Finding the Healthier You

The Colosseum (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Surfing the TV channels the other night, I happened upon the The Biggest Loser (Australia) and decided to give it a whirl. By the first ad break I was slumped in my chair, deflated and demoralised and hating myself. Not because I identified with anyone on the show, but because I realised I may as well be sitting in the crowd at the Colosseum in Ancient Rome, yelling at the Emperor to give these losers the thumbs down and throw them to the lions.

I felt dirty. I was watching people getting red faced and exhausted, falling over and clutching their chests, while impossibly toned and fit young gladiators bullied and harried them into pushing themselves beyond their limits. “Believe in yourself!” Michelle Bridges roared in the ear of a young girl who would make four of her, huffing and puffing on a running machine. Good grief. The girl fell off, gasping for breath and I finally went in search of another show.Something entertaining. Something uplifting. Something that did not involve a group of fat people facing each other off with a handweight and dreaming of being the one to stay standing, red faced and saggy kneed, longer. Just believe in yourself, folks.

How is this helping anyone? How is pushing people to the point of collapse for our “entertainment’ doing anyone but the studio execs and those overpaid trainers any good? When they are not threshing about gasping for air, the contestants are sobbing all over the place, releasing their ‘demons’ and berating themselves for being fat and unhealthy. How is tempting them with fattening food helping them, kind of like waving a packet of smokes under a quitter’s nose? Lit smokes at that.

And how is it helping us, in our quest to keep various weight related diseases at bay? Are we supposed to identify with these demoralised, sobbing, bullied, pitiable people? Are we supposed to think “there but for the grace of God and Michelle Bridges and the one called Shannon and the one who looks like he wishes he was actually in the SAS, go I?” Or are we supposed to feel the fear of God and Michelle Bridges et al, and quake in our slippers in case they come for us next? Put down that biscuit or else the cat gets it!!

Going on the usual Google hunt after being horrified (enlightened, inspired, excited – not) I found I was not alone in my concerns. There is a petition to stop the show promoting bad health and diet behaviours, and even sporting celebrities have come out again it. Good to know this is not considered the normal way to treat people who are obese and teetering on the edge of heart attacks.

Strangely enough, while hastily changing channels, I was again reminded that the only approach to health I have seen on TV that I admired recently is a flippin’ health fund ad. It’s for BUPA and you can see it here. I dare you not to get a teeny bit teary. Now, like most people, I can’t even afford to join a health fund and yet here I am, being incredibly moved and inspired by a  TV ad. Not a show which is designed to tug at my emotions and just leaves me feeling disgusted, but a TV ad that goes straight to the heart of the matter. That’s what I want. That healthier me, that person I haven’t seen for too many years, before the cares and pressures of life took away her love of life and most costly of all, her love of herself.

But fortunately, what the ad doesn’t tell you is that you don’t have to belong to a health fund to get those benefits. You can Google “healthier you’ and find, not just the BUPA ad, but a whole websworth of places you can learn to find your healthier self again. Try these:

Your local government or Federal health body – I live in Queensland.

Health fund websites are actually a good source of advice. Try AHM.

Reduce your risk of stroke and heart attack.

Find a good health magazine.

Learn about the best exercise, take up yoga, or tai chi.

Discover that finding a healthier you can be fun! Champagne and caviar? Yeah, baby!

Or you can download my free ebook, and follow the guidelines to a detox weekend to get you started.

The point is, finding that healthier you does not have to be a punishing process, letting fit bullies throw you to the lions and the derision of the crowd. You can take the gentle approach, loving yourself enough to want the best for you, enjoying food and life to the point where exercise and a good healthy diet become natural and life enhancing. Yeah, it’s about feeling good about yourself, not sobbing and blubbing in front of the cameras about how much you hate yourself and your horrible life and how grateful you are to that woman with the snarling face pushed into yours.

BUPA got it right, even if I still can’t afford to have health insurance. I can still afford to find a healthier me. And this didn’t turn out to be a rant against TV after all. It just depends what you watch. A lousy show, or a good ad?

Daily Prompt: Unleash Your Inner Dickinson

Apollo and artemis 3 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Artemis

She was the child of Leto and Zeus – because of Hera’s jealousy the births of her and her twin brother Apollo were difficult and prolonged. Artemis, born first, assisted her brother’s birth, which took nine days and nine nights.
Not surprisingly, when Zeus offered her a reward for saving her mother’s life, Artemis chose eternal chastity. Watching your mother give birth for more than a week will do that to you.
But she did once fall in love and would have given up her vow if her jealous brother Apollo had not tricked her into killing her lover. The Greeks and their tales of the Gods and Goddesses were clearly an early form of The Bold and the Beautiful.

Nevertheless, they invariably inspire you to write something for a poetry prompt.

And my father asked me,
What can I give you
For saving your mother’s life?
Just to run free and to hunt the stag
With my sisters at my side.

Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Textures

I love Cee’s new challenge, because texture is something I love to see in photos, and sometime I will just take a picture of something because of the textures. This image is a very simple one, a little path I came across in a local Japanese inspired garden. But the rich textures of the ground, the textures of the flagstones, worn smooth by many feet, and the different textures of the plants, made it an appealing shot.

Weekly Writing Challenge: The State of the State

Julia spam (Photo credit: Darren Foreman)

Sometime this year, around September, Australia is going to the polls. The idea, as I have up to now understood it, is to use your right to vote (compulsory in Australia) to choose the party you believe has the best policies to maintain, and improve, the lives of the people of the country.

Now, I am aware that this picture I have of 21st Century politics is a bit naive. Politics has been about personalities for some time now. But at least in the past, policies did get a mention. It was more “Vote for ME (insert party leader’s head) because I will blah blah blah.’ Local politicians seeking votes were all about policies. ‘I represent the (insert initials) party and I stand for better roads, hospitals, schools etc etc.’ At least you knew what you were supposed to be voting for.

Thank God (no irony intended) for Easter. At least it shut our lot up for a while. At least, for a few days, I was able to forget that our political choices have narrowed down to – not who has the best policies for our chundering health system, our faltering schools or even which one can offer hope to those suffering chronic toothache and empty pockets – but should we choose the atheist redhead or the religious fanatic? Julia Gillard, our current Prime Minister, is universally despised. Unfortunately, so is her shadow counterpart, Tony Abbott. Which one do we hate least?

Before easter we were treated to the kind of spectacle only the ancient Romans could have bettered. The knives were out as MP Simon Crean tried to oust the dreaded Julia and put former Prime Minister Kevin Rudd in her place. It all fell apart when Rudd refused to come out and play. After all, that was what Gillard did to him. As an honorable man, he could not then do the same to her. If the party wanted him back, they would have to ask nicely. Fair enough, I thought.

The fall out was horrendous, and most of it fell on Rudd, for ‘letting everyone down’. But why should he let history repeat itself? The ALP recruited him as PM to win an election, then booted him out for Julia. What are the odds it would happen again? Hell, even the ALP doesn’t trust the ALP. It has been the most embarrassing performance so far, and that’s saying something, in a country where embarrassing politicians beat embarrassing bodies on the yuck factor every time.

It was all starting to remind me of the Year of the Four Emperors. A complete Roman Circus, with the populace being tossed artisan bread and TV reality shows to keep them from thinking too much. Because when you do think about it, this election is nothing more than a personality contest between two deadly dull personalities. There are no policies mentioned. It is how much do you hate him or her? Not even ‘how much do you like him or her?’ Nothing so positive. Not ‘which party will help you, as an Australian, live a better life and succeed in your hopes and goals?’ Not ‘which party will take better care of those too young, old, sick or disabled to succeed in their goals without support?’ Not ‘which party offers the better choices for our future in Australia?”

No, it’s ‘hate him, but hate her more.’

We need to beat these bastards at their own game. We need to stop moaning about the redhead and whinging about the Abbott, and look behind them at the parties that will – hopefully – be putting together some meaningful policies while the talking heads toss insults at each other.

ALP Policies

National Liberal Party Policies you have to download a .pdf

Australian Greens Policies

DLP Policies

The Australian Party (be warned, it’s Bob Katter).

Cookbook: Paris to Provence by Ethel Brennan and Sara Remington

I recently enjoyed reviewing this book courtesy of Netgalley. It’s a great, comforting read, full of recipes and memories, like all the best cookbooks.

According to the introduction by Ethel’s mum, Georgeanne, the creators of Paris to Provence are linked by similar childhood experiences and a love of food. It shows. Ethel called her mother, bubbling with excitement, to tell Georgeanne she had met a girl with the same memories of summers in France, family trips in a little car and the same food – beignets, poulet frites and ice cream – and all I could think, reading this, was Oh Lucky girls! Sure beats my memories of bread pudding and Frey Bentos canned meat pies.

Happily, Ethel and Sara decided to pool their memories in this delicious book. While Sara’s lovely images make you feel as if you could step right into them and make yourself at home, Ethel’s words are no less evocative. She writes of “a glorious breakfast of fresh warm croissants, jam and rich, creamy hot chocolate” and Sara provides a charming illustration that looks good enough to reach in and pick up a croissant.

All this talk of food, and lavish illustration would have been and exercise in frustration without the recipes. Right at the beginning there is a very good recipe for a rustic country pate that I must try, Pate de Campagne, and one for pissaladiere (onion tart) that had my mouth watering. The food is satisfyingly French and the recipes well laid out and easy to follow.

I was happy to see recipes for fresh market produce (fresh fig tart to die for) and beignets! (Make your own!) delicious cafe food like croque Madame. The whole thing is utterly charming and relaxing, like a picnic with good friends on a sunny day, with the scent of lavender in the air. The family tradition of sharing a love of food comes across well. It’s the sort of book you browse through to enjoy the read as well as the recipes – and I can’t offer higher praise than that.

Iced Vovo for Valentine’s Day

Like all true Australians, we are madly fond of Arnott’s Iced Vovos. Of course, they are not really Australian any more, since the Arnott’s brand is now owned by the US Campbell Soup company (a great shock to the Aussie soul) and there were complaints that the biscuits no longer tasted as good, but basically they keep on selling. We love ‘em. Krispy Kreme actually tried to rip them off a couple of years ago, and got stomped on.

Being such an iconic sort of thing, Iced Vovos come in altered forms, notably as cakes, slices and tarts, like this yummy Iced Vovo Tart  from the Good taste magazine. It was in tended to celebrate Australia day but as that got washed out and no one really felt like celebrating (not with all the mud in the back yard anyway) I thought it would make a better Valentine’s Day cake for the grandkids.

I used raspberry jam and marshmallows instead of icing on the biscuit base, which was half and half Iced Vovos and plain Marie biscuits crushed in a food processor with melted butter. It is not as glamorous as the magazine version, but sprinkled with coconut, it tasted great and the kids loved it.

Across the Water

This a story for the latest Friday Fictioneers prompt. If you are born in Ireland, or spend any time there, you will hear tragic stories of the Potato Famine, and the many thousands of Irish who sailed ‘across the water’ to escape.

She walked down to the shore for one last time. The clouds were rolling from the Irish sea, the waves were sharp as cut glass as they broke on the rocks, yet she didn’t see it. She saw instead a path reaching down to the shore, lazy palm trees waving overhead, and the sun rising over the Southern ocean.

Was it really like that? Liam said it was in his letters. Half a world away he was waiting for her.

“There’s plenty of food here,” he wrote. “You don’t need no damn potatoes.”

She sighed and turned away from her visions. She looked up into the face of the priest as he sent her to God and gently closed her eyes. Another victim of the potato famine was gone from the cares of this world forever.

The only sound was her father’s sobs and the scratching of his pen as he wrote to Liam.

 

Sunday 1939

This story is in response to the photo prompt at Friday Fictioneers. The prompt is not an easy one this time, and I honestly thought it would be beyond me. But it stirred memories of stories I heard from people who recalled the start of WWII on September 1, 1939, and my father’s comment that war was “never did anyone any good and mostly it’s the children that suffer.”

Sunday 1939

Sundays were quiet in our house. Usually, we gathered around the radio – father quietly reading the paper, mother knitting, and me busy with my crayons and drawing paper.

This Sunday seemed different. Dad’s paper was still folded, and mum’s knitting lay idly in her lap. They were watching me with my crayons drawing dresses for my paper dolls, as if it were the most important thing on earth.

Then I caught the words coming from the radio. “This country is at war with Germany.”

My mother gave a sob and grasped me in her arms. Outside, air raid sirens shrieked for the first time.

Next day, I was standing on a railway station with a name tag and a suitcase. I never went home again.

 

*Just a note to say that this did not happen to me. I am a Baby Boomer, born after the war. But it did happen to a British friend of my parents, who was evacuated to the country as a child when war was declared. Her home was destroyed in the London bombings, and her parents did not survive the war. I thought this was actually a story that could be told on both sides of the war, since my father heard similar stories from death camp survivors. Suddenly they would find themselves on a train station and never see their home again. As he said, it is mostly the children that suffer.

Duet in A Flat

This is the photo prompt by Roger Cohen for this weeks FF challenge. I think it’s gorgeous, and even a little erotic.

Duet in A Flat

“Two cellos in one small flat is ridiculous! One of us has to leave.”

“The cellos don’t seem to mind.”

“Of course not. They’ve taken up the loo. But I mind having to move them every time I have to go.”

Tessa and Stephen glared at each other across the tiny breakfast bar. It really was a small flat.

“One of us could take up another instrument.”

“Well, not me,” Tessa huffed.

“Or we could take a hint from the cellos.”

One passionate embrace later, there was no more talk of breaking up. But they did start looking for a bigger flat.

 



 

The King of Terror

This story was suggested by my son Laurence, as a possible explanation for what Nostradamus might actually have seen. I published it for the Friday Fictioneers fireworks prompt last week. Better late than never!

 

Grey faced, the seer staggered back from the bowl, and pressed his back against the wall of his tower room, shielding his eyes from the terrible vision which had confronted them.

Michel de Nostradamus had seen many terrible things, both in the present and the future. The plague, the graves of his first wife and their children, the agonising death of a king…

But this defied all horror. The world would end in 1999, in a welter of flame,  the sky lit up all over the world by what he could only think of as the coming of a great King of Terror.

Nostradamus covered his head and moaned, while the scrying bowl continued to reflect the worldwide fireworks celebrations of New Year’s Eve. 1999.