You are what you wear.

There are some clothes that need to come with diagrams that show how they should be worn, and Entry and Exit signs.
Trust me on this one.
Today I tried on a dress in Marks and Spencer's that had been designed by Zandra Rhodes.
Ever since I was a teen, I have LOVED Zandra Rhodes clothes.
The colours.The fabrics.The pink hair.The zaniness.The total impracticality of it.
God knows I know about as much about fashion as your average Christian Brother Headmaster knows about celibacy.
But in terms of sheer fantasy, Rhodes has my number.
For the record, I WEAR mostly black, in fabrics that suit my size and workplace.
But I BUY the occasional piece of whimsy in fabrics of layered rayon silkiness and caress their hot pink and turquoise petals in the privacy of my own Bedroom.
It's a girl thing.
Today's Object of Desire was a peach and orange creation with sleeves that looked like the wings of CGI butterfly.
It was beautiful. It was in my size. It was marked down by 70%.
I was in love.
I deftly- but reverently- grabbed it from the rack before anyone else saw it and bolted to the changing room.
And here, my friends, is where it all went terribly awry.
The dress itself weighed less than a postcard.
All delicacy and flutter, it slipped across my fingers like a well lubed jelly bean.
It had an inner slip, and an outer shell, like the casing of an expensive salami.....and lets just leave the sausage references at that shall we?
Dressing rooms are dignity black holes at the best of times- as every woman knows- but M & S do an OK job of them, so space, lighting and mirror position were not at fault here.
It was the dress.
In terms of possible confusing design detours , Rhodes had outdone herself.
That the slip was firmly attached to the shoulders of the outer dress was issue enough, but the fact that the arm holes were the same size as the neckline, all three of which were covered in approximately 500,000 gossamer orange and black leaves, and that there was a wrap around belt that crossed the body at three places and that the dress looked EXACTLY the same inside out and back to front was a recipe for potential dress trying disaster.
The first attempt saw me standing in front of the mirror with the slip halfway up my neck, and my head coming out from the right sleeve.
It took me 5 minutes to get out of that combo.
Next effort was better, until I saw that I had it on back to front, and had managed to turn the slip inside out. The belt now did up at the back, and the zip was useless as it was on my left hand side, just out of reach.
I didn't panic.
I have learned not to panic when trying on expensive, delicate things.
Nothing alerts a shop girl faster than the sound of ripping material and the words " Oh Fuck".
I quietly worked back along the path I had travelled and reversed all the steps.
I was naked again, but I wasn't crying, so that was good.
I looked down at this expression of femininity that was slowly becoming my nemesis and thought "There is a perfectly easy way to wear this dress, you just have to see it".
(That's right Wendy, when you can no longer dress yourself, try using your 'inner eye'....Jesus wept,won't my dotage be a fun time?)
A third, and forth- yes really- attempt fared no better. I just couldn't get the slip and the dress to match in terms of them both pointing in the same direction, and both being the right way out.
I was doing something wrong, I refused to believe a designer would create an unwearable dress and sell it to a chain store, so I knew it was me.
I had become dress dyslexic.
On a fifth and final try I cracked it.
I managed to get everything where it was supposed to be, and I stood in front of the mirror triumphant.
It looked lovely. I WAS the fairy princess.
I was also in a full blown sweat, and I had a headache that had crept from the nape of my spine and encircled my head.
The only way I would ever attempt to put on that dress again was if I had a support staff of 14 and a therapist on speed dial.
The dress was in one piece ( per se) but I was in tatters.
So back to the rack it went.
I am sorry Zandra. I still love you, but the older I get, the less time I have to negotiate exit strategies with inanimate objects.
Give me underwear with tags in the back, and necklines that show me where my head goes. That way if I am seen walking down the street with my clothes on inside out, at least people will know it is an active choice, and not the sign of a losing battle.

Joy to the Jingle

It's Christmas.
This may have passed you by if
a) you live a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away or
b) if you are a cat. I don't think cats know about Christmas. Not really.
I would think even if you live under the sea, or in a cave, you know it's Christmas.
I think Osama Bin Laden knows it's Christmas, and last I heard he lives in a cave so it follows.
I am not a god person......that is I don't have a God in my life. Of course I pray when I really, really want something, but that's just hypocrisy and wishful thinking.
Plus I like to play the odds.
But I do very much like Christmas Carols. Real ones. Ones that talk about baby Jesus, and stars from the east, and good kings that look after poor people, and have words like Dominum and Sanctum and feature the sounds of per-adolescent boys hitting the High C.
In short, I like Christmas hymns.
As a matter of fact, I like hymns period.
I was bought up in a religious household, which could go part of the way to explaining why I no longer believe in God, and also why I still like God music.
My mother was of the evangelical persuasion, lots of talking in tongues and large arm movements. The theatrical element of my religious upbringing was absolutely integral to forming the person I am now. Every part of my chosen profession and personality type can be traced directly back to an event when I was about 8.
Standing on a pew so that I could see properly, I was taken to see a 'De-possession'- quite the most spectacular show I had ever witnessed.
I have a very strong memory of looking around the church, looking at the faces of the adults around me , all of whom had worked themselves into a sweaty frenzy of religious fervor.
At the centre of this cacophony was the 'possessed'- a woman of about 30, who was writhing on the floor swearing and spitting vitriol.
The scene fascinated me.
Of course I knew- even at that age- that this was nothing more than mass hysteria, but the thought that popped into my head at the time was " How can I get that kind of attention?"
I have been aiming to capture and hold an audience with as much focus ever since.
But back to the hymns.
Today I went in search of REAL Christmas carols.
Not " Santa come and kiss mummy and feed the reindeer's jolly candy canes while it snows marshmallow" type carols.
I wanted ancient, haunting, uplifting, spine tingling, knee weakening God Songs.
Ones that make me feel guilty about not believing anymore, and that remind me that there is a greater good.
Hymns that are sung in cathedrals that have acoustics designed to break even a heathens heart.
So there I stood in HMV, looking at over 100 CD's to choose from and this is what I discovered.
Every two bit twat who has entered a recording studio has a Christmas album. Glen Campbell has Christmas Album. The CHIPMUNKS have a Christmas Album. So do Cats ( actual living cats) and Dogs ( that woof the songs). Punk bands record Christmas Carols (there is a lot of swearing, kind of " Fuck of and have a merry fucking time, you captitalist sellout fucks" which alludes to the hypocisy bit mentioned earlier).
There is an Album of Jingle Bells- the song Jingle bells.18 tracks of THE SAME SONG recorded, presumably, 18 different ways.
Have you checked out the lyrics of that particular track lately? They are not exactly open to much 'interpretation'. Essentially it's about the fun to be had on a sleigh with bells.
That particular Album, I assume, is for the stoners.
It took me ages to find the CD I wanted.
Recorded by the Choir of the Kings College, Cambridge, it includes all the necessary Mendelssohn Classics and male Sopranos that make up a 'real' Christmas play list.
None of this " All I want for Christmas is teeth, you and snow for starving Africans" malarkey.
I always wondered about that, by the way.
Remember Band-Aid?
There is a lyric that says " Without snow outside, do they know it's Christmas time at all?"
I grew up in Australia.
Never saw a bloody flake of snow in December in 11 years.
Nor a Reindeer for that matter.
Not to worry though, with the advent of recorded sound and the help of preachers who spent the end of the year harassing choirboys to sing- as opposed to just harassing choirboys- I was always alerted to the upcoming festive season.
So, for now, Gloria in Excelsis Deo, and have a safe and Merry Christmas.

WANTED Loose Cannon- Apply within.

What does your business card say?
This question comes from a place in the heart, because lately it has come to my attention that describing ones self in a one or two word sound bite can be difficult, if not downright dangerous.
As it happens, I am in need of a new business card, a detail has changed, so in order to make life easier I am looking for a Job Title.
So far I have 'Talker'.
Wendy Herbert
Talker
I have a very small business. It is essentially me, and 8 or 10 times a year I employ 9 or so people for special projects that can last for as little as a day and up to a few weeks for well paid, interesting and fun work.
I like my job. It's diverse, and it pays my rent.I am never bored, I get to meet a wide range of people, I always learn new things, and I have a certain amount of autonomy.
I have ambition, hell yes, and time frames, research guides and lists to enable the realization of my dreams.
Everything I currently do has a place in my future plans. I see all of it as essential for reaching my goals.
But when people ask me what I do.......well.....that's where it gets tricky.
Because what they are actually asking is " Can you explain to me in 5 seconds or less how I can categorize you" and the answer is " No, because when it comes to that pigeon holing part, I actually have no fucking idea how I fit in".
Some days, like today, you will find me dressed in a Santa jacket MCing (and hopefully entertaining) 600 members of a private club as they make their way through a three hour Christmas Orgy of presents, prizes, turkey, inflatable walking candy canes and magicians.
Tomorrow, however, I will sit in the home of a quiet, but brilliant, business woman and double check her power point presentation with her, as she struggles to remember not to turn her back to her CEO and to keep the wobbles out of her voice and the butterflies out of her stomach.
Some mornings you will find me exploring the hilarity of a well placed hand gesture in an AA Milne poem with a bunch of Cantonese speaking 8 year olds, but in the afternoon of the same day, I may be in a board room of a bank role playing Diversification and Conflict Resolution issues with men who earn more in a month than some schools have as their budget for a year.
You see the problem.
The only thing I am truly qualified for - apart from motherhood- is working in the Radio industry.....that's my qualification.......from AFTRS......and I did that ( radio) for a good long time.
But I don't do that anymore- although I still talk A LOT with my work- but I have to say, I earn 4 times what I did in radio in HK....
Wendy Herbert
Better Paid Talker
I know someone, who knows someone, who describes her job title as a receptionist in a hair salon as 'Traffic Manager' because she had mark off customers names and direct people to the chairs when they came in for a trim.
Perhaps the title should be given an extra word.
Human Traffic Manager.
But Human Trafficker just doesn't have the same.......je nes se quois.
Or something.
I don't know what.
Wendy Herbert
Fill in the blank
That seems about right.
I may just end up stealing the idea of a friend of mine, a dear little man with with a mind like jelly and an ego as unique as his smile.
When I asked him once what his card said he boldly announced " I don't carry a card. If the don't know who I am, they can just fuck off ".
And rightly so.

What's eating you?

Dreams are funny things.
Over the years I have read the odd book or two (some of them VERY odd) about 'unlocking the meanings ' of dreams.
It's not that I am all hocus-pocus about stuff.
I am one of those mortals who tends to attribute extraordinary occurrence to ordinary explanation.
It's just that dreams often catch me unawares, and I am a control person.
Like last night.
Sleeping soundly in a warm and comfortable bed, my mind took a wander to a room that was clearly in a home that suddenly- and rather mysteriously- belonged to me.
This room had a wall of fish tanks. Not one large fish tank, mind you, but a series of fish tanks, all stacked one on top of the other apartment style.
Some were large and deep, with coral displays and rocks and caves, and some were small and shallow with only sand in the bottom.
The entire structure, which by my reckoning was at least 20 feet tall, and 5 feet wide, was being supported by wooden brackets whose struts extended only12 inches from their anchor point and yet the tanks, which could all be accessed at the top, remained in place.
At one point in the dream I turned to a girl, who at the time seemed very familiar but now whose face and name have dissolved, and said " I don't know how long this will last with such little support, I am waiting for it to fall, and when it does nothing will save it"
Mmmmmmmmm.
Well yes.
But moving on.
From there the dream moved to a situation that was so distinctly remarkable and disturbing that it woke me up a mere 5 hours after my head originally hit the pillow, and has me blogging as a kind of bloodletting.
Another woman, all I can tell you was she was Chinese, turned to me and said " We need to rescue two fish from being eaten so we are bringing them here. I think they will die in these tanks, but they were going to die anyway, so a few hours happiness at the end is better than nothing"
Hmmmmmmmm.
Quite.
She then very carefully placed a small guppy like fish into a small tank with a sandy bottom.
It was orange with a fan like tail, and seemed happy enough.
The second animal was not.
In the arms of a man was a 4 foot shark that was struggling for its life.
My eyes turned immediately to the largest tank and I remember thinking " it will eat the other fish" but to my surprise it was placed it in a small and shallow tank. The poor animal struggled to get it's head underwater, and my distressed self turned to the woman who casually announced, "I will strangle it later to put it out of it's misery"
Instantly a larger shark appeared alongside our doomed fish friend and started eating it alive.
There was nowhere for it to go in this small and shallow tank and I watched it die a horrendous death. It's attacker was a deep sea Frilled shark.
I know this because I saw its red gills and recognised its face from the video on you-tube that documents the agonising death of this prehistoric marvel when it was brought to the surface by Japanese fishermen and had it's insides expand and explode in the pressure less shallow water.
That video has always haunted me.
I hate cruelty.
Now, if you have stayed with me thus far, you will have noted that a larger fish existed in a smaller tank that could not support the life of one shark, let alone two.
But this was a dream. And dreams are designed to break the laws of metaphysics at the best of times, it's doubtful these are the best of times, especially for that shark.
So what does it mean?
And who is the shark- the dead one- and for that matter who is the Frilled one?
And why was it placed in a situation where it clearly had no opportunity to protect itself, or fight back, or survive?
And is it better to have a few hours happiness just at the end?
Is it enough?
I think not, I aim for happiness everyday, and I usually find it.
But clearly something is going on.
My subconscious self is trying to tell my conscious self something.
Or maybe it was the chocolate and coconut cookies I had just before bed, and my dream was merely the result of an early morning sugar rush coupled with a weekend of Christmas festivities and way too much excitement for a 40 year old.
Either.
Or neither.
I'm just putting it out there.
I shall make a cup of tea now and quietly write a list of all the people I know who would eat someone alive - in the metaphoric sense obviously- and pop it on the fridge.
It's a small tank.
I need to know what I'm up against.