actual wolf whistles. They clearly need to get out more.

Back in the car and on to Ramsey, I decide to take the Snaefell road. Snaefell is the highest point on the IoM. So clearly I have to go up there.

The start of the road is flanked with mountain road warning signs, which light up in case the pass is blocked with snow.  Today’s hazard is slightly warmer. The road is empty, and sinuous. And I have a lovely turbo Golf to drive. I notice the TT road race signs telling me about upcoming bends. Before I hit the cloud line, I see valleys lined with oranged bracken, pine plantations, scrubby grassland and stone walls. The bends are rhythmic and smooth. And then visibility shrinks to about 10 metres.

This is the hazard, which means the journey takes longer than anticipated. On a clear day I imagine it is an outstanding drive with glorious views. At one high point I believe you can see England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales. But not today.

Ramsey is next. I don’t bother with the promenade, and the harbour. I am getting the idea now. Pastel coloured cottages, little fishing boats and yachts, hearty pubs, a fish and chip shop, hungry gulls. Picturesque, and we’ve established that. I’m not on holiday. I’m on a fact finding mission, and I’m looking for likeminded people and coffee shops.

This town is a little more wakeful. There’s an obvious high street, with plenty of independent shops.  I find a deli, and go in for a poke about. It’s better than the last one (which was more of a butcher’s with a deli counter). This one has beautiful pasta, salami milano (a Friday night staple for when we’re too tired to eat, let alone cook) and lots of cheeses. I buy some grapes to chomp on.

 I stare at newsagent’s notice board to get a feel for whether there are any likeminded people around.  There’s a fair amount going on – the usual church craft fairs, IoM artists’ exhibitions and talks by local heroes – could be taken straight off the notice board in Abbots Langley high street. Hmmmm. There are Pilates classes and ads for concerts by the English Chamber Orchestra, and also by a Malinese folk singer who looks like a big name. My heart lifts a little.

What am I looking for? I need to work out whether I would be happy living on the Isle of Man. How does one do this exactly?  This is not a rhetorical question, answers on a postcard please. I’ve started by making a list of things I need to be happy. So far IoM has big ticks by the ‘outdoor sports’ and ‘beautiful  surroundings’ boxes. Trouble is, I’m quite demanding and I also want likeminded people, delis and coffee shops (amongst other things – the list is quite long).

On first inspection, Ramsey looks like it has potential to be a good hunting ground for these likeminded folk, putting me in mind of small towns in Cornwall (if you squint your eyes a bit and apply some imagination). However, the density of shops selling mystical crystals and advertising shamanic workshops is perhaps a bit high for my tastes.

I belt back down to Port St Mary to change into work mode ahead of my meeting in Douglas. Afterwards I wander round my third new town of the day. Douglas is the capital of IoM, so this is where I’ll find my signature coffee shop. It’ll have a chatty barista who knows when to keep quiet. Soft leather sofas.  Something funky playing discreetly on the stereo.  People who look likeminded. Copies of the Guardian and the Independent (I’d take any broadsheet at this point). An atmosphere in which it is particularly easy to strike up conversations with strangers.

A corner of my brain knows it is being overly optimistic, and that corner leaps for joy when it sees nothing more exciting than a Costa Coffee. Not a particularly interesting one. But it is a Costa. And there’s a Monsoon. And an M&S. I surprise myself at the relief I feel.

I despise being told I’d like a particular city ‘because you’re a woman and it has great shopping’. I’ll tell anyone who’d listen that I hate shopping.  And I largely do. But sometimes I enjoy it very very much, and – here’s the rub – it’s nice to have that choice. Thus far, evidence suggested that if I am living on the IoM, the White Stuff mail order catalogue is going to be very well thumbed. The prospect of having M&S underwear parcels sent over was not particularly appealing. Hence the relief.

I am hungry, tired, and a little overwhelmed, so I head back to the car. I sit there for a bit, writing up my meeting notes, and try to figure out what to do next. I haven’t been north very far so I decide to head in that direction and will pick up some supper en route.

The northern most tip of the island seems to move further and further away, the closer I get. The roads become ever more winding. The sun begins to set and I realize I have a long drive home, in the dark. But I have a target in mind so I press on. The road downgrades from B road to single track to dirt track. There’s a red and white light house straight out of “The Lighthouse Keeper’s Lunch” (one of my favourite children’s books, involving a picnic basket and a zip wire if I remember correctly).

The dappled sky is now highlighted pink. I’ve run out of enthusiasm for taking pictures, and I’m very alone in a very remote place with no mobile reception. Perhaps overtired and a bit jumpy.  People keep telling me how safe the IoM is. But every now and again I wonder if it’s all a ruse and it’s going to turn into a scene out of the Wicca Man. Definitely need a cup of chamomile tea and something to eat.

I turn round and head south, unsure what I’ve achieved with this push north. There’s been nowhere to pick up something to eat. Funnily enough there are no sushi stands secreted about the place. I decide that instead of heading all the way back to Port St Mary in the south, I’d stop by in Douglas for a bite to eat at a ‘leading restaurant’ on the IoM. 

There are 5 people in the restaurant, but the maître d’ makes a show of checking his reservations list. I indulge him, expressing gratitude at his efforts to fit me in, and we become friends. It’s pricy, so I head straight for my main course. I’m not bullish enough to ask for tap water in this kind of establishment so I go for a bottle of still.

While I wait I flick through my IoM tourist guide. I know better than to eat alone at a restaurant, with no reading material. 

The service is excellent, and charming. I feel churlish to complain about everything else, which feels like it’s been beamed down from about 1985.

On the long and winding drive home (yes, I’ve collected another one) I think about what I’ve learnt today. There are no independent coffee shops of the type I yearn for. There are no sushi bars. There are no little shops selling quirky and original things to send as birthday presents. There’s appears to be nowhere that sells chorizo. The outdoor gear shops are full of cheap bikes and dodgy shiny rucsacs. I’m a spoilt brat, and I want it all.

I want the outdoor lifestyle. I want to fall asleep wrapped in dense pitch black silence. I want to run along the coast in the morning, and bike up a mountain after work. I also want a sofa full of likeminded people, somewhere that cooks food better than I do, and beautiful things to lust after. I surprise myself on the last point. I didn’t think ‘things’ were that important to me. But it turns out they are. 

I play thought experiments with myself. If I could transport all my friends to the IoM, and live without the trendy Northcote road atmosphere (that I’m clearly now accustomed to), would I be happy?

Yes, of course, I’d be delighted. It wouldn’t matter that there’s nowhere to wander around looking at pretty and wholly unnecessary things if there were a bunch of people to hang out with.

But I couldn’t persuade them all to come. I’d have to make do with visits. Which’d be lovely. But sometimes, on an unplanned midweek evening, you need a girlfriend on hand to have a cup of tea with and discuss the finer points of nothing in particular. I need to find the likeminded folks and then I’ll be a bit clearer on where I stand on the IoM. Currently I’m sitting in bed, exhausted. It’s my last full day tomorrow. More fact finding on the cards, a visit to an orchestra (likemindedness litmus test), and perhaps dabble in tourism. I have the number of a whalewatching charter boat company programmed into my phone, and this is a great place for basking sharks. It’d be rude not to try at least.

Day 1 on IoM

Panting, slightly disheveled , through the departure lounge was not the plan. If it had been, I wouldn’t have worn boots with heels. Or a bright red jacket. I clatter and am conspicuous. And the belt of my jacket is dragging along the floor. There’s a bright red flashing ‘final call’ on the departure board next to my flight number.

The plan had been to give everyone (and especially myself) the impression of a sassy, ambitious, friendly and highly efficient individual. Hence cute little Banana Republic office dress, boots and red jacket. It has gone well up until now. Blue skies, cup of tea with my fabulous father who stills enjoys being the parent taxi, cosy chat with a nice chap in the security queue. I manage to do the whole taking off coat and jacket, remove lap top from bag, and take off boots in about 10 seconds without holding up queue.

The trip to the ladies puts me behind schedule, and suddenly I have red warning lights and disheveled trotting. I have my own personal escort to the plane. As I climb the stairs, I chastise myself for my tardiness. Some of these people on the plane might be my future clients, and I’m likely to be memorable for the wrong reasons. The Isle of Man, today’s destination, is a small place, and I very often end up randomly bumping into very useful to know types. This is not good.

I’ve become that person that everyone’s waiting for. I’m concerned that I may in fact be disrupting the entire Luton airport flight schedule. I’m no longer sassy, and have descended into ditziness. My only sensible course of action is to show grace under fire, apologise profusely, get myself to my seat, settled and sorted in 10 seconds. My future clients will then conclude I am not ditzy, I was just late due to unavoidable circumstances, and that I am in fact highly effective. Deep breath.

It turns out that getting on to an 11.20 IoM flight at 11.10 is no big deal. I wasn’t the last person to board, the plane was half empty, and my profuse apology was reciprocated with an encouraging ‘You’re not late, you’re doing really well’, which Is what you say to ditzy people when they are getting a bit stressed out. I sink into my seat, and literally mop my brow.

You’d be correct to detect a certain degree of tension in my vicinity at present. And you could be forgiven for asking some searching questions at this point.

Why is she travelling again? I thought she was banging on about the desire to stay put? Why is she going to the Isle of Man? Where the hell is the Isle of Man?

All valid questions.

I’m travelling again to check out a place which may be the venue for the aforementioned settling down. The Isle of Man is a tax haven. P works in an industry which has a natural affinity for tax havens. You know the drill. He likes the place in a ‘putting down roots’ sort of way (which is a euphemism). He returned from his first (and only so far) visit there in February with a flight bag full of kippers (a Manx specialty), a bunch of Manx (what a fab adjective) jam, and a great deal of enthusiasm.

Anyway, I digress.

I’m going to see if my roots would also like this habitat. This is potentially a momentous trip. As I write this I strain my neck out of the window to get my first glimpse of the IoM.

First impressions? It’s bigger than I expected. There’s a definite sense you can’t see everything in one hike. There are proper hills which look challenging enough to be interesting. The grass is extremely green. The cliffs show evidence of a violent metamorphic history. The sea is glassy calm. Perfect for whale watching.

My first task is to find the car, lent to me by P’s employers (don’t-scratch-the-car, don’t-scuff-the-alloys, don’t-fill-it-with-the-wrong-fuel…. my mantra, not his). The keys are at the info desk together with a little map with an x marking the spot on which my vehicle is parked.

I’m confident that the island is so small I don’t need to look at my map. I’m right.

I head south in the direction of Port St Mary where I’m staying with some trusted friends of trusted friends of mine. I’ve never met them but I know I’ll like them. Traffic is slow and polite and light. I head into the sun towards the coast and am forced to stop. The view is too beautiful not to.

Pristine beach to the left and the right, golden sand punctuated with black weed-strewn rocks, rugged headlands, blue skies combed with thin white cloud, silky calm water.

I tear myself away, and press on to hit Port St Mary. All chocolate box, pastel coloured cottages, and sailing boats. And a high enough elevation to see for miles out to sea. Again I have to stop. I can just pull up onto the expanse of unfeasibly green grass above the cliffs. No parking restrictions, no traffic, no fence. Not even any litter.

My host is at a dressage competition until mid afternoon (ears pricked up for potential riding opportunities). I follow P’s suggestion of heading to Seal Point for lunch. More coastline looking like Cornwall.

Opposite the southern most tip of the island, the seals congregate on a little collection of islands, the largest of which is called the Calf of Man. Puts me in mind of the Isle being a large cow. Not sure if that’s what they were going for.

The café is, as promised, thoroughly agreeable. I order Manx mutton broth, and am offered tap when I order water, with no fuss. I sit outside. Let’s just remember it’s mid October in a place that everyone keeps telling me has terrible weather. I sit outside. The broth is gorgeous. Imagine Scotch broth, with more meat, lots of pearl barley, carrots, turnip, no peas (hoorah – I’m with you in this context Lesley) and savoy cabbage instead. And a huge hunk of bread on the side. Huge enough to require 3 packets of butter.

I wander around on the unfeasibly green grass overlooking the seals and the various sea birds. I wish I had some binoculars and some sensible shoes. As I sit on a bench sunning myself, telling myself I have lots to see and should get on with it, a random chap with a very long lens wanders up. He’s been taking some photos for Manx tourist board, I’m in some of them and would it be ok if he used them?

A  quick call confirms my hosts do live in the big white house I had suspected, horses in the field next door and a four wheel drive out the front. As expected they are friendly, warm, enthusiastic, helpful, honest, warm, and energetic. One of the first questions he asks if whether I run, and when answered in the affirmative, what kind of distances. Scoping for triathlon talent I think. Hmm we’ll see.

After orientation, tea and chat, I finally pull on my sensible shoes and go for a proper explore to Port St Mary, along the sea defence wall, across the slippery back rocks, peering into rock pools and out to the mercurial sea, scanning in search of a dorsal fin or two. There be basking sharks.

The smell of coal fires evokes childhood memories of my grandparents’ house so intense it feels like time travel. No need for fires today. The reason I mention it because I have recently found that a similar phenomenon occurs with situations which keenly evoke past emotions. It’s uncannily powerful. Enough to throw me off kilter.

In my previous life, I once moved to a far away island for a partner’s job. It didn’t work out (the relationship, not the island). The lessons have been learnt, the positives savoured, forgivenesses exchanged. And the emotional bruises have faded. But occasionally I’m ambushed by emotional echoes.

The situational triggers can be mundane and only superficially similar to their original. Voyaging off alone to check out a new place as a potential future home. Explaining I’m here for someone else’s job. Wondering what it’d be like as a resident rather than a visitor. Considering how it would be to live in a stunningly beautiful tourist destination.

When I did these things in Hawaii they were challenging, but positive. But later the memories melded into bigger picture that culminated in trauma. And snippets of recognition of new situations, however trifling in their parallels, trigger my emotional memory. Waves of unease, nausea and anxiety ensue.

When it happens I work hard to tell myself these feeling relate to past circumstances, not present ones. I’m working to build new positive emotions to anchor to the new versions of these situations. And it requires hard mental effort.

For now though, in the autumn sunshine, picking through the slippery rocks, the tension is gone. I need to remain on kilter, and I know I must keep up my guard.

Oh, the IoM is between England, Ireland, Scotland and Wales in the middle of the sea. So very close to Luton by air that I only managed a page of writing before I had to shut down my laptop for landing.