Take Care

Last year my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. What had started as renal cell carcinoma had spread rapidly to a secondary brain tumour and cancer cells were beginning to invade her liver and other organs too. The speed at which she became desperately ill was shocking and she went from being a relatively active and independent woman to someone eventually needing round the clock palliative care. It was in the stages in between that I learned to appreciate just how crucially important the work of carers really is. They are a gentle army, each one a soldier fighting on the frontline but not on some alien shore or in a distant land; it is in the private sphere - the home - where they battle. They come to the sick, the disabled and the elderly to provide the care they need to live in their own homes for as long as possible. The heating pad, support cushion, walking trolley, grab rails and up-easy seats - their arsenal is vast, but these resources alone do not constitute care. It is in the actions: the washing, dressing, preparing food, feeding, cleaning, and, more than this, it's listening, soothing, advising, and reassuring. These soft skills are so unrecognised and devalued. Each carer I got to know possessed that all-important ability to subtly blend in to the family environment - adapting to personal needs which could change day by day and even hour by hour - and yet these professionals go unrecognised much of the time and are awarded low pay and, in society's eyes, even lower status. In my regular trips south to visit my mum and spend what time I could with her, I watched in awe at the extraordinary care she received. Each carer brought their own personality to the role and in the fearful new landscape of terminal illness, in caring for her they were also caring for me and my sisters. So this is a different style of blog post as what follows are the observations and descriptions of just three of these unsung heroes and my way of paying tribute to them and all those who care.

Ewa is all East European efficiency. She restores calm and order to the stress-filled rooms of my mother's flat. Her dark hair is tied back ready for business and her sharp eyes assess the debris from a restless night. She gathers up the plastic no-spill cups with a variety of liquids and dispatches them to the sink in one swift movement. Like some kind of Mary Poppins for the elderly, she is both stern and compassionate at the same time. She reprimands me, gently. In bringing Mum breakfast I have done too much. She must try to do things for herself - the things she still can. Ewa is right of course, by bringing her everything before she even thinks of it I am denying her the small remnants of independence she has left. With no need to think or move, the mind and body surrender more quickly. Ewa keeps to a well-timed routine and her orderly presence instantly settles mum. Though she is brisk and no-nonsense in her approach, her care never feels rushed and everything is completed with meticulous attention. She shares her wisdom and experience and I learn more from her in that short visit than I have gained from  reading the many NHS information leaflets or the euphemistic meetings with consultants. She has witnessed first hand how these last stages play out and by sharing what to expect she dispels the fear and her presence is a reassuring balm in such uncertainty. 

Jason bounds in with all the hopeful optimism and openness of a Golden Retriever. His kind and gentle nature overflows into everything he does. He manages to get mum into the shower and washes her hair, chatting away happily as though she were a client at the salon. This cheerful normalcy manages to eradicate any awkwardness - an essential trait for dealing with a woman from a generation that would otherwise be outraged by the idea of a man, who is not their husband, administering such familiar care! Jason does not do things as perfectly or efficiently as Ewa, in fact I think he inadvertently manages to add to the mess. It does not matter. He asks Mum questions about her life, examines the many family photos and personal trinkets with genuine interest. She answers with surprising clarity, recalling stories from the past about this one and that, showing him the pearl necklace from her wedding to my father. His care extends beyond that of the practical tasks; he reminds me of the importance of sharing memories - the reminders of happier times help to provide the resilience needed for what lies ahead. He admires the painting of my sister, the iconic Australian landscape in the background, and my mother, tired now, half whispers to him, 'She'll be here soon' and there is so much emotion in that statement that I have to excuse myself before they see me cry. 'Soon' carries all the implicit understanding that the ties that bind are about to be cut short. 

Katie arrives late and noisily. She breezes into the room bringing with her the potent energy so characteristic of Gen Z. Mum calls her a hurricane but I know she looks forward to her visit the most. Katie's pretty blue eyes sparkle with mischief and she tells us about her night out including the fact that she is somewhat hungover. She is without a doubt an oversharer and as she goes about her tasks she regales us both with hilarious stories. It is lunchtime and she investigates the frozen ready-meal options that have become Mum's staple. She describes each choice in a funny French accent as though in an upmarket restaurant and pulls faces to show her distaste at Wiltshire Farm Food's offerings. Mum laughs in delight and her face is momentarily transformed; instead of the grey pallor of disease, I see the vivaciousness resurface if only temporarily. As Katie clears away, she sings songs from The Lion King, her favourite musical. Her voice is pure sunshine. She has gone over her time but tells us that as this is her last call of the day she'll stay for a bit. She finds cake and cuts a slice for us all and I feel as if I'm at some strange kind of a party. And we are in a way; celebrating life and all its joys rather than bemoaning the turmoil and the heartache. Mum points out that Katie has used a saucer instead of a plate for her cake. 'What is a saucer?' she asks and Mum shrieks with laughter incredulous that someone Katie's age might not understand its function. It is a good day. Later as I see her safely to bed and kiss her goodnight, Mum is still smiling: 'Do you know,' she says 'Katie has no idea what a saucer is!' She chuckles to herself. 'That girl, she is something,' she says and my heart swells with more gratitude than I can hardly bear. 

 

The 'hole' truth...

Pssst! Want to know a secret? There's something altogether horrifying in my kitchen. I can't see it, but I know it's there, lurking in a drawer or maybe at the back of one of the cupboards. I don't know its location exactly as it remains hidden from my view otherwise even the briefest of glimpses provokes immediate revulsion. What is it? What could possibly cause such an extreme reaction? I'm warning you that the answer is as underwhelming as it is bizarre - it is...the cheese grater! I feel the same way about various other objects and phenomena: sponges, coral, magnified images of pores, crumpets, Aero chocolate, and one of the worst...lotus seed pods (*shudders).  They all hold the power to repulse me though I confess I do still love a toasted crumpet, I just have to close my eyes while eating it!

What do they all have in common? It's the holes, people, dear god - THE HOLES!!!

I am not alone in this holey dread and there's even a name for it - 'trypophobia' - loosely defined as a fear of or aversion to clusters of holes, bumps or patterns. It's not something I even knew was a thing until very recently and it is the only thing I can say I'm grateful to the Kardashians for; Kendall Jenner's admission that she finds closely packed tiny holes altogether terrifying made my irrational loathing seem less bonkers and possibly even 'on trend' (just humour me with this as I am unlikely to have anything else in common with a Kardashian and have never been on trend with anything in my entire life!) Still don't really believe it? Well, you might be surprised by Dr Geoff Cole, a psychologist at the University of Essex, who refers to it as “the most common phobia you have never heard of,” In fact, Cole goes so far as to even claim that “we all have trypophobia, just to different degrees”.

If that's true, then what the heck is this weirdness?

The name trypophobia (trypa from the Greek for punching or drilling holes and phobus for fear or aversion) isn't strictly accurate as for some people it is more than just holes. For the unfortunate few even bumps or patterns, such as the pips on strawberries or polka dots on a fabric, can trigger a physical reaction: shaking, fast heartrate, feeling that your skin is crawling, even nausea are common responses. It does not apply to all holes though - it has to be clusters of holes and, for me, a random pattern induces the most extreme response. I'm fine with honeycomb for example with its hexagonal regularity and the only fear induced by potholes is for the potential damage to my car's suspension! Then there's the word phobia as trypophobia is not officially recognised as such and for many, it's not a fear but more a feeling of revulsion or disgust. Weirdly, often this is mixed with a kind of horrible fascination too - I don't want to look but I have to! Just like watching a scary movie there's a certain invigoration or 'rush' that such a stimulus provokes (maybe there are just as many people who are the opposite - trypophiles if you will).

Image Credit: Chad Knight

It's this feeling of repulsion and danger that provides a clue to its possible origin. Some scientists believe that this aversion to holes is an evolutionary hangover or an unconscious survival instinct. Visually, highly contrasting patterns are often a mark of poisonous organisms and so this is an inherent response - part of the limbic brain's warning system to stay clear. If that sounds improbable to you then do a quick Google image search of a rattlesnake, blue-ringed octopus or a pufferfish and that should convince you! There is a pathological theory linked to the evolutionary one as well; many skin conditions and other diseases produce spots or lesions and so we are primed to pay attention to this kind of pattern; food that is not fit to eat or rotting will also develop holes or round mould spots that are just as alarming as the bad smell. Yuck!

Of course, the whole hole thing could be more a case of nurture rather than nature. Could trypophobics have been socially conditioned to feel afraid of holes? The wholesale sharing of such images on social media along with celebrity 'endorsements', self-diagnosis tests, memes and TikTok videos must have had an impact, but, personally, I think there must be something in the nature argument too. I guess there is no real way of knowing the hole truth. 

  

Waiting for the upswing...

I meant to publish this post to coincide with Mental Health Awareness Day which was earlier this month but then I dithered, edited, and then delayed, dithered some more, made further edits and delayed again. Why the reticence? Well, despite having relatively few readers, to publish a deeply personal post about mental health still feels very much like an exposure - it's putting yourself out there, allowing yourself to show your vulnerability and, potentially, invites judgement, accusations of attention-seeking, or worst of all... disbelief.  

Though there is much helpful information about mental health, and a barrage of hashtags on social media, there is still a stigma attached to it and many misconceptions. I have struggled with bouts of recurring depression for over 20 years and yet if I ever admit this to people they are often surprised and some do not understand at all, diminishing the condition entirely with lines like, 'I get a bit down sometimes too'. Feeling a bit low is not the same as experiencing the overwhelming, persistent and  oppressive, despairing sadness of clinical depression. Recognising this, and talking openly about mental health, not only raises awareness but helps to give a voice to those struggling to express what they are feeling and that's the reason I finally published this post - not for attention or pity but just in case it helps someone else.  

Each person's experience of depression is, of course, different but there are three main ways that depression affects me, and many others. I have summarised these under the headings  - distortion, disengagement and dissociation - all appropriately enough beginning with the negative prefix 'dis':

Firstly, depression affects cognitive processes - it hijacks your ability to reason objectively and distorts your reality. Almost everyone experiences these types of thinking errors at one time or another but with a depressive disorder the thoughts are constant and, for me, include: 

Emotional Reasoning - an entirely subjective viewpoint where you think that if you feel something then it must be true. For example, you might feel that you made a bad job of something - a task at work maybe - and so because you think this, it must be true.  You can't apply any logical reasoning but rely on emotional judgement instead.

Mental Filter - the feeling of gloom and hopelessness dulls everything around you so you can no longer see any light or pick out any colour. Everything darkens and the only details of any situation or event that you can focus on is the negative and you will dwell on this exclusively. Like Alice, you fall down the rabbit hole but instead of seeing Wonderland you just see the hole.

Mind-Reading -  where you make negative assumptions and conclusions about other people's actions without any real evidence to support them. For example, if a friend is busy and can't make a get together then you might wrongly conclude that they don't want to see you at all; someone delays answering your text, or gives an unusually brief response - they must be angry or upset with you. You don't question your mind reading ability or bother to check out your assumptions.

Depression creates disengagement from friends and family and from any previous source of joy and inspiration. You cannot fully engage socially with people you would normally enjoy spending time with. You feel too emotionally distant and numb to initiate a conversation and too physically exhausted by the mental process of appearing 'normal' to engage in any activities or hobbies.  A close friend observed that she knew I was depressed when I said that I hadn't been able to read; this is coming from a voracious reader who generally has at least two books on the go at a time. If I picked up a book then I would feel like a machine reading - I read fluently but the words meant nothing. There's a disengagement from day-to-day living too - you cannot find the motivation to meet needs with action. You need to get up, you need to take a shower, you need to work, but you stay buried alive under the duvet, reach for the dry shampoo and don't bother with the makeup, then sit almost catatonically at your desk unable to engage your 'work persona', feeling instead like an useless imposter.

Dissociation is a term that encompasses a number of conditions. For me, dissociation is the most distressing part of depression. It is the unsettling experience of depersonalisation and derealisation. You become so disconnected that you feel that you are literally not yourself. Trying to manage depression for any length of time means having to do things on autopilot and this creates a sense that you are looking at yourself from a distance - an observer in your own life. Not feeling connected to your internal dialogue makes your thoughts seem as though they come out of nowhere and sometimes they become bizarre, random and intrusive. Everything around you feels artificial. Bad dreams seep into waking life and flood your perception, meaning that you have to actively question what is real and what is not. 

I think, ironically, that I've managed to write a thoroughly depressing post when that wasn't my intention! One thing that I have learned about these bouts of depression is that there is an upswing - you just have to be patient. But it's not something you can manage alone. Your instinct is to shut down and retreat into yourself but you need to be brave enough to reach out to those around you for help and support to give you that necessary push. 

Nostalgia

How to define 'nostalgia'? Looking back at the past through a warm golden filter? Sentimental longing? Wistful affection for the past? The word's etymology is interesting - from the Greek nostos meaning 'return home' and algos meaning 'pain' - and it is exactly that bittersweet nature of nostalgia that I've been dwelling on recently. Because nostalgia is much much more than just remembering, it is a feeling. We transport ourselves back to a time in order to feel pleasurable emotions and sensations again but, in doing so, we are also reminded that we can never have this again in the present. 

Why have I been musing on nostalgia? Well, there's nothing like a pandemic, with its threat and uncertainly, to make us collectively crave the familiar comforts of the past and, with the introspective nature of lockdown, it is not surprising that nostalgia has become a current preoccupation. Almost everyone I know has revisited their own personal archives over the last year whether sorting through the wardrobe and remembering the last time you wore something, clearing out the loft of sentimental possessions or going through old photographs and reminiscing. I managed to find a random collection of photos from decades ago when I was a similar age to my adult daughters now. One showed me getting ready to go out, hair in heated rollers (remember those!) with a good dollop of make-up. Although I'd say I'm more introvert than extrovert, that image brought back all the carefree excitement and abandonment of a good night out. How thrilling it was to mingle on a crowded dancefloor, socially undistanced, get swept up in the music at a live gig or laugh so much with friends that you lost the ability to stand unaided! Those photos made me smile but also reminded me, sadly, that I am in my fifties and not my twenties - how quickly time passes! And it's not that I would want to go to a nightclub necessarily when restrictions lift or experience sensory overload at a music venue or, indeed, suffer a vodka induced hangover at 54, but the seclusion and social isolation that lockdown brings does make me wistful for the happy clamour and closeness of other people. 

In Covid confinement, nostalgia also manifested itself as a return to old fashioned analogue hobbies. I haven't been the slightest bit tempted by baking, knitting or gardening (I seem only able to bake scones, I'm more of a knotter than a knitter and gardening to me is just housework outside) but I have re-read old favourites and completed one ridiculously difficult jigsaw puzzle. Nostalgia is not just limited to pastimes either, it's affected our media consumption too. TV habits changed with many re-watching events such as the opening ceremony of the 2012 London Olympics or starting on old box sets once more. I started Homeland again but once I got to Season 5 I couldn't cope any longer with the sheer bonkers plot lines! Spotify reported a 54% increase in listeners creating nostalgia-themed playlists in April 2020 alone and I'm guilty as charged having created more than one of these - surprising myself that I still know all the words to Are 'Friends' Electric...'It's cold outside...' 

So all this retrospection must be a coping mechanism of some kind and in this sense it is a positive one as it reinforces a sense of continuity when everything around us feels fragile and disrupted. Feeling insecure and anxious about the present sends us scurrying back to the past; nostalgia - the security blanket of adulthood. But there is also a negative aspect to nostalgia, one that doesn't help promote good mental health. Going back to its etymology, nostalgia can evoke 'pain' as well as comfort simply because it induces longing. In the words of Shakespeare,  'there's the rub',  for when indulged in in isolation, nostalgia becomes too inextricably tied up with loss and its equally miserable bedfellow - regret. We are painfully reminded of what, and who, we have lost and the more we long for them. If we cocoon ourselves in the past for too long then we distance ourselves from appreciating what and who we have now. Nostalgia is a poor proxy for happiness in the present. 

Lessons in the Time of Corona

So, back in lockdown again and this time I've been able to reflect more on the weird experience that is remote teaching. First time around there was no time to plan; back last March, with about a day's notice, it was all I could do to hastily throw whatever resources I could into a shopping bag and decant the classroom plants to the car, saving them from certain arid death. It was all a bit like a classroom trolley dash and once home I discovered that I had few of the things I really needed for virtual teaching survival and, also, a horrible realisation that I had left a half-eaten banana to ferment in my desk drawer. 

This time we were prepared (well, as much as we could be) - no matter how much the government would repeat the optimistic mantra of schools being 'Covid-secure' it was easy to see from inside education that, being in contact with potentially hundreds of households a day, schools would surely provide a conduit to transmission despite their best efforts otherwise. I'm very fortunate in that the school I work for provided every teacher with a more than decent laptop and I have room at home to set up my home classroom. We use MS Teams and Firefly to deliver live teaching and collaborate and I'm defnitely nearer to the top of that steep learning curve in learning how to use both than I was; as for the the myriad of add-ons, apps, tools etc. I'd say I'm still sliding about in the pit at the bottom!

What lessons have I learned then about, well, 'lessons' in the time of Corona? Here are four of my observations about online learning and teaching so far:

1. Teaching the void

(Image credit: New|York Times)

As a specialist teacher, I teach a variety of age groups. The younger pupils are all for the novelty of appearing on camera, often with their pets or younger siblings, whereas older pupils, particularly early teens, are for the most part more reluctant. This results in lessons where you feel you are very much teaching to the void - a silent, blank virtual space with live teenagers replaced by initials or bitmojis and avatars. This is very disconcerting. A good teacher works on 'reading the room', working to keep engagement high - how do you engage in a vacuum? 

It's not difficult to understand the reticence; I think anyone can remember how painfully important peer acceptance is at this age and so letting your entire class into your home and to be staring at each other face-to-face on screen for extended periods is uncomfortable - like sustained eye-contact. I've found some compromise so far to be to encourage interaction at the start with an unmuted video check in so I can at least ascertain who's there - a game, quiz, emoji rating for objectives - all go a long way to break the ice. I've also taken my cue from them - teens prefer the Chat bar on Teams and even the most wallflower student will use the 'raise hand' function. Zoom are, apparently, introducing the option of students only appearing on video to the teacher/presenter - a welcome development indeed. Of course, there will always be the exhibitionists, and future social influencers, who love to appear on screen and it's not gone unnoticed when there is a budding flirtation between teens going on either (cue endless hair-flicking) - just imagine how distracting it would have been to have your high school crush, in their bedroom, on your screen...for hours!

2. I'll show you mine, if you show me yours

The art of seamless screen-sharing during remote teaching is essential as well as learning how to incorporate various other apps and links. It should be simple, but to start with I found this difficult to get right, sometimes with amusing (possibly compromising) results such as sharing my Amazon basket with my class rather than the PowerPoint! At least I am not alone, as a quick poll from teacher friends and social media confirms this is a common issue as we grapple with screen multi-tasking: teachers being embarrassed by majorly cluttered desktops, private emails, cringe-worthy notifications coming up and, for one poor soul, the big reveal of their Harry Styles obsession with their screen background. And, for heaven's sake, remember to stop screen-sharing when you're done!

3. Video killed the teaching star

Teachers are often surprisingly introverted - I have colleagues who come into their own commanding a classroom full of rowdy pupils yet shudder at the thought of ringing a parent and feel physically sick giving a presentation to colleagues. I think this is even more the case in Higher Education where the sudden change to broadcaster and online presenter has been stratospherically out of the comfort zone. Almost overnight, teachers and lecturers have had to become both online course designers, video producer, editing specialist and live streaming star. Before all of this, the terms 'synchronous' and 'asynchronous' meant nothing to me whereas now I am 'in the mix' and able to at least consider how these might fit online pedagogy even if I haven't fully mastered breakout rooms, chat bars, online polls and collaborative spaces such as MURAL and Padlet! Personally, I'm of the opinion that less is more - too much technology and the lesson becomes an overwhelming multi-sensory circus. I've not forgotten the first live teaching experience where I played it safe and just focused on having a check-in with pupils and spending time talking over what they were finding difficult; one pupil at the end exclaimed genuinely, 'Oh Miss, it's just so nice to see you!' 

(Image credit: https://walcottswalk.files.wordpress.com)

4. Private versus public

Perhaps the biggest change with remote learning is the way the gap between public and private worlds has narrowed. Pupils perceive their teachers within the confines of the classroom; they are surprised to see you outside of that realm and realise that you don't pack yourself away in the classroom store cupboard at the end of the day. Bringing the classroom into your home, and for pupils to bring you vitually into theirs, obviously needs careful safeguarding. Teens do so much of their socialising online that, for many, virtual learning seems like an extension of this. It's easy for them to forget protocol and need direction about what is and isn't appropriate - this has mean a whole host of sentences I never thought I'd hear myself say in the context of teaching: 'Please wear actual clothes not pyjamas'; 'I can only see your feet, please can you sit the right way up'; 'Can you mute your microphone - the slurping of noodles is very distracting' - being just some. In now crowded lockdown homes, often with two parents trying to work and a whole host of other children, trying to find a quiet space to concentrate is as difficult for pupils as it is for their teachers and I feel nothing but admiration for the educators with young children. Improvisation is the name of the game and I've seen colleagues with ironing board desks set up in the hallway, or using a corner of the kitchen with the side of the fridge making an impromptu whiteboard and children sat cross-legged on the floor of a cupboard or round the table on their phone with the whole extended family, even grandma, on theirs.

That said, for all the distractions and interruptions that home learning brings, there has been something heart-warming too in rediscovering just what a privilege teaching is, and, that successful learning and teaching, however it might be delivered, is very much reliant on the quality of the relationship between teacher and learner. Pupils having insight into more than your teaching persona - hobbies, pets, interests and family - has not been the infringement on privacy that I thought it might be but instead a way to build common ground and increase the trust needed for the learner to tell you what's missing from their understanding. Finding out your teacher is a secret gamer, hence the headset, or that they support the same football team does much to increase that bond. In the same way, having parents be around, or even join in lessons does not seem like an observation or judgement but instead an opportunity to work in partnership to support learning. There is so much humour in the situation we find ourselves in too - my husband said just the other day that what surprised him the most about remote teaching was the amount of shared laughter that dominates the majority of lessons in lockdown. In the middle of such an uncertain and anxious time for our young people, school continues to be the stablising influence, all that has changed is its physical location. 

Of tents and smocks

The summer weather (defined as anything above 12 degrees in Scotland) brings with it a clothing dilemma for curvier gals. For once you are a size 14 or more it seems you are beyond fashion too. You pass into the alternate universe of plus-sized fashion or 'fatshion' as I tend to call it.  How I hate the term 'plus-sized'; if you're going to have a separate range of clothes then at least give that range a more body positive name; after all, you would never expect to see 'petite' marketed as 'short'. Some high street brands such as ASOS have introduced terms such as 'Curve' which is definitely better but while it has more positive connotations, it is still a label and still a separate category. Why should anyone have to shop in the segregated section at the back of the shop or shop online only. There should not be limited options and an expectation that less than perfect bodies should be hidden under ugly clothes. All curvier women really really want, is the same clothes selection as everyone else just in their size. 

With fashion, the underlying judgement is that you have to fit the standard to earn the right to buy nice clothes. Ugly clothes are a kind of punishment for not being the beauty ideal and that is slim. But, I hear you say, there's so much more about 'body positive' these days and it's true that I see more variety of models in advertsising that are not model size 8. That's great, and I hope more than a trend, but when you actually look at the clothes on offer nothing has really changed. There's a huge (excuse the unintended pun) market out there for women who want to be able to buy the same clothes as their slimmer friends and not a poor quality tent dress or a frumpy smock. If you've never had to look through the fatshion range then you probably think that there's the same choice as in the standard section. There's not. Rather than go with the fashion, plus-size sticks with the same clichés regardless as to what's in vogue and will charge you more to boot. It's the 'same old, same old' totally limited disarray of unimaginative and often downright hideous clothes. If you don't believe me then let me take you on a guided tour. I've divided this into four 'fategories' with some pictures of actual current offerings from the cheaper high street and online brands.

John Lewis

1. Back to Black
It might be summer but if you filter plus-sized fashion by colour then black is the most common - they might add some scratchy lace or old lady polka dots but essentially black is the colour of choice. Yes, it's often slimming but that's because it disguises any kind of contour; there is a point where it is no longer flattering but instead creates a shapeless black block with no definition at all. What's more, you will absorb all sunlight until you melt into a black puddle. I call this shapeless number - the slug

2. Checks, Stripes and Abstract
At the opposite end of the fat spectrum to black are the truly horrible patterned numbers. You will never see stripes so ghastly or patterns so grotesque as in the plus-sized section. The thinking seems to be 'more is more' rather than something subtle. If you're bigger than average then you obviously need bigger stripes, enormous geometric shapes or cabbage sized flowers.

Yours Clothing

New Look

Evans

Simply Be

3. Random Additions
For some reason plus-size also seems to mean plus writing too. You might find something acceptable in style and shape but you can bet if it's plus- sized then it will have the unwelcome addition of a random word or cliched expression - 'Be Happy', 'Paris', 'Diva'... Alternately the addition will be some kind of generally childish applique. Why as a grown woman in my 50s would I want a cute rabbit on the front of my t-shirt or hearts and cherries? It's as though the underlying message or expectation is that curvy equals cutesy chuckles and fun, fun, fun rather than anything mature, seductive or business-like.

Shein

Simply Be

4. Unpleasant Peasant
Never has bohemia been so ugly. Frills, florals, tassels, frumpy sleeves and cheesecloth. Apart from looking like Gypsy 'Roly' Rose, materials that inflate rather than drape leave you in real danger, on a windy day, of sailing across the lawn.






It is possible to design something attractive and stylish in a larger size but the key word here is 'design' and that's the missing element. Where are the designers that understand all shapes and sizes? I challenge you to provide a much needed service and banish fatshion for good. Bring on the biggerlicious!

Close Encounters of the Celebrity Kind

I once gave directions to Van Morrison; on another occasion I was nearly run over by Mariella Frostrup, and, one time, while waiting to pick up pizza, I awkwardly complimented Paul Weller on his shoes.These are just a few of the random celebrity encounters I have had over the last 35 years but they are, for various reasons, some of the most memorable.

There is nothing special about me, I lack the tenacity to be a stalker and I am not in a job where such meetings are inevitable. The truth is more mundane and the result only of coincidence of place and time. Pretty much everyone I know has had at least one such encounter and a quick trawl of  Twitter reveals it to be awash with tales of such incidents that occasionally turn out to be inspiring, but often disappointing.

An 'encounter' is defined in the dictionary as 'an unexpected meeting' and it is this that makes the experience very different from the contrived. Joining the crowds on the pavement at some premiere, going to a YouTube meet-up or handing over a book for signing at your local Waterstones is not quite the same. Casual encounters with A-listers surprise us as they suggest that these earthly gods might, in fact, be just like us - they get lost, drive badly and eat pizza. Glimpsing them unguarded or without the usual entourage reveals them as just people.

Back when I was in my twenties (how ancient that makes me sound) there were no mobile phones to record such encounters and no social platforms to share the proof. Perhaps that meant that celebrities, minor and major, felt less vulnerable and more able to do 'normal' things. Certainly, I can't imagine that anyone remotely famous must be able to eat in a restaurant nowadays without being filmed or being constantly interrupted with requests for a 'selfie'. Much of the reason for this is that the modern celebrity presents themselves in perfect form: the posts on Instagram have been selectively curated and edited, paparazzi carefully prepped on where and when to get the best shot. It is not surprising that we do not recognise the famous as one of us and, perhaps, excuseable that we are either disappointed or delighted when they slip up, depending on how much of a fan we are.

In a media lecture I remember first learning about this so called 'halo effect' - the psychological phenomenon where if someone has a particular talent or is highly rated in one area - attractiveness for example - then we assume that they must be equally superior in all other areas. Of course, promotion and endorsement plays on this skewed perception, fooling us into thinking that if they wear a particular logo or use a certain brand of make-up that some of that 'celebrity magic' will somehow rub off on us; sometimes, in the young, this is to a dangerous degree. A chance meeting, if only brief, gives us a chance to view the famous from a different perspective - this time as a fellow human being with the same foibles and idiosyncrasies.

To me, Van Morrison is an icon - the finest songwriter there is - and so when I met him at the doorway to my local cafe, when I lived in London, and realised who I was giving directions to, my heart thumped right out of my chest, and, not being very good at directions anyway, I then became hopelessly tongue-tied. What I wanted to do was tell him how much I admired him or, cleverly, quote an appropriate lyric; what I actually did is mumble and stutter hopelessly inaccurate directions. It was only when I staggered breathlessly into the cafe and spoke to the friendly Iranian owner that I discovered that Morrison was a frequent visitor; the owner even showed me where he liked to sit and revealed that he was quite partial to a sausage roll! I was stunned. I had been to that little cafe so many times so it was quite likely that I had, unknowlingly, sat on the next table to him. "I treat him just like any other customer," the owner said proudly and I agreed, somewhat disbelievingly, that he was really just like us. I went back, more often than usual, forever hopeful that I'd run into 'Van the Man' again but he never returned. I think my stunned reaction scared him off, either that or he's still wandering around west London...