Massage Rocks

We've all undoubtedly contemplated what we'd do if we won the lottery. It's easy to reel off a series of inconsequential material possessions you've always fancied or hypothetically divvy out your winnings to family and friends but how would life actually change for better or worse?

Having once again enjoyed the benefits of Groupon's deals, I'm now certain nightly massages with a trained masseuse are part of my lottery wish list. As someone who has suffered bouts of insomnia on and off throughout the years, the guarantee of regular nightly sleep would have an enormous impact on my quality of life.

After sampling my first hot stone massage this weekend, I was instructed to take my time redressing before returning to the bustle of Otley's market square. Suitably relaxed, I contemplated having the nap I so desperately craved after a busy week functioning on minimal sleep.

Research suggests massage helps to regulate sleep in babies so why not in adults too? There's very little hard evidence, merely advice, but reflecting on how contentedly drowsy Saturday's session made me feel, massage aiding sleep seems like a no-brainer.

The consistently cheap price of massages around South-East Asia is something I sorely miss about being on the road. If massages were cheaper in the UK, I'd undoubtedly treat myself more often – sports, therapeutic, essential oils, Native American style hot stones warming up those knotted muscles... All types of massage rock.

To Talk or Not To Talk: That Is The Question

I'm the last to walk into a meeting room and join five others, expectantly awaiting interview. Barely surrounding even a quarter of the perimeter of the huge table, we nervously eyeball each other, weighing up how much of a threat each one poses. I've purposefully arrived a few minutes before our start time in an attempt to avoid prolonged awkward silences or conversation that may reveal potentially intimidating information about the competition.

After the welcome distraction of my arrival, an uncomfortable silence prevails but as the minutes pass, the small talk resumes. I've packed a bag of work, instructing myself to try to consciously avoid talking to the other candidates - I'm attempting to refrain from making those morale destroying mental comparisons.

Showtime is mercilessly soon and relieved to have survived part one, I return to the meeting room of before to be taken on a much less intimidating tour of the buildings. Relaxed by the informal tour, I'm back in “my” seat at one end of the enormous table, watching with amusement as we all eye-up a plate of chocolate biscuits that have arrived in our absence – nobody wants to help themselves unasked and give the impression they're taking liberties, are chocoholics or particularly greedy.

The plate remains untouched until the “meet and greet” begins when already established staff filter into the room. Unwrapping a Kit Kat, I wonder if the tempting treat plate was a clever initiative test or psychological experiment. I have little time to seriously contemplate the matter, before being shown to the “holding pen” where I must wait until my designated interview slot.

Here, I'm grateful for my foresight in bringing work along and relieved I'm not the only one to have done so. Trying not to get too caught up in interview anecdotes, while there's still time I question the internal candidate, attempting to get any inside information I can.

Back at home, I reflect on the experience, wondering what the experts say about interacting with other candidates during a recruitment day. It seems they say very little. A lot is written about the importance of communication during group interviews but almost nothing about pre-, mid- and post-interview small talk. The only advice I find seems to suggest I've taken the right approach, leaving me hopeful that perhaps other decisions I made throughout the day were equally well-judged...

Quality Georgie

Like me, my mum is not a naturally funny person and much of her humour unintentionally arises from her own very individual eccentricities. When I told her I was finally engaged after being in a relationship for eleven years, her reaction was characteristically unexpected: “Are you going to be engaged for another eleven years?”

Knowing full well she can expect the very opposite of a traditional white wedding, instead of congratulating me (as is, of course, normal and customary) she offered to pay us off to marry abroad. The months have passed and she's now accepted the news and resigned herself to the planning of a wedding, offering some useful suggestions. 

As I've decided to share my glad tidings in person and friends have respected my feelings about privacy on social networking sites, many are still to hear our news but needs must so planning has commenced. This bank holiday, we took a trip to the “Garden of England” in an attempt to agree on the basics. Dreading the unavoidable argument that was predictably about to ensue, we pawed over the hypothetical guest list and I found myself arguing my corner by having to justify friendships.

Several hours on and we're closer to a venue and date but many of our initial ideas have been brushed aside or considerably altered. We trundle to bed, weary and slightly irritable but I can't help smiling – inside my head some of my mum's finest moments are on repeated playback:

“Can't we hire some gigolos?” she matter-of-factly asks, surveying our facial expressions as she innocently gauges our reactions. We look at each other in disbelief before laughing aloud and clarifying she does indeed mean a male gigolo. “I get so bored at these things sitting around. We could get a few gigolos to walk around the room and offer to dance with the ladies.” 

I'm grateful for these classic Big G moments that infallibly lighten the mood; however tense future wedding planning sessions may get, I'm confident there will be plenty more quality Georgie moments.

Our Day Out

In those rare weeks when we seem to have a free weekend, The Boy and I seek to explore uncovered English ground. Last weekend, we planned a day trip to Barnsley, Worksop and Doncaster and like good tourists prepared for our outing by researching our route and reading some background information about each potential destination.

Barnsley boasted the promise of a Saturday market while Worksop's title “The Gateway to the Dukeries” suggested majesty and Doncaster promised “Delicious home-made baked goods” at its branch of Cooplands. Tempted by Wiki's blurbs, we decided to stop in Barnsley first and were instantly impressed by its bustling atmosphere and tempting continental market.

Barnsley was somewhat larger than we expected and many of its buildings reminded us of Huddersfield's grand stonework. Even more surprising was the insane police presence in the town centre with at least thirty officers (including additional horses and several parked vans) positioned outside the entrance of one pub, pre-empting the actions of potentially disgruntled football fans and apparently attempting to keep the peace after an earlier “Bedroom Tax” protest.

The sun shone and there were charity shops a-plenty, perhaps giving us a more favourable opinion of the town's centre. Returning to the car as we left the market, we passed yet more police circling the perimeter of a Polish food stall and had to wonder if taxpayers should be footing this bill?

Worksop was certainly not to be “confused with workshop” as Wikipedia helpfully pointed out. We parked up in the late afternoon just as the rain arrived, resulting in a much quieter town centre than Barnsley's. Unfortunately many of the charity shops we'd targeted were already shut for the day and and the steady downpour made extensive exploration an unattractive prospect.

As Barnsley far exceeded our expectations, we spent much longer than intended perusing its delights and had to abandon our Doncaster stop as a result. One day, I'm looking forward to sampling their local variety of Cooplands' pasty and some of the many “daytime drinking” establishments tellingly mentioned on its Wikitravel page. Now, I just need to pencil in a free weekend...

Fifty Synonyms Short

I must confess I've slated popular books in the past without actually having ever read them, basing all my criticism on preconceived notions. Around the time Dan Brown's Da Vinci Code came out, I decided I ought to perhaps take a less blinkered approach and try to objectively read said literature in order to more fairly argue my point.

Although The Da Vinci Code explores subject-matter I'd rarely been drawn to, is no linguistic master piece and is rather predictable at times, Brown's breakthrough novel is certainly a page-turner. It's short cliff-hanger filled chapters make it easily digestible, clearly appealing to action film fans who need a quick hit without investing too much of their concentration or time.

Twilight was the next hugely successful series I decided to read before I'd already formed an opinion. Back in 2008 when I was travelling, I came across a copy of Meyer's first novel in a book exchange, documenting Edward and Bella beginnings. I'd somehow managed to miss the hype around the series and read this blindly. I almost immediately found Meyer's first person narrative irritating thanks to the infuriatingly whiny tone of her female protagonist. In a rare exception to the rule, for this reason, the Twilight films are actually more enjoyable than the books, although laughably bad at times.

Having been bombarded with what seems like years of “mummy porn” features, I finally recently completed Fifty Shades Of Grey. I'd been told to be amazed at the lead having any lips left at the end of the book so audibly laughed at repeated descriptions of Ana munching on said lips. I wanted to hate Fifty Shades but found myself transported to my more romantic teenage years and reminded of a trilogy I read written by one of the Sweet Valley High series' regulars, Caitlin: Love Trilogy by Francine Pascal.

Yes, Fifty Shades is badly written. There are times I dismayed at exactly what E.L. James' editors were up to allowing her to blatantly overuse certain words and write a lead with such irritating linguistic characteristics. Ana Steele unrealistically reacts to any vaguely surprising events described in the novel with a series of stock exclamations, including, “Holy cow”, “Holy shit”, “Jeez” “Double crap” and “Oh my”. I can't say I've ever met a 21 year-old who repeatedly churns out such mild interjections. Maybe that's because I'm not American where the "novel" is set?

And I'm not even going to delve too far into James' infuriating tendency to repeatedly describe Ana's vagina as her “sex” (Come on! Even D.H. Lawrence was more inventive in Lady Chatterley's Lover and he was writing at a time his content truly shocked.) or personify Ana's inner thoughts through references to an “inner goddess” or her sub-conscious (“My subconscious is frantically fanning herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm...” ).

In addition, I can't say I ever recall meeting anyone who bites their lip quite so much as Ana (I can't quantify this but there's an amusing Amazon review that manages to). Better still, though, are her hero's chiding reactions to the lip-biting. In response to Ana's supposedly sexy lip nibbling, Christian Grey is described on several occasions thinning or narrowing his lips ("pressed his lips into a hard thin line...") and somehow looking sexy. Testing out this rather puzzling facial expression, I attempted to look alluring while thinning my lips and the results were pretty hilarious.

Fifty Shades is predictable, repetitive and badly written at times but like Brown's Da Vinci Code knows the power of hook chapter endings. It certainly doesn't deserve to be on any “Essential Reading” lists but has at least given me a mood-lifting thought for any occasion. If you're ever feeling down, try to look sexy with thinned lips and look in the mirror. Or even better, get someone else to try...

Appearances Are Indeed Deceptive

Having lived in Leeds on and off now for almost fourteen years, I recently decided it was high time I finally brave the many city centre pubs deemed “scary”. There are 10 pubs that others and I had, perhaps a little unfairly, previously believed to be establishments to be entered with caution. I've always been one to initially judge a book by its cover and then by the blurb but without trying, it's impossible to ever really know...

Last weekend for the Grand National, a group of us ended up near The Templar Hotel on Templar Street and as it advertised sport being shown, decided to go in. I've always liked its tiled exterior and inside it had a worn charm. As the cider selection was exceedingly limited, it is not a place I'm likely to return to but is exactly the kind of pub you could effortlessly make both friends and enemies in.

This weekend a group of us embarked on a “scary pub crawl” and took out the remaining nine pubs we'd all previously eye-balled suspiciously. Beginning at The Prince Of Wales on Mill Hill, we were amazed by the near empty fridges behind the bar and lack of clientele. Half a pint down and it started to fill up with regulars chatting to bar staff, revealing it is soon to shut down. Hearing this explained the lack of drink selection and means a repeat visit is unlikely.

Across the road Spencer's was a pleasant surprise. Mildly disturbed by the bouncers standing outside (at 2pm!) and police vans parked out front (pre-empting post-match trouble), we entered with trepidation and were met by the sweet promise of Farmhouse Pyder on tap, making a return visit highly likely.

Lacking obvious signage outside, The Duncan on Duncan Street can easily be missed. This is the pub I'm most fearful of. A friend due to meet us has seen its exterior and texted me to say she's decided to join us later. Once inside, we're instantly heartened to discover it's a Sam Smith pub with Cider Reserve on tap and bottles of their organic variety, folk are friendly and it's atmospheric (there's a rowdy group celebratorily singing).

Number four is The Regent on Kirkgate. I've been in this pub once many years ago when a friend craved a post-Mega Bus pint and remember someone trying to sell us make-up from a carrier bag. On this return visit, there are no hard sells and I end up chatting to an amicable regular who's a fan of karaoke. Although the crowd is friendly, as Strongbow is the only cider on offer, I'm unlikely to frequently drink in The Regent.

  

Across the road on Vicar Lane, The General Eliott turns out to be yet another ridiculously cheap Sam Smith pub, selling Cider Reserve on tap. It is cosy and once again welcoming, making return visits a possibility.

Hoagys on Eastgate is our next stop and where we're banking on food. Opting for a selection of ten snacks to share, we're disturbed by the apple crunch but happy with the price and rapidly chow it all down. For cider drinkers, the selection is disappointing but it's atmospheric and somewhere to go if you fancy a dance without paying for club entrance.

A little further up the road on The Headrow, The Three Legs is another pub I've been into before, merely to use their toilets when waiting for a bus. It is again, entirely unscary and not the best place for cider fans but anyone into karaoke will like it here.

 

The final stop for the night, is The Horse And Trumpet further along The Headrow. It turns out to also serve food at cheap prices but have little on offer in terms of cider. This is a pub I may well return to for quick pre-cinema/theatre food.

Crawl done and we haven't witnessed a single fight, antagonised anyone or been offended. No-one has stared at us or tried to sell us anything and we haven't been in a single place that has gone quiet on our entrance like the pub near my parents' house. The night is still young and we're already craving another Pyder so return to Spencer's, now armed with a plethora of previously uncharted pubs we'd happily frequent.  

Ode To An Easter Missed

It's been a week since Easter's passed and we've returned from our Icelandic jaunt. On the way out going through security in Manchester airport we were held up in enormous queues of people fleeing the country, seeking solace from the UK's unsavoury and uncharacteristic Spring climate. Passing the time faithfully trawling through my copy of Metro I read the world's oldest Creme Egg has been discovered in Cadbury's vaults 50 years after it rolled off the production line but as a Creme Egg fan, I'm even more interested by a cocktail recipe that will eat up almost half my daily calorie intake: http://metro.co.uk/2013/03/26/ill-have-it-on-the-rocks-and-with-a-creme-egg-easter-cocktail-with-nearly-1000-calories-3561565/.

Like Christmas, Easter is a time of family get-togethers and this is only the second one I've ever missed in my 33 plus years of existence. While I travel around the Snafellsness Peninsula, my family will meet for lunch after various groups attend different church services. The most amazing roast you'll ever taste will be followed by the exchange of Easter eggs or gifts, an Easter egg hunt in my Nan's garden and either games of Tennis on the local courts or a walk around the grounds of one of the many local National Trust or English Heritage properties.

As the country's capital city Reykjavik was surprisingly deserted on Good Friday with many shops closed and on Easter Sunday the tiny settlements around the West Coast are eerily quiet. We've had the two Creme Eggs I packed to mark the occasion and are later given a complimentary chocolate egg after dining in a restaurant in Borganes. It is not as impressively ornate as the traditional candy-filled eggs we saw on sale in central Reykjavik's Bonus supermarket. Inside the egg is an indecipherable message in Icelandic I later discover is similarly mystical in tone to those found in Chinese fortune cookies.

I may have missed Easter this year but I've had an awesome holiday and know it'll be the season of the egg on my return to the UK; Creme Eggs will start to appear in abundance in Leeds Market at reduced cost, ready to stock our fridge for the coming months. Bring on their chocolatey goodness...