Ironically, I didn't make the deadline; I was too stressed.  

A month later, I'm finally getting round to writing something about stress because I have to.  It's been sat on my to-do list far too long and it's bothering me.

These past few months have been busy and each day my 'to-do' list seems to expand and become increasingly demanding and unmanageable.  Even so, I of course add 'write an article on stress' to the expanding list, knowing that I will be hard pressed to achieve such a goal in the allotted time.  

Still it didn't stop me. 

I'd manage somehow, I told myself.  Because that's what we do isn't it?  We just allow ourselves to get busier and busier and slowly, so slowly we often don't notice, become overwhelmed by what needs to be done.  While the internal stress we are feeling, and perhaps not acknowledging, begins to overtake our lives.  

Of course we don't cut back on the work-load.  No, that would imply that we have failed.  Instead, we try to fit more in, believing that if we work faster and take advantage of those evening and night-time hours that are essentially 'wasted' with everyday living, we could achieve more.

It's an easy trap to fall into.  

Because as we work longer hours, hurrying to get more work done, perhaps reducing our free time and nightly sleep, our stress levels rise further.  We are then in danger of losing, not only our work-home life balance, but our productiveness and perspective too.

The reality is that the more we push ourselves to achieve, the less productive and efficient we become.

We like to believe that the stress we put ourselves under is a way of ensuring that we get the most out of ourselves.  It's certainly true to an extent; nothing beats that buzz of adrenaline. 

Until the adrenaline and stress turns on you.

"One of the difficulties about stress is that it can work for you or against you, just like a car tire," Manage your Mind authors Gilliant Butler and Tony Hope say.

"When the pressure in the tire is right, you can drive smoothly along the road: if it is too low, you feel all the bumps and the controls feel sluggish.  If it is too high, you bounce over the potholes, and easily swing out of control."

Whethor the stressor is extenal - money, work, responsibilities,  or internal - how we feel and react to situations it nearly always ends messily with a breakdown of some sort.

So what to do?

Butler and Hope suggest that you 'find a moment to stop and think,' and then allow yourself some 'breathing space.'

It can be hard to let go of those cycles of stress that we have become used to.  But if we want to live a happier and healthier life then it's a necessity.

If that doesn't persuade you then maybe the following list from the Manage your Mind authors will.  They believe that stress does the following:

• Stress affects your memory and concentration.
• Stress makes planning and decisions difficult.
• Stress makes you tired.
• Stress slows down your speed of recovery, lowering your resistance to illness.
• Stress makes you feel pressured.
• Stress tempts you to avoid difficulties or put off dealing with them, so they're not resolved.
• Stress reduces your efficiency.

The natural tendency, when we're stressed, is to isolate ourselves from family and friends.  We begin to live within our own world - a stress bubble that we have created.  The longer we stay in there the harder it becomes to let go, to release ourselves.

But talking to others, those who have a different, more focused perception on reality to us, can help.

Other ways to let go of stress include breathing and relaxation exercises, meditation, visualization, hypnosis, yoga.  However, initially, these activities can be challenging as our thoughts continue to spin as we attempt to relax.

If that's the case for you then a brisk walk, a run, or an activity that removes you from your own thought pattern is required.  Once you have established a sense of distance from the 'to-do' list or the stressors you're worrying about it's far easier to break the cycle of stress.

In time, you'll begin to wonder what on earth were thinking of.

In the meantime it's important to remember that stress can be debilitating and harmful to your health and enjoyment of life.  

If you're suffering with stress, particularly during the final weeks of December as we approach the seasonal period, then talk to someone: a friend, therapist or your Doctor.  Whatever you do, don't just ignore it or stress will steal your life away from you.

In a word, yes.  If you want to ensure that your business copy is not only engaging to read but also effective in boosting sales and raising your business/product profile, then a good copywriter is worth investing in.  Why?  Because copywriters are experienced, professional writers, skilled in writing engaging copy that does the job it’s supposed to: ultimately selling or promoting you, your business or your product.  They also bring with them the invaluable benefit of being able to write about your business objectively and with a fresh perspective.

 A fresh perspective on your business

Whether we’re trying to write about ourselves or our business it’s never easy.  That’s because we’re too close, too involved.  When we do manage to write something, we often fall into the trap of believing that we have managed to convey all those special details our product has, those extra benefits of what we’re trying to sell and promote.  However, the reality is that quite often we haven’t.  Somehow, because we know those details inside out, those crucial facts and the essential benefits with which we hope to lure an interested reader have not made it on to the page.  Instead they’re still locked inside, circling the periphery of our thoughts.  And that doesn’t help to sell anything.

 Copywriter skills

To be able to write the best copy for you, part of a copywriter’s skill is in asking you the right questions and understanding your business or product.  Because to do their job well, it’s essential they understand how you do business and who with.  Before you can write a sales brochure that appeals to the right audience, a copywriter must know who your target reader/audience/buyer is.  During the process of getting to know your business, a copywriter enjoys the unique privilege of understanding you, your business and its ethos. 

From there they are armed with both the insight of who you are and what you do as a company from working alongside you, and with a clear objective of what you’re selling.  It is this outside perspective that may allow the copywriter to see a new angle, an overlooked benefit of your product or service, with which they are then able to write tantalizing copy to entice readers and persuade them to become buyers.

  Isn’t a copywriter an unnecessary expense?

In this challenging economic climate, with increasing number of businesses being forced to make changes and necessary cutbacks with profit margins diminishing, it’s all too easy to understand why businesses see copywriting as an area in which they could economise.   For businesses that have relied on freelance or agency copywriters in the past, they may now have to delegate the copywriting to an employee.  That employee is probably someone who is good at their job, whatever that may actually be.

Unfortunately, there’s every likelihood that the person who’s desk the copywriting work lands on, whether an ad, press release, web page content, or sales brochure, is not anexperienced or qualified copywriter.  It’s also likely that that employee is now stressed, overwhelmed and out of their depth as they do their best to write what they think is good copy. 

Parts of it may be okay, but it doesn’t do justice to the advertising and marketing budget you’re investing in it.  And so your cost cutting exercise turns out to be a false economy, with a lost opportunity to win potential buyers.

Is okay copy good enough for your business?

Of course not.  You should never settle for anything less than outstanding copy that stands out, that reflects Keyword trends to assist with SEO (Search Engine Optimisation) that encourages the reader to turn the page or click onwards to a sign up or sale.  And that is why a copywriter is worth the investment. 

The purpose of a copywriter is to use the power of words to sell.  They have the ability to not only write well, but understand it is essential to know who you are trying to sell to, who they’re trying to reach with an advert, brochure, web page, article, blog, or social media comment.

  Copywriters ARE worth the investment

As a copywriter, I know that my job is to hook the reader (your potential customer) and then sell them your product and all the benefits that come with it, whilst also answering any objections they may or could have.  Copywriting is complex, and it’s not simply about putting words on the page.  It’s much more than just that. And that’s exactly why, if you want your business to not only succeed but also thrive in the future, a copywriter is one of the best investments you will ever make.

The story had been picked up (as so many celebrity stories are nowadays) by a journalist in response to the actresses tweets on Twitter, in which she’d stated how devastated she and her family were at their recent loss. 

Whilst some might say it must have been a ‘slow news day’ for a story like this to hit the mainstream media, the reality is that in the celebrity obsessed culture we live in we're frequently presented with celebrity pet stories.

Recently, Jennifer Aniston was in the news and sharing in magazine articles about the loss of her dog, Norman.  Now, while I may not want to hear the intricate details of celebrities lives, when it comes to their pets, I do.  Reading the article, I was moved by the intense grief she expressed; of how much her dog had meant to her and what a reliable and supportive comfort he had been to her during his lifetime with her.  Why?  Because I knew and understand how she felt.  She was no longer an unreachable celebrity, but someone who was suffering at the loss of a pet, just like I have.

As I’ve said before anyone who has lost a pet of their own understands the overwhelming emotional pain felt when your loving pet is taken from you.  The sudden and profound emptiness in your life and routine.  When you’re with a fellow pet-lover and hear their story or you share your loss with them, there is immediate empathy.

This week, another pet news story that caught my attention was the moving image of the Labrador, Hawkeye who lay by the casket during the funeral of his owner, one of the Navy Seal’s killed when a Chinook helicopter was shot down in Afghanistan earlier this month.  Family members have since talked about Hawkeye leading the family into the funeral service of his beloved master, before sighing and dropping to the ground in front of the casket. 

A clear sign that our pets are as loyal and as touched by their grief for us, as we are for them. 

When we are sad they often comfort us.  One of few times Fidget has chosen to sit on my lap was the day our guinea pig, Lucy, suffered a stroke and we were forced to have her put down.  Looking back, it was as if he knew and was preparing me for what was to come. 

This past week, after Steve’s Mum was rushed into hospital (now thankfully on her way to a full recovery) Steve has undoubtedly been worried.   We shouldn’t have been surprised then when Fidgey curled up on his lap for a welcome and rare treat of a cuddle after returning from a visit to the hospital.

Of course being Fidgey, the cuddle didn’t last long.  But for Steve, it didn’t matter.  The gesture of Fidgey’s love and support in that moment meant the world to him.

The real & authorized Blog of Fidget the Cat

What a week, what a week it’s been.  I caught a bird and had it snatched off me.  They’ve been out far too much for my liking, and my coat is thickening up again.  A sure sign that autumn is on its way.  The downside to that though is there’ll be less time out in the garden for hunting, but the upside, cosy days beside the radiator.   

In a few weeks it’ll be my fourth birthday, so I’m keeping my paws crossed for a mouse cake or something equally delicious.

Anyway, gotta go as she’s taken up all the word count again.  Maybe next week I’ll get to do the long bit of the blog….. Here’s hoping. 

Later Dudes x

Read the Hawkeye article here.

When it comes to wet food he’s even worse.  A difficulty made all the harder by his delicate stomach. Some of the mainstream brands have high water contents (according to the vet) that upset Fidgey’s digestive system, which unfortunately results in him needing a bath, an event which none of us enjoy!

So over the past couple of years we’ve avoided the water-laden cat food and purchased instead the higher quality, more expensive brands.  Even so, week-to-week Fidget falls in and out of either loving or hating each flavour or brand that we put before him.  One week he can’t get enough jelly styled tins, then he’s off them and gravy-based dishes are in.  When we serve something he doesn’t like he gives us that look as if to say, ‘Really? Is that the best you can do?’

Although he doesn't complain when we treat him with catnips! 

Last December, we stumbled upon a new style of food in our local pet store.  Tins of soufflé for cats.  At the time it was on a 3 for the price of 2 deal, but knowing Fidgey we bought one box, pretty sure that it would be sitting at the back of the cupboard going stale.

To our surprise Fidget loved the soufflé and we were soon back at the pet store buying the 3 for 2 offer.

For months, morning and evening, Fidgey enjoyed his tins of soufflé in differing flavours.  Not once in that time did he falter.  He was a consistent soufflé eater and we were relieved that finally we had a solution to Fidgey’s changing fads with food and could relax a little.

Until the day, a couple of months back, when I couldn’t find any boxes of soufflé on the shelves.  Desperate, I asked at the till, and they found me a rogue box on the end of the aisle display for the brand.

‘That’s a relief,’ I said.  ‘It’s the only food my cat will eat.  When will you be getting more in?’ 

‘We won’t,’ the young boy said. ‘That lines been discontinued.’

‘Discontinued?’ I repeated, before rather embarrassingly saying something along the lines of … ‘But how am I going to explain that to my cat?’

Returning home with only twelve tins of soufflé, I texted Steve with the bad news.  He couldn’t believe it either.  And then we both did what any modern person does when in need… we searched the web.  But no other company seems to make soufflé, and already the prices on Amazon for their remaining stock had increased.  While the company website no longer mentioned the brand.  Online pet stores still had supplies, but how long would they last?  At some point, Fidgey would eat his last tin of soufflé.  But then what would we do, what could we say?

And so the months of soufflé satisfaction ended, and for days Fidgey would sniff at his food disparagingly when we fed him and (no matter how luxurious) walk away.

I recently read an article on the cost of a cat through their lifetime and how you can cutback on the expense.  Food was an area that the writer suggested you could economise.  But that’s never going to work with a cat like Fidgey. 

After months of soufflé we’ve now returned to the daily fads.  Each week we happily buy a selection of high quality tins and live in hope.  Last week, a tin of beef in tomato was enjoyed.  Yesterday it was ignored.  This morning the tin of rabbit was appreciated, but next week, who knows?  

The real & authorized Blog of Fidget the Cat

There’s much I don’t understand about life.  Many questions I’d like to ask… like why do humans, who claim to be ‘cat people’ sleep through the night when they could be up and out playing with us?  Why do they have that television thing always blaring? 

Why do they wash themselves by getting wet all over in the shower?  (I can’t even begin to talk about the bath, far too traumatic…) But mainly I want to know why, if They’re so bothered about getting me the food I love, why don’t they just hunt fresh food for me, instead of bringing an endless supply of mediocre tins to serve me with?

I mean - I’ve helped them out plenty of times by showing them the type of food that gets my stomach growling with anticipation.  But they just don’t seem to get it.  Still, what can I do?  I’m only a cat after all.  A sleepy one at that.  So, I’ll sign off here and leave you pondering my questions…

Till next time, this is Fidget the Cat, saying over and out. x

Amidst the rising stress, I was reminded of the calming nature of a cat and their natural ability to work wonders on our stress levels, proving the documented research we frequently read about, that our pets are good for us.

Because throughout the week’s disarray: the drilling, banging, stacks of furniture, the family confinement in Steve’s office, Fidgey not only took it all in his furry stride but he helped to calm us too.   For him it was all a game, he liked having all the doors and windows open, the chance to have a good nose at what was occurring. 

Until exhausted, he joined us in Steve’s room and with one of his looks told me he’d rather like the chair I was sat working in. Naturally, I moved, and Fidget curled up, managing to sleep through the increasing noise.

The following morning, running late, trying to fix Steve’s lunch, iron him a shirt, prepare breakfast, all while getting ready myself for the return of the builders, Fidgey decided it was play time.  There’s no avoiding the signs.  He hides behind the sofa, waiting to make you jump as you walk by. Then playfully launches at you, attaching himself to your leg....  Until you find a ping-pong ball or one of his other toys with which to play-fight and entertain him.

And how can you refuse?  I might have a to-do list as long as Fidgey’s tail, I might be hot with the heating on in summer, and overwhelmed by the day ahead, but there’s nothing more grounding, nothing more real, nothing that diminishes your building stress like a game of hide and seek or chase-the-ball with your cat.

(The Real & Authorized) Blog of Fidget the Cat

I wasn’t sure I’d feel up to meeting my deadline this week, but I’ve struggled through not wanting to disappoint my readers.

So, we’ve had a busy few days what with the builders in (what fun!) and those sunny days, which always give me the urge to head out for extended hunting expeditions.  Life was good.  Until Saturday morning, when She squashed me in that unmentionable plastic container, put me in the car and drove me to That Place for my annual vaccination.

Why?  Why does she do it? 

Oh I know She mutters ‘to keep you healthy’ but really, is that the best way to do it?  I mean, it not only exhausts me but I come home with a sore throat from all the howling I have to do to express my outrage.. OUTRAGE I say, at being taken to That Place. 

At least it was the nice vet who said I had ‘posh eyes’ last year.  He said on saturday that I had a ‘cute face’ then spoiled the compliment by announcing I had tartar on my back teeth.  And suggesting, to my horror, that She could try brushing my teeth. 

Yeah, good luck with that.

She knew straight away it was never going to happen and asked instead about biscuits to help that kind of thing.  Apparently, some cats like me are prone to it even if we do eat biscuits to help prevent it.  It’s just one of those things.

Anyway, after injecting me with the vaccination and forcing a worming tablet down my throat, we came home.  I was all for heading out to stretch my legs but I didn’t feel so good.  So I stayed home, curled up and slept for hours and hours.  That earned me lots of strokes and loving and she didn’t even get the comb out once; that’s a guilty conscience for taking me to the That Place for you.

Least I’m back on my paws now, and out adventuring again.  Still, that’s all I’ve got time for this week. The farmers out and about on his combine, which means mice scrambling for cover! Anyways, more next time, have a good one guys.

Catch you later,

Of course the hot summer days keep him outdoors too.  He’s off hunting for hours on end, eventually coming home thirsty, tired and even grumpier.  Collapsing against the coolness of the hearth, panting, giving us the look that tells us he needs his water glass to be moved from its usual position on the coffee table, to the floor beside him.  Which of course, as obedient pet owners, we do.

Thankfully, Steve will be home this week as per usual, so we can only hope that in a few days time we’ll return to normal.  That is until next week, when we have to do the unthinkable, and bundle him up in his cat box and take him to the vet’s for his annual check-up.  An afternoon trip that always promises to be a joy, and that will no doubt return us to Fidgey’s bad books. 

But more on that next week…

(The Real & Authorized) Blog of Fidget the Cat

Well, what a week.  I’ve been quite overwhelmed by the response to my first blog.  (Yo, Milly!)  And I’ve found myself, trotting through the nearby fields in search of mice, pondering my social media options and whether I should be on Facebook.  I know She’s against FB.  (Although as we seem to be sharing each other’s secrets here – I can tell you She’s recently set up two FB pages – for business purposes – she said.) Cos who among us hasn’t heard her rant about the moral dangers of displaying your entire life on Facebook? 

Um, excuse me, aren’t we blogging about me and my life here?  Hmmm…  Then of course there’s Twitter – should I perhaps be tweeting too? 

Not wanting to brag, (otherwise my head won’t fit through the cat flap) but it has been suggested to me that I may need my own website rather than just being a tag-on addition to Her’s. Luckily, He Designs Websites, so I might purr nicely in his ear.  Will keep you posted on this one over the coming weeks.

Anyway, enough about all that…

Around here, its been one of those weeks.  Slow on the mouse action and the blackbirds have been making such a racket when I hover near them in the garden, I’ve not had a chance to do much hunting there.  I’ve had to go further a field. 

Anyway, it’s tricky being on the prowl in the garden.  Her office overlooks it, and she watches me when I’m out, banging on the window just when I’m about to pounce.  I recently got caught dangling from the hedge by all four paws, and was promptly carried indoors.  Not good for my street cred.  Not good at all. On the plus side we did play chase afterwards with the ping-pong ball.      

I've been out adventuring a lot at night and during the day too…. Well, if He can go off for hours on end, then so can I.  When I do come home, I admit I've been a bit reserved with Them. Doesn’t hurt to keep Them on their toes.               

It doesn’t seem to stop Her endless brushing of my fur though.  She times it perfectly.  I’m just drifting off, dreaming about a perfect little something to nibble on…. when I’m woken by Her peering over me, tugging a comb through my long and often knotted fur.

It’s high maintenance my fur and doesn’t do well in the rain.  When wet, it goes frizzy and I can’t do a thing with it – Bad Fur Day or what?  He says I look ‘Cute’ – again not good for my rep.  Most days She insists on brushing my fur, taking out the green sticky balls and leaves that get caught as I stalk through nature like a fierce Lion.

Anyway, must dash, I’m way over my word count.  Maybe She’ll let me off this once.  So, keep your comments coming, and I’ll catch you next time.  Once again this is Fidget, saying ‘over and out.’

Later x

On the one hand you miss the loving interaction and purpose to your life that pets can offer.  But, even thinking about sharing your life with another pet feels disloyal.  As though you’re trying to replace your beloved cat, dog, snake, horse or guinea pig.  It can also re-open those emotional wounds you imagined were long since buried, with new waves of grief now threatening to overwhelm you.

That’s how Steve and I felt a few years back. 

We missed having the cosy warmth of a cat curled on our laps.  A furry friend to come home to, to feel loved by.  So, when we moved, we were excited that we were able to have a cat and that a cat flap was already in place.  And we began to talk about adopting a cat.

Only, we couldn’t do it.

We couldn’t commit to offering our home to a cat in need.  It felt wrong, and left us feeling anxious about what would happen if we lost another cat.  How we would cope? So the months rolled by and we still shied away from making a decision.  Anyway, we had Lucy, our guinea pig, and she was enough. Even so, whilst away for the week-end and talking about the cat-adopting dilemma, I had the thought: I wish a cat would appear and make the decision for us. 

Two days later, a fluffy ginger kitten did just that.

That evening we were watching the television when we heard distressed meows.  Looking out of the window, a long-haired ginger kitten with an enormous fluffy tail was sat in the border beneath the window, mournful, frightened eyes staring at me.

And that was that, the decision was made for us.

That night, after establishing the kitten wasn’t local we fed him, and decided we should keep him indoors for the night whilst we tried finding his home.  He stalked around for a while, and had a good sniff, but soon curled up on my lap and slept on his back, something he’s never done since.  It was as if he was trying to convince us that he should stay.  Not that we needed persuading.  The moment we saw his undernourished frame and heard his baby cry we’d fallen in love.

During the next three weeks we went through the usual process of trying to find his owner. We phoned local vets, the Cat’s Protection League and put posters up.  But we never did find his previous owners, something we have always been thankful of.   

Fidget, as he was soon named for being a real fidget, finally became our cat legally and we had him chipped and spayed and settled into the joyous routine of living with an eight month old kitten. 

We soon realised though that this stray cat with a foxes tail was no ordinary cat. 

That was over two years ago and whilst we can’t help panicking when he goes off on one of his 18-hour adventures, we’re more smitten than ever before.  Even if Fidget does rule the house, frowning at us when we talk to loudly, waking us in the night because he wants a cuddle, to play, or be let out of the front door.  Then there’s the challenge of bathing him… That Christmas Eve we spent dismantling our Dyson because Fidget had brought a mouse in, which escaped and hid inside the hoover…. And who can forget Steve and I being crouched either side of the back door whilst we taught him how to use the cat flap, or trying to keep him off the treadmill when I run….

What can I say - there are endless joys and challenges in our life with Fidget, which week by week I will share with you. One thing's for sure, life with Fidget is never dull.

  The Real & Authorized Blog of Fidget the Cat

When I was ‘persuaded’ (who can resist the temptation of catnips?) about this Fidget Blog thing, I was under the impression that I’d be the one writing it.  That’s fair, isn’t it?  After all, it’s my life - my personal, private life that’s going to be documented week in week out.

Anyway, it turns out She intended to be the ‘ghost’ writer of it all along.  Ghost-writer? Err, not too sure I like the sound of that.  Of course, I had to put my creative paw down, which I did, and we’ve come to a compromise.  She’ll write some and so will I. 

Wouldn’t you think though, this being a blog about Fidget the Cat– ME – that I’d get top billing?  Can you believe that the ACTUAL Fidget is hidden away at the bottom of the page where people have to scroll down to read and might miss it?  I mean really… Really?

And what’s more, to really stifle my creative process, I’ve been told to keep to it 200 words maximum.  OMG, I’ve so much to say.  How am I possibly going to manage that?  And She didn’t restrict herself, did she?  Oh no.

I noticed too that she rambled on about the day I arrived and lay on her lap on my back.  She’s never going to forget about it, is she?  FYI - It was a one off.  What can I say – I was exhausted and emotional after being on the road for so long.  A fact that the nice lady at That Place sussed the first time I was taken there for a check up – transported in a washing basket with a tablecloth on the top as a lid and kept in place with one of His ties - need I say more?  Little did I know that day I’d be back at That Place for more indignities…

Anyway, I digress.  So, yes, I’m going to be blogging.  Keeping it real on what actually happens around here… because I see She wasted no time mentioning the mouse-stuck-in-the-Hoover incident.  I’m just surprised there’s no talk of my recent return home with a heavily blood stained bib after a take-away, or the time I ate an elastic band (don’t try it) and was sick…. Or this week’s incident: allegedly, an escapee mouse is stuck behind the kitchen cupboards, which had to be dismantled. Naturally they’re blaming me, but who can be sure….

You see that’s the kind of thing She’ll go on about.  What you’ll get from me is something a bit different.  And who knows, if I play this blogging game Her way for a bit, I might get top billing and an unrestricted word count.  The trick is in letting them think they’re in control.

You see, I’m not stupid… I chose Them didn’t I?  I knew they’d love and spoil me and were trainable to my way of thinking….

Anyways, that’s me done – it's time for a nap.  So this is me, Fidget, saying ‘over and out’ for this week’s blog post.

Later Dudes x

Steve’s been away for the week, so its been an ideal time.  Especially because the new term starts soon, and I know any thoughts of cleaning will become a distant thought over the next twelve weeks.  

If that wasn’t enough of an incentive we have friends coming on Sunday for a BBQ, so all in all, cleaning really should be on the top of my ‘To-Do list’ for the week.   Usually, if nothing else gets me cleaning, the prospect of visitors will.  Because don’t we all panic at the thought of someone else seeing the mess we’ve quite happily been living in for some weeks?  But for someone else to see the mess, goodness me, no.  That’s just not on.

Anyway, as usual, my plan - my cleaning schedule wasn’t just to do a superficial clean.  If it was, I’d possibly have it done it by now.  But no, typically, I’d promised myself that I’d embark on a deep cleanse before autumn and then winter sets in. 

I'd set myself the task of clearing out the dust and grime hidden in the corners: to clean the cooker, the wardrobes, the bathroom cabinet and give a thorough scrub behind the ears to those places that week-by-week get forgotten and overlooked by my tendency to only clean what can be seen.   I’m good at that, creating an appearance of being clean.  A welcome illusion of me as a fastidiously spotless housekeeper, which, quite frankly, I’m not.

Cleaning doesn’t come naturally to me, which sounds ridiculous I know.  Because, really, how hard, is it to clean?  Technically, I can clean.  I have the ability.  The difficulty is in trying to be logical about it, managing to do it in a streamlined, sensible way to utilize time.  And that’s not me.  I’m not an A to B - start to finish sort of a person.  I like to take far too many detours along the way. 

Possibly, because I hate being confined by routine.  When I cut the grass, I hate going up and down in sensible lines.  Instead, I weave about, this way and that.  Circling round.  Crossing back on myself.  Because when forced to stick to a straight line, it feels like I can’t breathe.

Another problem with cleaning, I find, is that it needs to be done regularly.  You can’t just pull yourself together for one slog of a day and get everywhere clean and then that’s that.  Because all too soon, the dust is reforming, the ironing pile growing, watermarks re-appearing around the shower, and on and on….. 

The dust, the dirt, no matter how well you clean it: it all comes back.

And then you’re expected to do it all again.

I have over the years tried to fix this shortfall of mine.  I’ve bought and borrowed from libraries those ‘household’ books, a sort of modern day Mrs Beetons, in the hope that they will teach me the art of regular cleaning in a proper housewifely fashion. 

And for a day or two, I manage it, until I feel stifled and get bored.

It’s the routine of it all I can’t cope with.  The day in, day out, week in, week out schedule, and for what?

But here’s the conflict and why I am constantly battling with being a better housewife, the sort that washes up the dishes immediately that you’ve eaten and never lets a stain get sticky.  Because despite my grumbles, being in a clean house, hopping into a bed at night and snuggling against clean sheets that smell outdoorsy and fresh, well, it’s intoxicating.  It makes you feel good too, like you’re cleaner from the inside out, like your thoughts are pure and more focused.  I know I work better in a clean home, and Steve does too.

Another problem is the constant grind of worrying about ‘having’ to do the cleaning, and then not cleaning when you should be.  Years ago, in desperation, we resorted to having a weekly cleaner, which for a time was fantastic. I really had no idea glass showers could stay that shiny.  Only, we, like so many people do, ended up feeling obligated to clean our own mess before she arrived. 

Okay, so perhaps tidying endless piles of stuff that accumulate out of nowhere is probably a more accurate description.  But we were also a little devious.  We kept our office out of bounds, telling her that we didn’t want it to be disturbed.  In truth, it gave us somewhere to hide the mess whilst she was there.  Of course, once she’d gone, we moved the piles back, restoring them to their usual positions for another week. 

Something I've had to accept in life is that I just didn’t get the clean gene.  I greatly admire people who did, those who can effortlessly maintain a clean and tidy home. 

Honestly, though, I just don’t think it could ever happen to me.  Not now.

Steve likes to say that I’m the messy one.  I, obviously, don’t agree with that.  Although I do admit to having a unique ability for leaving whirlwinds of chaos in my wake on an average day.   And more worryingly, when I’m actually cleaning.  It’s what we now fondly call my ‘Cleaning Process’ and is not dissimilar to my gardening process although a little more advanced. 

So this is how it goes:  I wake.  I think, today’s the day.  I need to get on top of this mess.  I am going to clean.  I am an organized rational person.  I have all day. I can do this. 

I drink a cup of tea, contemplating all that I am going to get done.  I strip the sheets of the bed, and set them off in the washing machine.  As I pass through the kitchen, the tap that is discoloured with lime scale distracts me.  I’ve been meaning to sort it for months. 

Washing-up that has been left, is piled messily on the work surface.  I leave it there, and begin to scrub at the taps, struggling to work around the mess.  As I scrub I’m reminded that the taps in the bathroom are also looking grubby.  I may or may not have finished the kitchen taps.  Still, I head to the bathroom to clean those taps. 

In the bathroom, I put down my cloth and cleaner, noticing a stray hair band.  I’m in a ‘tidy mode’, so I’ll put that straight away.  As I stuff it in my dressing table drawer in the bedroom, I notice an envelope of silver jewellery I’ve been meaning to clean.  I dig out my silver cloth and begin to polish. 

One polished earring later, I remember that I’ve been meaning to clear out our underwear drawers, and tidy up the mess of clothes in our wardrobe.  I should do the clear out I’ve been planning and take the clothes to the charity shop.  Yes, great idea.  I begin to haul clothes from the wardrobe and load them upon the unmade bed.  Sorting them in distinct piles. 

All this work has made me thirsty.  Coffee time.  Kettle on, I loiter in the living room.  What a mess.  I should start tidying in there.  I lift a pile of ironing from the chair and potter through to place it on the bed.  I’ll sort it later.  I sit down to drink my coffee and take longer than I should. 

Finally, I get moving and put music on to motivate me.  I begin to dance.  I love dancing.  I always used to dance around my bedroom as I cleaned it when I was younger.  I’d look through all my old photos as I dusted. 

Why not? 

I begin to flick through some old photos now, reminiscing.  Must get on though.  With a quick squirt of polish I wipe the coffee table down, and then think about an email I was going to send.  In my office, I sit down at my desk and start to sort through a stack of paperwork.  Then I re-stack it, putting it down again, but in a fresh spot. 

Progress.  I should hang the washing out.  It’s been in the machine a few hours now.  I go outside.  Only it’s spitting with rain.  It’ll have to wait.  In the garden, I notice the weeds.  They really bother me.  I need to focus on weeding a little each day.  I begin to tug at weeds, even though I’m in my slippers.  I don’t bother to get my wheelbarrow, so leave a little pile outside the back door when I’ve had enough.  And then feed and water the birds. 

Food, yes, I’m getting peckish too.  I make lunch, leaving a bigger mess strewn around the piles of washing-up.  I’ll get to it later.  I’m busy cleaning right now.  I flitter through the living room. Nothing takes my fancy there.  In my office, I check emails.  Surf the web.  Do a bit of writing.  The afternoon is fading.  I nip to the loo.  Squirt some bathroom cleaner around and leave it for five minutes to work its magic.  I move the pile of post from the hallway to the sideboard in the spare room.  

It’s time to cook our evening meal, I manage to work around the mess in the kitchen.  In the evening we sit down in the living room.  Well, once I’ve moved the piles of sorted bits and pieces out of our chairs, and stack them on the overloaded bed. 

Later on at bedtime, all the piles of bits and pieces I have dumped on the bed during the day, and the carefully sorted clothes are now placed either on the chair in our room or the spare room bed. Swiftly, I throw fresh, un-ironed sheets on the mattress, which I forgot to make earlier. 

Finally, I clamber in to bed exhausted thinking: tomorrow, I really do need to do a spring clean.

In the eighteen months we’ve lived in the bungalow this will be the third room I've inhabited as my place to write and study.  Chances are, it won’t be the last.

Now that my office window overlooks the back garden, I can sit and watch the fir trees blustering in the breeze, enjoying the vista of the adjoining fields that have recently been harvested reflected in the screen of my Mac.  And now’s the time to get down to some serious work and begin to accept the reality, which the process of the room change was supposed to help me forget: that last semester’s grades have arrived, and yet again I’ve failed to accomplish those Firsts I strived so hard to achieve, and believed I deserved.

Because unlike the difficulties I had back in January, I wasn’t struggling for inspiration on my assignments or to simply get words down on the page to meet the word count.  This time round my words and story flowed effortlessly, and I was proud of the work I handed in.

And yet, still, something went wrong.

Of course, after experiencing the sickly ache of disappointment, I immediately wrote off the whole experience.  Telling myself that the work I’d handed in was useless, that I am useless, more worryingly that my ability to judge my work is off key.  That I can’t write.  That I am destined and doomed to a life of 9 to 5 office work in which I, along with my creativity, will slowly shrivel away.

I was angry too, understanding that the possibility of me being able to achieve an overall First in my Degree was becoming slim to none, and that I was failing to reach the target I had set myself.

However, after one or two pep talks from Steve and time to reflect I’ve finally had the necessary epiphany and thankfully get it: I understand my silliness about it all.

You see, three years ago, I would never even have imagined I was even capable of getting this far, of having completed the second year of a Degree.  And yet, somehow, I have lost sight of that, I have lost all perspective.

Back at school, I was an awful student.  I had no concept that education mattered, or that it defined your potential career.  When I wanted to take A levels, my school suggested gently that perhaps it wasn’t for me.  So, I went to a local college who would have me and started A level’s in English Literature and Theatre Studies alongside a Foundation Course in Theatre.

I soon dropped the English Literature and focused on my then passion, theatre, and sort of bumbled along not really achieving very much.

Twenty years later, after a great deal more bumbling through the motions, I found my life had come full circle as I perused the brochure of the same college I attended decades before, desperate to find an evening course I could get involved in.  Mainly because Steve was planning to start a history course and I hate to be left out. 

Although, the thrill and lure of a new course starting in September has an overwhelmingly powerful effect.  Even the prospectus contains the magic.  All those courses dazzling you from the page, offering tremendous promise and possibilities for your life: of the person you could become if you only attend each week.

In the end, I decided on the A level English Literature course.  Partly because it was only a one-year course, which is a comfortable level of commitment for me, and because I thought that by reading the classics it would help me to improve and inspire my own writing.

But with the school’s assessment of me ‘not being bright enough for A levels’ still ringing in my ears, and the embarrassment of a D in Theatre Studies clear evidence of their opinion, I soon panicked that I would not be able to manage the course.  That I had taken on more than I could handle.

A few weeks in to the course though and I was enjoying myself and feeling a benefit in my understanding of other’s work.  I had also begun to realize that not only could I do this, I could potentially do this well.

Maybe, I wasn’t so stupid after all.

And so with this new thought fuelling my motivations, and with a need to lose myself in study to escape the difficulties of the previous year, my desire for a grade A was created.

Soon after I discovered you could study Creative Writing at Degree Level and suddenly I was applying and being accepted within an educational system that I never, ever imagined myself being clever enough to be part of. 

I’ve spent my entire life believing I was academically stupid.  Now a new world was opening up before me and in a subject I was passionate about; it was almost too good to be real.

In my excitement though, I lost sight of my aim, which was to improve my own writing and develop confidence in my work.  Instead, I set myself a target of achieving what appears, for me, to be an elusive First and have ended up struggling over the past two years to live up to the expectations and demands I have placed upon myself.  Weighing myself down with unnecessary pressure whilst managing to strangle my creativity, and deny myself any fun I may have had along the way.

In this yoga DVD I have, the instructor talks about the process of stretching and encouraging our bodies to free themselves from the knots we force them in to with bad posture and lazy lifestyles. This process, she says, will take time but we must remember that, ‘the joy is in the journey.’

And that is what I have forgotten these past few years: that the joy is in the journey.

In being so rigid about achieving a top grade rather than simply focusing on what I can learn and the enjoyment that can be experienced in doing so, I have crushed any sense of joy in my educational journey.

How stupid is that?

However, there is hope.  After the therapeutic process of the room change, I’m able to look back with a calmer, more focused perspective and recognise that it is from the horribly low grades that I’m embarrassed about that I have learned the most.  Those grades forced me to try and combat my issues with grammar and punctuation; they have encouraged me to identify my style of writing more clearly.  They’ve taught me that short stories don’t like to be condensed into a word count, and that it’s best to write them as they want to be written and then edit. 

More importantly, with a couple of harsh assessments of my writing that conflicted dramatically with other’s opinions of the same work, I have learned that I don’t always have to trust what others say.  Listen to them and understand what they have to tell me, yes.  Trust what they are saying at face value and without questioning, no. 

The other thing I finally realised is that a bad grade isn’t saying: ‘You can’t write, you’re going to have to go back to the day job in customer services.’  What it is saying is this: ‘In this particular piece of writing, something is not working and needs fixing.’ 

And there’s a big difference.

During this process as a mature student, I have learned a tremendous amount about myself.  Not least that I seem to have conquered my commitment issues with courses beyond a year and also begun the process of disabling internal beliefs of my ‘stupidity’. 

But there are other things that I perhaps wouldn’t have learned elsewhere if I wasn’t surrounded by teenagers: like being comfortable in who I am as I approach forty; enjoying the maturity of ageing, self-acceptance, that I’m a slightly anti-social person who has learned to feel okay sitting alone in a classroom among clusters of chatting students. 

Unquestionably, being in a classroom environment has, at times, been challenging when the gremlins of school experiences have returned to haunt me.  But I have also felt empowered, feeling able to break through some of those fears that we can cling to unknowingly.

So, after the remaining few weeks of the holidays undoubtedly whizz by, and I begin the final year, my intention is not to focus exclusively on the completion of assignments or become blindsided by the end result of the grade. No, what I plan to do is to open myself up fully to the process of learning and even more daringly, try to enjoy it.

Because I don’t want my final year to simply be a stressful struggle towards the end result of graduation.  Instead, I want to complete my university experience with the emphasis firmly focused on fulfilling my potential as a writer.  So, no more scrabbling to achieve unattainable goals because from now on I intend to embrace every moment, experiencing the joy created by this momentous journey that I am on.