To be honest...

...over the summer I felt the heaviness from the shadows that hover behind, they tell the me within, that my old foe is furtively watching. I should know better, here is the signal whereby I should let myself relax out of hours and allow Larry and others to help me out. But admitting to my frailties only feeds the angst and guilt that I am not wonderwife and instead wimpywife. Yes! I know this is silly, an untruth, but this is what the menopausal head screams.

I fill myself up with errands, small projects and I tend never to say No! to anything. This only becomes a problem when it mounts up and then I find it more difficult than usual to juggle it all.

I have taken on 3 book reviews for a readers' magazine. I am also on the panel reading 6 books on the long list for a National Book Award. I have just started a computer course for work at college, 3 hours a week for 32 weeks, which all seem to fall on my days off, resulting in more juggling and stressing. I recently decided to not stop my online business, but to relaunch it with all new stock. My choice I know, but I do enjoy it so. Then I was approached last month by a feature editor to be the contributor for fashion feature for the Christmas edition. How can l say No? Hours of pressing and sewing and getting the clothing accessorized. I am enjoying it. But it doesn't all fit in my cup. It doesn't just overflow its a bloody Tsunami and it's all in my head. Hence a minor series of panic attacks. Brain freeze. Coping with the daily routine is getting on my wick. At work I am distracted by focusing on the one job. But at home, I begin to show the cracks. To cook, to clean. Chores indeed. The shine has worn off the new home. The kids seem to avoid me at all costs. They must know instinctively Mum's having a mental! I've taken to going to bed early. I waken, thinking, Can I stay here please?

I know what to do. So I make a list of all the things I am currently doing. I cull the list. Leaving what will give me most pleasure. And which will be the easiest and less stressful to manage. I divide them up into bite size chunks. The Do-able. And the not do-able. Put aside for later. Or never. My mind is less cluttered. A path is clear.

I have this space where I can go now. Here. I can write my thoughts and publish. Or not! I can return and read my mess. To share or not to share. Is this depression or just menopausal madness?

Two days later... I have an appointment with my doctor fixed. Just to check up. Today was photo-shoot day. It began with NeRvEs. But I knew everything was ready. Then all hell broke loose, one hour early they phoned, they are on their way. They arrived. One journo, one photographer, two teen models, two hairdressers, one make-up artist and one stylist. Thankfully my pal Carlotta arrived with milk and a smile. She shored me up, 'It's okay you CAN do this,' she said. 'Feeling crappy or not. This is something positive, for you.' We were both dressed in our vintage finery, and fixed, fitted and flattered. No one took our picture. We made tea, made smiles and made happy. The sofa was in the garden for time, a model in 50's green satin stood pretty amongst four toning green conifers. They primped, preened and posed in a cocktail bar, a Chinese garden and a motorway flyover! wtf?? One model in a bronze metallic creation, wore her Uggs while her hair was teased up high, out came the Dyson and this image the photographer thought was edgy, so this may end up on the editing floor or in the magazine. (Will post images as soon as I get them end of November-ish).

They arrived at 10am and left and 6.45pm.

I feel quite tired, chilled and unfazed. Or is this the one glass of ice cold rose wine I just sunk?

All will be well. I know this to be true.

As the man said. Hold on.*

*James Frey, A Million Little Pieces

A life in patchwork

Whilst exploring my eligibility for dual nationality/citizenship - sorry if this is boring you  folks,  I know I have posted about this exciting development twice  already, but this is another aspect -  it gradually dawned on me that I am no longer allowed to legally use my maiden name in the UK.

Is this a little known fact ? - or only to me - it came as quite a shock I can tell you. I have oftentimes thrown in my maiden name, with a flourish, usually when completing a form or library card.  For me it adds authenticity.  I can actually feel it.   Mrs Saz Brown doesn't have the same ring to it - no offence Larry- that my previous title of Miss Saz Amy Chevalier had - the names have been changed to protect the innocent or in this  guilty - though more evocative perhaps with an exotic ring. For me. It is more representative of my ethnicity. I have French, Italian and English blood. Our blood line. Our origins. Our originality. Our authenticity. It is a rich tapestry indeed. 

What we seem to be or even what people believe us to be. Is pretty subjective. Contextual. Like a painting, a poem or a book. It isn't just about the paint, the written word. It is about what we bring with us.  Indeed, what I am is rarely what others percieve me to be. That is, I am only what they believe me to me. But for me. For myself. I can only be true to myself. And so I can never fulfill the perceptions of others. 

I do feel I need to put my own personal house in order. So arranging these pieces of the social and domestic patchwork in a non hierarchical but relative and authentically sound manner, just feels right for me at this time. So, the French passports and Identity cards are ordered. Now, I feel I should make my name authentic also. I have been in touch with the UK Deed poll people who very patiently emailed me the detail. Twice. So I could get my head around the why and the when. It is about creating a paper audit trail, I'm told.

In many European countries one retains their maiden name. In the US aand Mexico too. For example Jackie Bouvier Kennedy Onnasis. It tells a story. Mrs. Saz Amy Chevalier Brown. Okay, odd sounding but nevertheless authentic.

In 1982 I proudly showed my bank and the passport people my new bright shiny and symbolically  unsoiled, uncreased, Marriage certificate and they - I thought- added Brown to my name. But no, non, nein, na, ndak. I became Mrs Saz Amy Brown. With pride. Beaming. Happy and complete. Satisfied. So I thought. 27 + years later. Not so. One changes. Like that handmade quilt, we add bits, repair tears and pulls. Patch it up. We learn more stitches. We adorn it or alter the shape. I too have altered. I have grown in some ways. Made huge changes of direction in some ways. Some of my ideas, beliefs and situation, even my bedrock has organically altered. For better and for worse. Essentially I am still the 17 year old, (oh no really!?) but with wiser eyes, ears, mind and heart.

Changing a passport or name isn't life altering.  It is shoring up the edges of the quilt. Tidying up the side seams and even adding trimming. To secure the inner design. To enhance the inner spaces and to add to the foundation of the whole. That's what I am doing. It feels right. It feels authentic. This is me.

p.s. The French Embassy in London have called me twice as The Honory Monsieur le Consul, forgot to photocopy my UK passport. Secondly he omitted to point out that my marriage has never been registered with them. Enfin, my French passport & ID card will not have my married name on them. 

It's a dogs life! ABC WEDNESDAY - POSTED LATE!!

ABC WEDNESDAY

D for DOG ...

These two pics are just so lovely ...

I couldn't resist sharing them!

pics of Pippa taken by my daughter

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