Me Versus Me

Exercise and I have never been close bedfellows. I spent most of my P.E. lessons at school sneaking off with to loiter on benches in the woods during cross country, making fart noises from the sidelines as the other girls scissored over the high jump bar, or – on one occasion – getting sent home for sort-of-inadvertently throwing a javelin in the general direction of our Mrs. Trunchbull-esque, obese, teacher, after she failed to respond to my requests to demonstrate a suitable overarm technique.

And things didn't really improve from there. I think it's safe to say that sport at my school wasn't a particular priority; we were allowed to spend our GCSE year either doing sport or getting changed into jeans (a true thrill for a 16 year old girl trying to get attention from the local acne-covered talent) and heading to the bowling alley up the road to fling the balls down as quick as we could before congregating at the local McDonalds. Ah, the heady days before Jamie Oliver lisped himself into a frenzy, when it was perfectly acceptable that our school canteen stopped selling home cooked meals and turned swiftly into a (undoubtedly horsemeat-laden) burger bar.

At the time, I really didn't care that sport was such an inconvenience; something that had never interested me; a time to muck about or to try every excuse in the book to get out of wearing our lampshade-esque P.E. skirt. You know the ones – 22 inch waist standard that cut you in half as you struggled with crippling puppy-fat issues, royal blue pleat, with matching sports knickers that would give you thrush if you so much as looked at them.

But as a grown up (supposedly), I look back wistfully and wish that sport was something I'd really been able to get my teeth into, or just that I'd recognised that sport has a valuable part to play in your development and your physical and mental wellbeing. My adult relationship with sport has been one which in human terms would be a disaster; sport needs consistency, regular attention, and commitment. I'm flaky, unavailable, and a total commitmentphobe.

 

I tend to exercise when I hit the point of despair. When I've put on half a stone and decide to undertake a – usually short-lived and suitably pointless – diet. I get the old exercise DVDs out, or maybe go for a couple of runs. When I don't see instant results, I get bored and give up, convincing myself that my 20s are supposed to be a time for debauchery, and reminding myself of the endless quotes I've read from actresses in magazines who are 'just so much more confident' in their own skin their 30s.

It would be easy at this point to just give up on exercise. 'It's not you, it's me.' I could say, shrugging my shoulders and deciding to come to terms with a life of struggling up flights of stairs and bemoaning my muffin tops and bingo wings in the tone of someone who has already been defeated in the body battle. But balls to that.

I was thinking long and hard about exercise recently, and my own attitude to it. As with most uncomfortable topics, when people talk to me about exercise, I give a self-depricating, jokey response. I talk about how I make all these plans to get fit then sack them off for tri-weekly pub visits because I'm 'hopeless'. But then I realised that getting out there and doing something active isn't about your attitude to exercise; it's about your attitude – full stop.

In the other parts of my life, I'm determined, ambitious, strong, resourceful, and organised. I set myself professional goals that I know will be a stretch because – as I always say in job interviews – I relish a challenge. I generally work consistently hard to achieve – and ideally overachieve – because I want to prove that I can grow into my role, to gain gravitas, to constantly learn from my experiences and to use these lessons to reach my goals. I evaluate my progress, I think about new ways I can develop myself, I welcome constructive feedback, and I deal with the mistakes and the blows with maturity – because any other way is futile.

 

So I got to thinking; why would I let there be a discrepency between my atttitude to life and my attitude to being active? Setting out to get fit or achieve a fitness goal is no different to setting out to reach a career goal, and it uses all of the same skills – ones I incite regularly during office hours. And I decided, enough is enough. I have the great fortune of working with some of the most successful women in the country on a daily basis, and I'm damn well willing to bet that they didn't get to where they are today by giving up at the first hurdle – pun fully intended – but by pushing on through the uncomfortable parts, dusting themselves off after a fall and getting straight back out there for round two. Even when the doubts creep in.

So here I am; a big ball of determination and plain stubbornness, refusing to be defeated by my own self-doubt, shunning my commitment phobia, and giving laziness the finger. I have a place in the Royal Parks Half Marathon in October and a pretty big fundraising target for the incredible charity I have the great privilege of working for (insert cheeky Just Giving page plug here).

I also had the great pleasure of cheerleading at the London Marathon today; 6 hours of whooping, cheering, screaming, and blowing a whistle to help tens of thousands of people achieve the goal they'd spent a year of long, cold, nights and sweaty Saturday mornings training for. Giving up hundreds of hours in the process, and raising hundreds of thousands of pounds between them.

As I watched the raw emotion on the faces of those at mile 21, some crying in pain, some grinning as we called their name, others relieved as they spotted a loved one and stopped for a much-needed sweaty hug, I felt truly thrilled. Thrilled to be a part of something so special and awe-inspiring, but thrilled because I knew that if all of these ordinary people could achieve something amazing, I could too.

So in the words of Monica Gellar; 'Stay out of it; this is between me….and ME'.

BRING. IT. ON.

PS – all inspiration welcome; whether books, blogs, personal anecdotes or training tips. What gets (and keeps) you moving?!

 

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Lemon and poppy seed yoghurt muffins

So here we are; spring has sprung! The cherry blossoms are out, the daffodils are saluting the sunshine, and we’ve had the few heady days of sunshine that will undoubtedly be reffered to fondly in hindsight as  ‘summer 2012′.

For me, the spring breeze blows away the cobwebs of winter and draws in the light; light clothing, light colours,  light food, and fluffy-like-a-cloud light cakes.

Gone are my darkest cravings for deep, dark, decadent chocolate cakes (we’ll see how long that lasts) and in comes the wish for something of a more delicate persuasion.

Now I don’t need much excuse to bring out the citrus fruits – in this case, an insanely cheap load of lemons from a local market, and a fancy for a breakfast treat. These muffins are just ideal with a morning tea or coffee; they’re light, yet moist, and not too naughty on the calories either. With yoghurt and lemon in them, I daresay they’re one of your five a day (ahem). At least.

The great thing about these is that they’re so easy you could practically do them while you’re asleep – which is what I usually am for the first two waking hours of every day. Perfect!

Makes 16

Ingredients

• 260g flour
• 150g caster sugar
• 25g poppy seeds
• 2 tsp baking powder
• 1 tsp bicarb
• 2 eggs
• 300g low fat natural yoghurt (full fat is fine too!)
• 100ml vegetable oil
• juice of 2 lemons, zest of one

Method

1. Preheat the oven to 200 degrees/gas mark 6. Line muffin tins with baking cases.
2. In a large mixing bowl, combine the flour, sugar, seeds, baking powder and bicarbonate of soda
3. In a separate bowl, combine the eggs, yoghurt, vegetable oil, zest and juice of the lemons.
4. Mix the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients until thoroughly combined using an electric whisk or a wooden spoon (and a bit of elbow grease!)
5. Spoon into the muffin cases until only just over half full, and bake in the pre-heated oven for 18-20 minutes until golden and springy.

A fond farewell to beautiful Bristol

I remember the day I fell in love with Bristol.

I was 17 and my dad and I had flown down for the day to scope out the city and the University. We found ourselves wandering aimlessly around this brand new place;  swallowed up by beautiful architecture, meandering around bustling streets filled with friendly-faced people, gazing at up at the blue sky punctuated by momuments and towers, and admiring the green, open spaces lined with students and families dining al-fresco and lapping up the sunshine.

It truly was love at first sight.

I vividly remember driving into Bristol with my dad’s tiny car packed to the rafters with everything a wide-eyed student needed (and more). With 300 miles under our belt, we drove along the Portway, underneath the beautiful Clifton Suspension Bridge, the sun casting a glorious, other-worldly light on our path. Sitting on the back seat with a big smile on my face, I shed a few tears – not from nerves or fear, but because I knew that this moment marked the start of a new chapter that would play a huge part in my life; the first blank page in a sketchbook just waiting to be lovingly filled. And what a chapter it was.

I can confidently say that moving to Bristol made me the person that I am today. I relished the freedom that came with a new city, new friends, new ideas, new opportunities, and new places to explore.I treasured studying the subject I loved in such inspiring surroundings; discussing morality with like-minded people, and debating late into the night across pub tables with those not so like-minded (ah, the beauty of philosophy).

I happily fell into the career I now cherish,and found wonderful, kind and generous friends, mentors and role-models along the way. You know who you are, but I hope you also know how grateful I am to you for helping me get to where I am today – and for making it so much fun.

It truly was an honour to grow, learn, laugh and frolic in such a vibrant place. From admiring how the other half live in picturesque Clifton village, to throwing myself into the delightfully urban and unorthodox Stokes Croft. From summer walks and fabulous foodie festivals at the harbourside, to hazy nights of overconsumption and getting to know the owners of local takeaways – it’s a place I know I’m going to miss dearly.

But, after almost 6 wonderful, life-changing years, my love affair with Bristol is going long-distance as I start a new year, new job, and new chapter of my life in London. I take with me – along with two van-loads of stuff – a wealth of happy memories, a strong sense of self, and my boyfriend and best friend, Alex.

As I write this from my lovely new flat, surrounded by unpacked boxes and a city I haven’t even begun to explore, I find myself smiling that same smile as the day I drove under the Suspension Bridge.  Though this time I’m a little more nervous, I know at the heart of it that smile springs from a renewed optimism and excitement at the adventures to come with friends old and new. Oh, and some of the best cake in the UK, of course!

I can’t wait.

A sweet surprise

I came back to Bristol this week from a short break in London after managing to bag a £1 room at the rather lovely Hoxton hotel in their pound sale (did I mention that I hold the title of Queen of Bargains?).

LOVED these cushions!

Exploring the local area, we headed for boutiquey, hipster-esque Spitalfields Market, perusing the cute dresses, jewellery and some rather fetching, uncannily similar, Cath Kidston-esque floral messenger bags (one of which I sadly didn’t nab and am now mourning). The eternal tourists, since we were in the area we wandered toward Brick Lane. I loved taking in the air, infused with a vast array of aromatic spices that seem to wrap around you and pull you toward windows, filled with everything from pakoras to beautiful pistachio-sprinkled pastries and over-the-top tier cakes with extravagent coloured piped frosting. With achey feet, we wandered towards the hotel and I spotted something that instantly brought a huge smile to my face – a sign pointing to The Hummingbird Bakery. If it’s possible, I felt a bit cake-struck (like being starstruck, but by amazing cakes). I, like many, have the book and dip into it regularly with yummy results. I was desperate to try the real thing and compare it to my own efforts. I loved the styling, layout, and feel of the place. It’s classy, colourful and chic – the perfect atmosphere for indulging a sweet tooth. And I’ve got a whole mouth of them. After much to-ing and fro-ing, we went for a rather large slice of the Red Velvet cake (always good to try out a contemporary classic) and a carrot cake cupcake – mainly because you have to spend £5 on a card, and a slice is £4.60 to take out, very crafty! The Red Velvet was a generous, beautifully burgundy, triple-layered slice, with fluffy, moist sponge, topped with a super-sweet cream cheese frosting, typifying the classic American style of baking. The frosting was possibly a little too sweet for me, but I wholeheartedly (and quickly) enjoyed it. The carrot cake cupcake arrived in the cutest little box I think I’ve ever seen, complete with tiny metal carry-handle. Not very environmentally-friendly, but it certainly added to the premium feel (and no doubt partially explained the premium price tag). Again, it was beautifully moist and light, with hints of cinnamon, a perfectly matched frosting, and an individual walnut to finish. A great thing that I took away from my visit – aside from two gorgeous pieces of cake – was a reassurance that the book was actually pretty true to the real thing, and that the cakes I’ve made myself weren’t far off the quality and taste of those produced at Hummingbird. A really wonderful feeling. So I’m off to peruse the book, drool a little, and figure out what treats I’ll be whisking up in the near future. If you’re a Hummingbird fan too, what have been your favourite things to bake?