Excuse me?

These days, allergies are everywhere. Every Tom, Dick and Harriet seems to be either lactose intolerant, gluten-adverse or at constant risk of puffing up like a prawn cracker dropped into boiling oil. No wonder packs of peanuts now feel the need to carry the dire warning "May contain nuts".

But perhaps the most unavoidable allergy is the one I suffer from.
Prepare the melancholy violin solos, dear reader, for I - tragically - am allergic to jargon.

My nemesis (and it's even more outragous and incomprehensible cousin, gobbledygook) is EVERYWHERE. There's no getting away from it.

It's official definition is "the specialised language of a professional, occupational or other group, often meaningless to others". And that's the problem. Once limited to small cliques who all knew - or pretended they knew - what they were talking about, it has now spilled over into everyday life, where is it even more meaningless.

Local authorities, Government departments, utility companies (that's the gas, water and electricity boards to you and me) and private corporations are among the worst offenders, adding further confusion to a life that is bewildering enough as it is.

Speaking and writing is supposed to be about communicating information, ideas and emotions. Jargon does the opposite - it excludes. And worse, it's used as verbal padding to disguise the fact that the speaker really has nothing of substance to say.

The rot probably really set in a couple of decades ago when Personnel Departments at companies around the world winked out of existance to be replaced by mysteriously scientific -sounding "Human Resources" (am I the only one to feel that phrase has sinister Orwellian overtones?).

Now, as we come to the end of the first decade of the 21st Century, Receptionists will give way to "First Impressions Executives", "down-sizing" means you're out of a job mate, and height has been shoved aside by "verticality".

Business meetings are scattered with dreadful phrases like "think outside the box" (now so firmly IN the box it seems to have been super-glued in place), "the big picture", "win-win situation", "one-stop shop", "leveraging our capabilities", "paradigm shift", "benchmarking", "Maximising our synergies", "ring-fencing our weaknesses"... the list goes on.
And on, and on.

I can't be the only one to sit through meetings, fighting the urge to leap onto the conference table, tearing at my hair and screaming "What are you talking about? What are you saying? Cut the crap and tell us what you mean!"
You've all had that moment... haven't you?

Some choice examples of corporate double-speak include:

"the diaper universe"
(that's Ad Man talk for babies)

"Passenger shoe repatriation area"
(Notice spotted a couple of years ago at Gatwick Airport showing where to go to to collect your shoes after your security check. To their credit, BAA - who then owned and ran the place - removed it after The Plain English Campaign pointed out its absurdity)

"capitalise on discontinuous change with an intense sense of urgency"
(your guess is as good as mine)

"a degree of autonomy with processes in place to sandbox our activity within acceptable constraints"
(Sandbox? Are we talking playtime at the kindergarten or cat litter?
My money's on the latter)

"The results of the price barometer illustrate that the reprieve in the pace of price inflation evident in the first quarter has abated"
(Erm, I THINK that means prices are rising again after slowing January-March. I think. Oh, I give up)

But beware, none of us are immune. Despite my own aversion to jargon, I'm sure some Smart Alec will point out that everything I write is littered with goobledygook.

That's just the problem. Despite our best intentions, it creeps up on us, wheedling its way into our consciousness. Anyone with a computer or a mobile phone (which is just about everyone except my Aunt Daisy, who lives in a commune in Cornwall and knits her own organic underwear) is at immediate risk of infection.

Text talk (or should that be TXT TLK?) is useful as it helps us fit in as much as possible in our 140-character Tweets, but it is starting to replacing real language and robbing us of the ability to string a sentence together. That's why I avoid LOL, IMO, LMAO, OMG and ROFL (though I do use FYI and BTW).
Most of us know what they mean, don't we? But what about CYA, HTH and MOTD?

So, pity the poor allergy sufferer with no anti-histamine to offer relief. I too carry the virus (which means I'm allergic to myself). And though I try to use blue sky thinking and sing from the same old hymn sheet, I suspect it's a done deal and I am in a no-win universe...

Happily Ever After?

We all love Happy Endings, don't we? I can't be the only one that spins out Happily Ever After conclusions to what's happening in my life, sometimes forgetting to enjoy the moment I'm in.

The trouble with "Happily Ever After" is that they are precisely NOT what they claim to be. There must be something that comes after the Happy Ending - we just never hear about it.

So, in my quest for the truth (the Public has a right to know, you know), this occasional investigative journalist has dug deep to bring you the news of what happened after some of our better-known Happily Ever Afters:

Pinocchio
Years of therapy have had only limited benefits for this former child performer, now in his late 40s. He now - finally - considers himself "A Real Boy" but continues to have body image issues and pines for the carefree days of his firm-bodied youth. Convinced that his nose is too big (at least some of the time), he is in discussions with several plastic surgeons about the possibility of transplanting the nasal tissue to another part of his body.

Pollyanna
Most of her friends abandoned her when they were in their 20s, unable to tolerate her relentless optimism and insistence that they look on the bright side every time their hearts were broken. After hitting the menopause, she sunk into a depression and now needs a handful of Prozac to even think "I'm glad".

Snow White
Well, her Prince did come all those years ago, but there are times when she wishes he would go away again - or at least get out out of the armchair and do the dishes. Life is hard enough for her with a fat, balding, unemployable Heir to the Throne (will his mother NEVER die?) snoring in front of the TV, without her seven small but very demanding permanent houseguests. Sometimes she wishes she had eaten the whole apple. While it's good to keep in touch with her friends from before her marriage, she's had enough of the whole "surrogate mother" gig.

Rapunzel
Years of obsessive brushing, braiding and supporting suitors clambering up walls have taken their toll on Rapunzel's flowing locks. After one particularly tearful break-up, she shaved her head and spent a year in a bobble hat to cover the grey stubble that grew back. Now considering having extensions added.

Cinderella
Yes, she got her Prince - but her ugly step-sisters are still trying to get into his pants. They have had gastric bands fitted, Botox injected and spray tan applied. Traumatised after catching the three of them in a drunken orgy, Cinders turned to junk food for comfort. The only thing the glass slipper fits these days is her little finger.

Rumpelstiltskin
Changed his name by deedpoll to Kenneth.

Dick Whittingdon
Now lives alone with his cat, never leaving the house, plotting the fall of London Town and sticking pins into effigies of Ken Livingstone and Boris Johnson.

The Famous Five
Once inseparable, Julian, Dick, Anne, George and Timmy the Dog rarely see each other these days. George finally had the op. Dick and Anne have set up home together and moved to a remote village where no-one knows they're brother and sister. Julian hit the hippy trail and fried his brain in Kathmandu. Timmy the Dog is now a leading Reality TV star.

Pippi Long Stocking
Now making a good living as a pole dancer in a Moscow nightclub. Her signature striped stockings, plaits and freckles are a key part of her act (very popular with the Dirty Mac Brigade lurking in the darkest corners of the club).

Stig of the Dump
Has opened his own home improvement and decorating business.

The Borrowers
Facing an uncertain future after calling in the receiver and declaring bankruptcy.

So, maybe there really is no such thing a Happy Ending, after all?
Just "the continuing story"....

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(Confession: This post is a bit of a cheat, as it's a repeat of one I did about a year ago. However, I decided to repost it after a rather silly discussion with old school mates sparked a "Famous Five" discussion - complete with lashings of ginger beer!)

World in a raindrop - The Gallery: Seasons

Here in Greece, we don't get much rain during the long, hot summer so by the time early autumn swings by, Mother Nature is gasping for a drink. And when the rain does eventually come, it sits like diamonds in the nooks and crannies of leaves.







True, we don't have the spectacular sight of whole forests of flame coloured maples and oaks and I still miss shooshing through the fallen leaves while hunting for the best conkers - but the autumn showers does treat us to a few worlds in a raindrop.

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This post is my latest offering to The Gallery in which the lovely Tara at http://stickyfingers1.blogspot.com sets us themes for a photo essay every week.

I'm slightly amiss in joining in every week, but surely you must know by now - I mean well, but....

Tag this!

We all do it, don't we?
I know I do, despite my protestations and best intentions.

For some reason, humans seem to have a deep-seated need to label themselves. Whether it's because we want to 'belong', or stand out from the crowd, or simply to make ourselves feel somehow special, we all tag ourselves with labels that define who we are and how we want the world to see us.

Human nature I guess, and perfectly natural. After all, who doesn't want to belong, stand out or be special?

But what puzzles me is why we all seem to feel the need to drop those labels into conversations at every opportunity.

It's fair enough when someone says "As an educator, I question the value of competitive teaching", after all it is entirely relevant to the subject.

But if I was to say to you: "As an atheist, I like cake", you'd probably give me more than a sideways look. After all, since when did non-believers have a monopoly of scrummy baked goods?

How does being a parent/Christian/vegan/geek/artist/eco warrier/lesbian/PTA chairman/Chief Rabbi make your opinion about the best anti-freeze to put in our cars as the winter chill closes any more valid than the rest of humanity's?
It doesn't.

We know that, we're not stupid. But we all keep doing it. Preaching our own little sermon and announcing our speciality at the drop of a hat - even when it's entirely unrelated.

Anyone who has read more than a couple of lines of this blog will know that I'm 1) English 2) living abroad 3) a non-meat eater 4) married with a teenage son 5) juggling work with family 6) battling the bulge 7) stuggling to make ends meet 8) a bit of a foody.... and a whole lot more.

That's quite a list for a Baby Boomer (Tag No.9) who claims to hate being labelled, eh?

We just can't help it. Even if we manage to avoid starting every other sentence with "As a mother...", we can't seem to stop ourselves from dropping (not so) subtle hints when we Tweet our lunch menus - "Mmmm, veggy chilli. Nom nom" (guilty, as charged) - or so-called self-deprecating remarks - "I'm such a geek".

So, maybe it's time to stop slapping tags on ourselves (and everyone else)... ...or at least coming up with a few new ones?

From now on I'm gonna stop thinking of myself as a big-boned, middle class, working mum with a Radio 4 fixation.

No, I'm gonna be a web-footed, ambidextrous, bossed-eyed eco warrior with penchant for truffles.

Just gimme a moment to climb out of my box...
...and into my new one.

The science of the bleedin' obvious

After considering the world-scattering revelation that chocoloate produces a stronger and longer buzz than a passionate kiss (depends on the chocolate, or the kiss, I s'pose), I've been thinking about those scientific findings that hit the tabloid headlines every now and again.

If you believe the likes of the Daily Mail et al, scientists seem to spend most of their time and mountains of research grant money on detailed studies that come to conclusions about things we already know.

Another one that sticks in my mind is the finding that "Modern life puts stress on the heart".

No shit, Sherlock.
I'll have to pass on this news to my Ovver Arf, though I think he may have a sneaking suspicion, having suffered a minor heart attack brought on by extreme stress - not caused my me, I hasten to add - at the tender age of 39.

I wonder what will be next?
That we feel more positive when the sun is shining and birds are singing?
That water is good for you?
Or that regular bowel movements help prevent bloating?

Now, I'm pretty sure that the boffins of the world actually spend most of their time on things way beyond stuff I have already worked out by using my own common sense or general knowledge.
I just wish they'd tell us.
Or more to the point, I wish the headline writers would tell us.

I want to know the secrets of the Universe, the winning number for the lottery (just once will do), how to make maximum profit with minimum effort, or how to REALLY banish baggy eyes and cellulite - for ever (yeah, right).

So, let's give the news of the bleeding obvious a wide berth for the meantime. Well, at least until they can tell us the Meaning of Life and we can finally relax with a nice cup of tea and the perfect dunking biscuit (identified by a special study using a complex chemical formula, of course).

An object of desire? I should cocoa!

Chocolate. Don't you just love it?

Actually, we crave it. Lust after it. And when we forsake the diet and let our basest instincts run rampage, we're quite happy to get publicly orgasmic about it.

Possibly the best thing ever to cross the Atlantic, it's a classic case of "If it feels THIS good, it must be bad for me".

But the good news is that it's not. In fact, in moderation, it's downright good for us!

In it's purest form, it's packed with cancer-beating anti-oxidants, and has some properties that can drive your cholesterol and blood pressure levels down.

Every woman knows about chocolate's 'feel good factor' as a result of the hefty dose of mood-enhancing endorphins (or 'them dolphins' as my brilliantly batty old neighbour used to call them) and boosts seratonin levels too. Another known seratonin-booster is chilli, so handle those high cocoa solid posh chocs flavoured with chilli with care - or you may just explode with happiness!

It should have come as no surprise when eminent scientists announced a couple of years back that chocolate produces a more intense and longer-lasting buzz than a passionate kiss (the result of yet another lengthy scientific study to add to "Things we already know" - Doh!).

I'm willing to bet that the scientist in charge of the study was a man, single, and had never spent much time in female company. If he had a wife, partner, daughter or female flatmate, he would have reached his conclusions MUCH faster.

The feel-good factor doesn't stop at the chemical level, oh no. It works on all the senses.

Think of that creamy, velvety sensation spreading across your palate, coupled with the unmistakable rich sweet smell as it melts in your mouth. And with the only gloop involved being those gorgeous cocoa solids dissolving on your tongue, a chocolate fix is a much tastier and less messy than getting physical. It involves less effort too.

What REALLY surprises me is that many men naven't twigged to the fact that given the choice between some of Belgium's best and a roll in the hay, most of us girls would have to give it some serious thought - and be tempted by the likes of Johnny Depp, George Clooney or whoever our choice of fantasy happens to be - before opting for a bit of slap and tickle over our favourite sweet treat.

Men, bless 'em, just don't get it. Chocolate doesn't seem to have the same chemical effect on them. I guess all that testosterone must give them some kind of choc immunity along with other caveman-like characteristics. They're touchingly gullible on the subject, so they're lucky that most of us are not soul-sistahs of Cruella deVil, cos we can (when so inclined) literally wrap them around our little fingers for the sake of a square or two of Dairy Milk.

Case in point. As a teenager, I suffered from slight asthma. One winter evening, I had a mild attack when out with my boyfriend and I didn't have my inhaler with me. Playing the sympathy vote - and with my tongue planted firmly in my cheek - I looked up at him with big doe eyes and told him in my most pathetic helpless female voice "Chocolate sometimes helps".
To my amazement, he obediently trotted off in search of the nearest bar of Bourneville. I was so surprised, I nearly fell off my bar stool laughing (nearly, but not quite - that would have given the game away and cost me my choccy treat).

Of course, not all women are like me.
Some, like my lifelong friend Ffynella the Fragrant are restrained, disciplined and dignified.
Until a Chocolate Sundae appears on the horizon...

...Once she gets a whiff of the chocolate sauce, you'd better make way as Hurricane Ffynella roars across the table and dives in face-first, and only emerges after ten minutes of ecstatic noises that could make her a fortune on the phone-sex lines.

So, it's official. Chocolate beats sex.
But as they're both pretty good, I think we should let our menfolk keep thinking that they're all we really want, while we continue to smile sweetly at them as we fantasise about a Cadbury's Flake.

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This post is inspired by Table 2 of "Oui Chef!" at www.beckicklesie.com. November's theme is - surprise, surprise - chocolate, in celebration of Becca's birthday at the end of the month. So check out other entries if you feel the need of some vicarious choc-induced indulgence.

Don't take tea way from me!

I'm as mad as hell, and I ain't gonna take it no more!

How dare they?
Tea has been hijacked - by rampant, rabid, right-wing (or whinge-ing?) Americans.

Whatever happened to the genteel, reviving brew that gets me through my days and sums up memories of my Nana's silver teapot, tea cosies, porcelain cups (with saucers) and homemade shortbread?

Can someone PLEASE tell the folks from the Tea Party movement that the almonds in my mum's own recipe fruitcake are the only nuts I want with MY cuppa.

Thank you, very much.
(Slurp!)