After my week of nothing, which my lovely friend Patrick tells me the Dutch call ‘nitsen’ - the art of planning to do nothing, not just doing nothing - I found myself this week in North Devon, my childhood home, spending time with my mum, brother, sister, niece and a few friends. But mainly my mum.

She’s a bit of a star. Never knowingly turning down an invitation to do something, which these days revolves around U3A and WI events – think strolling, games (Rummikub and Sequence) and ‘fine dining’. Not to mention coach trips various – think gardens and National Trust properties. And meeting up with her numerous friends. She’s a keen talker. And goodness knows how many times a day she watches the news. Unsurprisingly she gets a tad tired from time to time.

So, we used our time together as relaxed downtime to do a sensible bit of planning. Planning for the inevitable. The drafting of her ‘What If’ document. You know the one. The one, one day we will need when mum leaves us.

Mum embraced the opportunity. She said she was glad we were doing it. Heck, we don’t expect her to pop off any time soon, but at 82 (or any age) you never know.

I wrote about planning for death eighteen months or so ago when I wrote my death ‘trilogy’ but had we done all of it? No.

As a pragmatic and organised woman, after all she’s the mother of a financial planner, mum had organised her will and LPA a few years ago. So, we checked her wishes, that the attorneys and executors remained alive and capable and moved on to the practical stuff.

We’d done a password drill a few years ago, so all we needed to do was check I had the latest versions. Cue mum flicking through her incredibly unsecure notebook to find the relevant words and phrases. Bletchley standards it is not. But it works for her.

We also checked I was still nominated as the legacy contact on her Facebook and Apple/iCloud accounts. I was.

Then we got into the nitty gritty. The boring but important utility providers, insurance companies, banks and building societies. Tick.

Next, who we should inform from mum’s myriads of friends dotted around the country. We decided on a Pyramid style notification system – key friends who would promulgate the news; outliers identified. Tick.

Next up - funeral arrangements. Mum has a lovely younger friend who is a celebrant – job done. She needed no prompting around her choice of songs for her service, Eva Cassidy and Queen featuring highly. Interestingly, mum’s decision around her ashes had changed since we last spoke of it, good to know and noted.

And then, the location of her original will. And where she keeps her various items of paperwork. Roger.

Task completed we did the next obvious thing - had a lovely cup of tea and a posh ginger nut biscuit!

Later that evening we caught up with my brother. Mum, eager to tell him of our day’s activity was cut slightly short by his response…

“Alright mum, can we just have a nice dinner?”

She understood. Afterall she’s known him for 64 years!

Like many, my brother finds these things hard to talk about, let alone plan for. I understand. It’s not easy. But just because it’s hard, it’s not a reason not to do it. Planning at a time of calm and clarity for an event which will undoubtedly be emotional and difficult is bound to pay dividends.

Mum’s affairs are pretty simple. And my brother and I are at one on who will do what and when. We trust each other entirely. Which means we are bloody lucky as a family. Not everyone has the same fortune.

You

As ever I’m interested in you. And those of you lucky enough to still have your mum, or dad, maybe both, or perhaps an ageing relative or friend. How have you approached their ‘What if’ wishes? Is it an unspoken elephant in the room or a thankfully resolved matter? And I’m curious to know where any resistance may be sitting – with you, them, circumstances? Do drop me a line, I’d love to hear your thoughts, you may also help others.

Interestingly my mum told me afterwards she’d told her friends what we’d been doing; many expressed a wish that their kin would do the same with them.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than today. And neither are they. They may just be waiting for you to start the conversation – what’s stopping you?

Finally, I couldn’t finish this week’s post without a mention of Dolly. What a woman. I shed a happy/sad tear as I listened to Lauren Laverne’s six of the best on R6 on Wednesday morning, classics all1. I’d like to add another from Dolly’s 2007 Backwoods Barbie album – “You Better Get to Living”:

“You better get to living. Giving

Don’t forget to throw in a little forgiving

And loving on the way…”

Need I say more.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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“What a privilege,” said Mary.

Chatting on the phone to my wise friend Mary yesterday I was recounting my quiet week. As I did so, prompted by her insight, the penny dropped. What a privilege it is to have a week of nothing. To just make it up as you go. To relish not having to be anywhere at any particular time. To just potter and be. To have time.

I’d been out of London for four or five weeks until last Sunday, missing, thank goodness, the worst of the recent heatwaves. A fortunate coincidence of timing, my flat was being decorated by my lovely friend Gill. How she managed it in that heat, a woman also in her 1000 Weeks, I genuinely do not know. If you’re looking for a London or South East-based decorator who really knows her art and her onions, drop me a line and I’ll put you in touch. She’s a goodun.

I returned to reclaim and clean my beautifully painted flat. It felt strangely odd to be back. I missed the company of the wonderful friends who’d accommodated, entertained and fed me – see photo of my ‘landladies’ above. And when I looked at my diary, a few coaching clients, and the final push on the assignment I bemoaned last week aside, nothing.

Nothing

Which, for a recovering FOMO sufferer, was mildly challenging. So, I gave myself a firm talking to –

“Ruth, an empty diary is not a measure of your self-worth, likeability or fun-factor”

and just got on with it, making it up as I went.

Quite quickly I started to relish it.

I mopped my floors and dusted my shelves with genuine zeal.

I took myself to an indulgent Wednesday matinee at my local cinema to see Lady a mockumentary following the eccentric and traumatised Lady Isabella, self describing as ‘aristocracy’s answer to the Kardashians’.

I went to a Gong Bath at my local yoga place, my somewhat dramatic reaction to my first-ever gong session now a distant memory, as I fell into something between a deep nap and a stupor.

And my lovely friend Stephanie emerged for a low-key, chatty Thursday night dinner.

All this and nothing but earlyish nights, walks around my neighbourhood, healthy food, no alcohol, gym sessions, and some genuinely brilliant TV and radio.

Speaking of which I appear to have developed a fully-fledged crush on the magnificent Hannah Waddingham. Fuelled, I suspect, by binge-watching Ride or Die and then falling headlong back into Ted Lasso, the latest series started last week. The gorgeous Hannah plays an assassin and a football club owner respectively but what both shows do brilliantly is celebrate friendship, female empowerment, fairness and decency. I’m not going to say any more. Just watch them both, if you haven’t already. Oh, and don’t forget Ann Droid, for similar reasons. Ssomething is clearly in the creative water right now. Interestingly my mum wasn’t a fan of Ann Droid…shame, I was just about to place an order ;-)

And then on Wednesday morning, Lauren Laverne on Radio 6 stopped me in my nostalgic tracks: apparently it was exactly 45 years ago to the day that Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe, aka the Pet Shop Boys, first met in an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road. She played six of my favourite tracks: West End Girls, Being Boring, What Have I Done to Deserve This, Go West, Left to My Own Devices, It’s a Sin. Each one evoking memories of my younger self and PSB gigs at Latitude, Heaven and the moat at the Tower of London.

Which is perhaps why, by the time I was recounting my week to Mary, her perspective helped me to see the week for what it was. Not a week of nothing. A week of stuff I rarely make time for - pottering, watching, listening, just being with the luxury of making it up as you go.

Oh, and most importantly yesterday I submitted the bloody assignment I banged on about last week. The outcome now in the hands of the Henley Business School assessors. Let’s see…

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. An empty week in your diary - cause to celebrate, or cause to panic? Drop me a line. I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today. Maybe just sit with that, smile, and enjoy it.

Until next week, my friends,

Ruth x

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This week’s missive almost didn’t happen. And of course I have the perfect excuse.

Regular readers of 1000Weeks will know I’ve been doing a nine month qualification, the Professional Certificate of Executive Coaching course, from Henley Business School.

As we speak, I’m stuck writing a 2,500 word reflective assignment which needs to be in by the end of this week. It’s based on two ‘critical incidents’ I’ve observed during my coaching practice. The reflective bit includes what went well, what didn’t go quite as well, what does this say about me as a human being, a coach and the all important, what could I do differently next time…and then what happened when I did it! Kolb eat your heart out.

Oh, and it needs to be related to the academic literature all of which needs to be referenced in the bibliography using the Harvard Referencing System -whatever that means - along with a multitude of other appendices.

Finally, it needs to be submitted via the portal - beam me up Scotty - with an audio recording of a live, thirty minutes coaching session that ticks all of the International Coaching Federation’s criteria for a coach at my stage of the game.

Then that’s it. I sit and await the results.

Anyhow, it’s all good stuff and I’ve enjoyed the nine month course and met some fab new people. The rigour has doubtless made me a better coach, but I now, I’m bored, I just want it over so I can crack on developing and honing my skills working with my clients. Which in my experience, is where the real learning happens.

You

As ever I’m interested in you. What have you done, or are doing, that you know is good for you, you have enjoyed it, but you now just want it over?

Drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you, for entertainment, interest and diversionary tactic reasons ;-).

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today. What are you doing that’s diverting you from the real task, trip or experience that could shift the dial for you?

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

Ps To lighten my moany mood, how’s this for a before and after shot for my fave Mini Schnauzer Cyd?

Thanks for reading today’s 1000Weeks and bearing with me whilst I get my assignment frustration off my chest! If you can relate to my words, why not leave me a comment, like, share or subscribe, I really appreciate having you along. Thank you.

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We met on Monday, November 14^th, 1994.

Tara and I. New administrators at Moores Marr Bradley, a pretty progressive firm of Independent Financial Advisers based in Milton Keynes.

Correinne, the glamourous Admin Manager, was our boss. She’d interviewed me for the role two weeks before. Apparently I told her I didn’t really want to be an administrator but thought it might be a stepping stone to an adviser’s job. She employed me regardless and, unknowingly, set in motion my financial planning career

I distinctly recall Day One. I sat across the desk from Tara who spent most of the day looking quizzically at me. Eleven years younger, which must have meant she was nineteen at the time, Tara could immediately tell administration was not my sweet spot. In contrast, she had the place, processes and people sussed by the end of the day. It took me somewhat longer…

I didn’t know at the time how formative that job would be. It was there I met one of my future business partners, Gareth, our Managing Director. The boss. Recently bereaved, he was rebuilding his life, as well as building his business. The consummate salesman. Suave, charismatic. And just a little bit scary…in a boss kinda way.

Three weeks later it was the works Christmas party. Partners were invited. Jonnie, my husband, and I went along, both a little nervous. Gareth came over to talk to me. I was chuffed, in that keen to impress, new girl/boss kinda way. As we talked one of my fave songs of those times came on – Loveshack by the B52s. Jonnie, who had been off stage left, sauntered over, and asked, in his inimitable Geordie way –

“Loveshack’s on, why isn’t Ruth Sturkey dancing?”

I felt the words hang there. I mean, I LOVE dancing, but I was trying to impress my new boss. Within a nano second, Gareth replied “Let’s all dance”… and the evening, and mine and Gareth’s future friendship was sealed.

Good times indeed. As was last Friday when Tara, Correinne and I met up. We may have only worked together for three years but here we were, thirty two years later, still friends. Tara is now Operations Director for a great financial planning business, Correinne the same for a firm of surveyors. Successful women both.

The evening started, and ended, in the 12^th Knot cocktail bar at the top of the Sea Containers hotel. Cocktails, wine and food were consumed, gossip, work and family stories exchanged, a potential multi day walk along the Thames to Oxford mooted, all laced with laughter and fun. I admit to feeling a tiny bit jaded on Saturday as I dashed to get a train to the South West.

Fun time with friends. I know I talk about it a lot but for me, a childfree woman of a certain age, friends are the scaffolding to my life.

You

As ever I’m interested in you. And this time, in particular, my male readers. My observation, which may be wrong, is we women are better at keeping in touch with friends and, frankly, making shit happen. How does that play out in your life? Am I right, am I wrong? Drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And, remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today, the friend you’ve been meaning to have a wine/beer/coffee with, get it in the diary, you won’t regret it.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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“Something feels off…I feel, dare I say, comfortable”.

Comfortable. It feels like a state to be achieved doesn’t it? Fluffy, warm, safe, secure, snuggly. But when talking to my coaching client Claire recently she had an insight which struck me.

Claire, not her real name, was telling me about her successful, long-standing, financial planning business. It’s profitable. She has a good team around her. New business happens without trying. Clients are loyal. She knows she is providing a worthwhile service. She’s worked hard and is, arguably, reaping her just rewards.

But something is off. Something that took her a while to identify and admit.

The admission

She no longer feels challenged. Worse than that, she feels a little bored, tired by her business. Slightly anxious about the AI story all around her – will it really take her job? Not sure what should be her next move.

She’s aware of her choices. She rehearsed them to me - Should she grow the business, sell or stay as she is?

Each has their appeal, but Claire doubts she has the energy to push the business forward again to grow, the thought of a larger team leaves her cold.

What will she do if she sells her business? She has been so entrenched in her business and family life for the last fifteen years she cannot even begin to imagine.

But the thought of staying as is for the next ten years saps her soul.

What’s making these feelings more pointed for Claire is her recent divorce and her children heading off to university and work.

She has reached a place of comfort, yet the sense of purpose that fuelled her to this stage is depleted. Not gone. But certainly, in need of topping up.

Sound familiar? Or a nice problem to have thank you very much!

Comfortable Claire is not alone. Comfort creeps up on us. And for many, it’s far from being a problem, it’s to be relished. In the short term at least.

But comfort without a purpose can lead to boredom and dissatisfaction.

It’s a dilemma I see with many business owners. And not one solved overnight.

Experimenting

For now, Claire is exploring a possibility that mixes and matches the initial three options she thought of. One which devolves more responsibility to her team, reviews current processes and works towards her doing a three-day week. Her plan - use the two days she frees up to explore a role with the Samaritans and take up salsa. This way she gets to keep her business, empower her team, free up some time personally and rediscover the purpose and fun she feels she’s missing. It may not be where she ultimately ends up, but the experiment is worth running.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you, business owner, employee or retiree. How does comfort show up in your life? What’s your relationship to it? And what have you done when comfort, but not contentment, has called to juzz up your life?

Do drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today, why not nudge yourself out of that comfort zone and take that next step – what will it be?

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

Thank you for reading 1000Weeks. Please do join the conversation by leaving me a comment, a ❤️, subscribe or share. When I feel I’m flagging, it’s the thought of you reading that keeps me going. Thank you.

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“It’s like a life-size Wendy House”

So said my friend Jen1 as she proudly showed me around her new camper van. The swivelling front seat. The pop-up roof. The sliding backseat-come-double-bed. The fold-away table. Not to mention the collapsible kettle, saucepan and washing-up bowl. And not forgetting, of course, the travel-friendly wine rack.

“It’s like a real-life Post Office”

Jen’s excitement took me straight back to my business partner Linda and me, back in the day, when we ran our financial planning business. One Friday afternoon, after a particularly satisfying week, we sat reflecting on our good fortune - our team, our clients, our light, airy and effortlessly cool office - and each had exactly the same thought. It was our grown-up version of the imaginary post office ‘shop’ game we’d each played as children in the early 70s, except now we had a proper functional document stamp proudly announcing our business name, a rubber thumb cover and a franking machine.

“It’s like a real-life bike adventure”

As you’re reading this, Jen, Claire and I will be on a bike-packing adventure in Norfolk, travelling lightly with our bare essentials hanging off our bikes. Our adventure culminates in Cley next the Sea on Thursday, where we’ll meet friends to celebrate Kate’s fifty-something birthday. The route was planned weeks ago. As I write this, my fellow travellers are affixing bike racks, pumping up tyres and oiling chains. All that’s needed now is the execution.

Three very different types of play - a camper van, a business, a bike ride - the same spirit running through all of them. A sense of imagination, planning and possibility. We had it in buckets as children. But somehow, as adults we sometimes forget to make room for it.

For me, play is a wonderful opportunity to spend time with friends, evoke life-affirming nostalgia and create future memories. I love the sense of courage and possibility that comes from sharing time with people I care about and the way we bring out the best in each other when we do.

I know life gets busy. Responsibilities call, resources can be stretched and sometimes play feels like a luxury to be enjoyed by others. But whatever stage of life you’re at, particularly as we get older, I’d encourage you to make space for it. Play gives us purpose, connection, and both physical and mental exercise. It needn’t be expensive or elaborate. We just need to make it happen.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. When and how do you make time for play? Who are you with, and what do you do? Grab yourself a Dandelion & Burdock, or other childhood pop of choice, and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today. Go plan, book or do that adventure you’ve been dreaming of. I know you won’t regret it.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

Do drop me a line, I love to hear from you, it keeps me writing and the creative juices flowing. And if you enjoyed reading my words why not leave me a ❤️, share or subscribe. Thank you.

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This was a big weekend. On many levels.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself.”

A phrase those who’ve watched the brilliant BBC series Outrageous will be familiar with.

I’m not a big telly fan, but anything by Russell T Davies is the exception.

Tip Toe

Russell, of Queer as Folk and It’s a Sin fame, excels himself with his latest five-parter, Tip Toe. Alan Cumming, as the gay bar owner on Canal Street, Manchester, and his painfully heterosexual, homophobic electrician neighbour, perform a masterclass in the dangers of division, hate and othering. Not to mention fake news, social media and conspiracy theories.

The series starts at the end. A man, swinging from a lamppost on a normal suburban street. We learn the man is Cumming’s character. The perpetrator? I won’t spoil your watching but be prepared. It’s a tough but compelling watch. The canary in the coal mine of the attitudes of some about anyone who is different to them, in this case the LGBTQ+ community. Even my mum, and many of her late septuagenarian/octogenarian friends, watched. For her generation, a revelation of many of the more sordid aspects of social media and dating apps.

Outrageous

On the recommendation of my mum and some friends, I then turned to Outrageous, the story of the Mitford sisters and the rise of Oswald Mosley and fascism, here and in Nazi Germany in the mid to late 1930s. I knew little about Mosley and the Battle of Cable Street. I do now. And depressingly, I recognise the playbook. One I see being played out in the US and, at times, right here.

Which makes what happened to a friend of mine recently all the more chilling. She’s been homophobically abused. Twice. In a single month. WTF. She reported the first incident to the police, who were supportive. But the thing that really got me, my friend, normally no shrinking violet, felt scared. Genuinely scared. No one should feel scared on the streets of London, or anywhere. Full stop.

Pride

And that felt very real as I stood watching this year’s London Pride. Last year I marched; this year I watched, joining the many celebrating in and around Old Compton Street, the heart of Soho. The crowd was huge. All ages, shapes, sizes, cultures. Some clearly hardened revellers, many clearly there for the very first time. And let’s not underestimate, in these so-called ‘accepting’ times, how difficult it remains for many to recognise their sexuality and come out.

Rumours of Madonna doing a surprise appearance at Trafalgar Square abounded, in my group of friends at least. She didn’t. But what a fun, inclusive and loving day. Shame about the undertones, and the creeping reality for some.

As I looked around me I saw people. People like you and me. Just wanting to get on with their lives. Ordinary people who may love and party differently to you or me. I’m not sure I will ever understand the need for division, hatred and aggression.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you - love in silos, or love for all? Drop me a line. I’d enjoy hearing from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today. Sneak a little time to enjoy the sunshine, Wimbledon, or whatever takes your summer fancy.

Oh, and I couldn’t let it pass, England v Norway anyone? What a result in the early hours of this morning, come on England 😊

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

Thank you for reading today’s 1000Weeks. Some weeks feels harder than others and I think I might skip it…but the thought of you reading keeps me showing up, thank you. Your support really means a lot.

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It’s easy to assume isn’t it. That people know what to expect in a given situation. Me of all people, a coach, who’s trained within an inch of my life to not make assumptions, should know this. But I’m only human. And in a complimentary coaching session this week I realised I’d not covered this super important step. I’d goofed my own process. As often happens when you don’t follow a process. You miss a step.

My client for the session, a lovely, successful woman building a great career in financial services. Accomplished, organised, confident, I assumed she knew what to expect. Goodness knows why because she told me she hadn’t worked with a coach before.

Halfway through - after I’d asked her a number of questions, listened, probed a little more and identified an issue for discussion - she asked:

“What normally happens in your coaching sessions Ruth?”

Arrrrggggghhhhhh. She stopped me in my tracks. In a good way.

Because she was a ‘one-off’ complimentary session, and I only had an hour to deliver a ton of value, I’d ploughed straight in!

It’s these moments when we learn. It’s why we have a ‘way of working’, a process, for a reason. Skip or skim and confusion or cracks can creep in.

Recovering my composure I explained my loose framework. I call it the W6+6 and it goes like this:

• What would be a good use of our time?

• Why is this important/why now?

• What will this give you?

• What do you want to take away from our session?

• Who do you need me to be?

• Where shall we start?

  +

• What are you taking away?

• What will you do next?

• When will you do it?

• What could get in the way?

• Who/what can hold you accountable?

• What’s a good way to end today’s session?

I went on to explain…

“To be clear, W6+6 is merely a framework. One that flexes and meanders to meet you where you are with exactly what you need. Think of it as bookends to the coaching conversation, not questions to be slavishly followed.

My aim in any coaching session is to meet you, my client, wherever you land. Some clients like to send me their session topic or thoughts in advance of the meeting. Others just arrive and talk.”

Reassured, we carried on…

Me

In the thick of running my financial business, I recall tumbling into many a coaching session unsure which way was up, let alone having a topic to discuss. Yet, without fail, once I’d been welcomed by my coach, calmed down and taken a few breaths, a topic would emerge, and I’d leave the session with clarity, knowing what to do next. Time to think, time well spent.

You

Today’s post sits at the crossroads of two things I care about – how we spend our time, and how we grow.

As ever I’m interested in you, whether coach or client – what’s your ideal coaching session look like?

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today; what’s the nudge you need to take the next step in your personal growth journey?

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

If you enjoyed today’s post, please do join the conversation, or like, share or subscribe. Why not all four? I really do appreciate your support, thank you.

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This weekend was my school friend’s AGM. I’ve told you about them before. We were at school together in Barnstaple, North Devon in the mid-late 70s. Bound together after the death of our friend Denise aged just 32 we meet annually, at least, to reminisce, catch up on news, gossip, remember Denise and laugh. Food and drink are normally involved and this time, the beach (Croyde) too.

The AGM coincided with an informal School Reunion at a local pub. Some wanted to go. Others had no interest at all. A consensus was reached; we would go early, go for an hour and then go. Suitably buoyed by a swift one in the local ‘Spoons”1 off we went.

We arrived at the door, jostling Moira to the front to go in. Four unrecognisable men at the bar stared back at us. One as bald as the day, the other three with thick mops, ponytails or beards. One of the particularly hairy ones looked like he had fangs, until we realised he’d just sipped the froth off his beard. Tumbleweed wouldn’t have been out of place. A surreal start to the evening.

As I glanced across the bar I saw Ian, my first love. He’d hardly changed. Such a friendly, open, chatty man – father to five, grandfather to ten, working for the same local firm for forty-two years. He reminded me of when I ‘made’ him wear pixie boots and eye liner to go to a Hazel O’Connor gig in Plymouth. We were sixteen!

My friends and I looked at people quizzically - some, like Ian, easy to recall, others…nothing. I guess in a school year of two hundred you get to know those in your tutor group, classes or sports teams and that’s it. Particularly if you move away at nineteen as I did. The picture, and our memories, started to clear as we steadied our gazes…

There were Janice and Andrea full of life in full punk regalia, swinging by before going on to a punk revival in nearby Bideford. Stephen and Julie, still married after forty years having met at school aged twelve. And another Stephen now practicing permaculture, living off grid in Spain. The four staring amigos turned out to be Neil, Jeffrey, Andrew and Michael. Nice men.

Marcus, now landlord of the pub, cranked up the jukebox and old tunes rocked out – Too Much too Young, Town called Malice, and Do you Really want to Hurt Me? The lyrics of our youth.

None of the ‘wrong crowd’, as my mother liked to call them, were there. Shame. I have fond memories of us smoking behind the Sports Hall at lunch time, and I didn’t smoke!

I noticed how nervous I was walking up to people I didn’t know now, let alone back then, to ask who they were and what they were up to these days. Strange how shyness, which I’ve mastered the art of hiding, still shows up.

As the crowd started to thin, we girls realised our hour had turned into three and in spite of ourselves we’d had a cracking evening. Heart warming, grounding and fun. A realisation of difference and familiarity.

As we walked out, saying our goodbyes to the remaining few, we felt a collective surge of good fortune. To be together. To share our history. To still be here unlike our dear friend Denise, and sadly a number of others from our year.

You

I know School Reunions aren’t everyone’s cup of tea; you’ve kept in touch with those you want to; you don’t have good memories of school; you lack confidence; think you may feel judged. Or just have no interest in what happened over forty years ago. I get it.

I liked school, feel comfortable with where I am in life, and am curious of others. So, nerves aside, I thoroughly enjoyed hearing everyone’s story. And left with a strong sense of good fortune for the life I have led and have.

As ever, I’m interested in you. Where do you stand on school reunions? Yes please, not in a million years or somewhere in between? Pour yourself a Pernod and Black, my drink of choice in sixth form, and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be younger than you are today, and these precious years fly by, stop delaying, do it.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

Thank you for reading 1000Weeks. If you enjoy my weekly notes please do leave a comment, ❤️, share or subscribe. Why not all four? Thank you x

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I spent the weekend with two friends who are mid-way through a 4-week Culinary Arts course at Ashburton Cookery College. Their temporary residence: Brixham.

I recall Brixham as a kid when my bro and I stayed in a caravan with my Grandma at nearby Goodrington Sands. These days it’s home to much of the English fishing trade. A proper working harbour with around a £78million fish trade. And an undisclosed trade sum in pasties, a Devon and Cornwall staple. A town which, aside from Mitch Tonk’s Rockfish restaurant, might seem a little down at heel when compared to its more chi chi neighbours of Dartmouth, Salcombe and Totnes.

But back to my friends.

As we gorged on the fruits of their labours, in this instance profiteroles, my friends regaled me with stories of their new found skills, processes and terminology. Who knew the base for the cream in a profiterole is crème pâtissière augmented with double cream to become crème diplomat!

Terminology. All arts, trades and professions have them. Seemingly designed to bamboozle the outsider ensuring the knowledge is kept safe for the privileged few.

It reminded me of a cooking story from a few years ago.

There was my friend, let’s call her Barbara, after all that’s her name, in her kitchen studiously preparing dinner for her partner, Hello Fresh recipe card in hand. All was going well until halfway through making the accompanying sauce she suddenly came across an unfamiliar term and instruction:

“Reduce by a third”

Stumped, she pondered for a moment until common sense prevailed. Naturally, she poured a third of the runny sauce down the sink…

That story and the picture of Barb pouring the bubbling liquid down her sink made me giggle for days after.

It also reminded me of how easily we all slip into jargon, abbreviations, and perhaps these days emojis, without considering our unsuspecting audience. At best it can ruin a meal, at worst it can be alienating, confusing or misleading for our reader or listener. I know, I’ve done it myself in Financial Planning reports of old. My suggestion? Next time, take a beat and think, who is this message for and how do I want it to land?

As ever I’m interested in you; where have you caught yourself using terminology that bamboozles rather than clarifies?

Grab your pastry (or pasty!) of choice and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today; if my talk of profiteroles and pastries has whetted your appetite, treat yourself, you know you won’t regret it…

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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I’m two thirds of my way through my Henley Business School Executive Coaching course. I’m loving it. And finding it bloody hard. The inevitable paradox of growth? Probobaly.

I’m loving the learning - the reading and research, even if I need to do more as my written assessment submission date looms. I’m also enjoying my practice, my real-life coaching conversations. I experience a weird thrill before each coaching session; What will my client bring? How will I respond? How do they need me to be?

Although I’ve had my coaching practice for a few years now, the bit I’m finding hard is the strict overlay of the ‘coach’ learning over my natural mentor, adviser style. Which is not to say my natural style is necessarily correct. It’s just where I feel comfortable.

The arc

There is an arc to a coaching session which goes something like this.

Each session starts with “contracting”. That is, the use of questions and listening to enable my client to identify the ‘real’ issue they want to discuss – which is rarely the one they arrive with. The real issue is often hidden below the presenting problem. A recent client arrived with feelings of overwhelm…too much to do, too little time, too many people wanting a piece of her. She had become the bottle neck in her business and was feeling exhausted and demotivated. After twenty minutes or so of digging the real issue emerged; fear of a loss of control if she passed work to her team members. An understandable feeling associated with delegation, not to mention the additional time to delegate properly adding to her load in the short term.

But back to contracting.

Once the real issue is uncovered the next steps involve more questions to help the client articulate what they want to be different or know by the end of the session, why the issue is important to them and how they will know if they’ve achieved it.

Curiously, contracting, done well, can take a large proportion of the session. After all, the session loses oomph if the correct issue isn’t being solved.

A good ending to a session sees the client identifying their insights, learnings, goals and next steps.

It sounds simple and logical as I type it, but in real life? Not so much.

The reality

We humans are tricky characters. Understandably, clients often arrive with unformed thoughts, presenting symptoms and a sense they want something different but aren’t always sure what that is. This can be deep work, and they need time, trust and a sense of safety to be able to unpack their thoughts, make decisions and work out what comes next.

In contrast, some clients arrive with a single issue to be worked through which merely requires thinking space, and perhaps a gentle challenge, and they leave the session with the clarity they seek.

It just depends. My role is to hold and help people in both scenarios, and all in between.

The real challenge for me? Remaining in the role of ‘coach’, withholding my natural tendency to mentor or advise. Which brings me full circle to the title of this post – “Make it feel wrong to get it right”.1 You’ll know the feeling if you play tennis or swim and try to change your grip or stroke. Or if you’re a manager resisting the urge to solve your team’s problems… It just feels wrong even if you trust it will make you a better player, swimmer or leader eventually.

I can 100% see the benefits of pure coaching. We all learn when we figure out our issues and solutions for ourselves. But in real life, when a pressing situation needs solving post session, if experiencing something new or if genuinely stuck, some clients need a combination of coach, mentor and adviser. All in service of their personal growth.

You

As ever I’m interested in you and what you think. What role or skills should a Coach exhibit – coach, mentor, adviser, thinking partner, critical friend? One, some or all of the above? Whether you’ve worked with a coach in the past, are contemplating doing so or are just interested in the conversation, please do drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today - where do you need to make it feel wrong to get it right?

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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It’s 1030pm, Sunday night.

I had decided I was going to give myself this week ‘off’. Because I can. Nobody’s keeping a register. This is my gig. I only have to answer to myself…well, ok, and you, lovely readers1. But you’re generous souls and let me off every now and then…but this is history in the making.

Yes, I referred to it last week, Arsenal winning the Premiership (and being within a whisker of winning the Champions League last night but let’s not dwell).

I am what some would call a fair weather supporter. Of ‘the’ Arsenal, Birmingham City and Newcastle United. I know three teams are not allowed but these are my rules, which maybe I will explain sometime.

Regardless, as a North Londoner, I cannot let today pass by and not comment.

From the moment I boarded a train at 1000 this Sunday morning in Market Harborough after being at the quintessentially British Neville Holt Festival (check it out, 100% age appropriate my friends - we were there to see the Ibiza Symphonic and drink frozen Margaritas… ) I’ve been surrounded by a sea of red. Men, women, children, all ages, sizes, shapes, cultures, faiths all travelling and gathering for one thing. To celebrate and have fun at the Arsenal 5.5 mile parade from the Emirates around North London.

As I battled home, I realised, extensive crowd control preparations had rendered all local tubes, trains and buses diverted. Not to be outdone I took to my trusty Brompton to get me from home, in Stoke Newington, to Euston station to meet a friend for a cuppa before getting a train to another glorious friends’ 60th in Hemel Hempstead, and home again.

Buoyed by one or two too many glasses of Crémant, my 10pm cycle home from Euston just now was a trip.

I smiled with joy as I cycled past pub after pub, still partying, red flags and scarves still flying, chants of ARRRRSSSEEENALLLL still ringing. Streets full of debris. Car horns still honking. Police sirens whining. I dunno. It just feels special to me. A celebration in times that are a tad testing to say the least.

I know aspects of football are divisive. Some football supporters can feel less than generous in their celebration of difference (an irony for another time) and I appreciate at least half of North London will not be celebrating. And of course there are myriad people who don’t like or get football, or think the sport has been ruined by commercialism. All of which I understand.

But for now, I’m just noting the joy, passion and pleasure of the people gathered in Norf London today.

You

As I sip my cuppa and get ready for bed, as ever I’m interested in you. Football fan or not, what gets, or would get, you out to support and cheer?

Drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, sometimes you don’t feel like doing something, like me and this blog, but just do it anyway, you know you will feel better for doing so;-)

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

ps please excuse any typos…1030pm is not the best time to write ;-)

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Some weeks seem glamorous. Some weeks less so. Last week was a week of two, not necessarily linear or chronological, halves. One was about health. The other arts and culture – ish.

Let’s get the health stuff out of the way.

M-O-T

After years of becoming increasingly ‘mutton’ I decided to have a hearing test. Turns out, the test was only possible after a serious de-wax! Sorry I know that’s a bit grim; Hopefully you’re not eating as you read this. Let’s just say, no wonder I was having difficulty hearing. Turns out my hearing is normal.

Ears, closely followed by teeth. My annual dental check and six-monthly hygienist. I’m all for people learning on the job but blimey, my young hygienist seemed to be excavating for gold. She’s certainly a completer finisher. And yes, I do drink coffee and red wine. I cherish my teeth but those habits? Keepers. And, after years of ‘watching’ its curtains for that old amalgam filling still hanging on in there; it owes me nothing and has done me proud.

Rounded off, and totally out of the blue, I found myself in Moorfields A&E on Bank Holiday Friday afternoon. A scratch to my cornea or the beginnings of an ulcer (WTF!) - the doctor was unsure so decided an aggressive treatment strategy was needed. Hourly, night and day, eye drops for forty-eight hours, followed by five days waking hours, then four hourly for seven! And no contact lenses for a month. Blimey. I think most likely an abundance of caution but I’m not going to argue with my sight. In and out within two and a half hours, not bad, thank you NHS!

The joys of ageing…

Fun

Now for the fun stuff.

Two great films, one incredible play, a daytime ‘disco’ and a Norf London party.

The films were a contrast. Both at The Rio, my local cinema I mentioned in week #114-115

The first – The Christophers. A masterclass in acting from Ian McKellen, playing an ageing, once acclaimed, now cancelled and cantankerous artist. His rehabilitation, made possible by the appearance of the object of his scathing scorn, Michaela Cole. Set up by his less than scrupulous son and daughter (James Corden and Jessica Gunning) Michaela becomes Ian’s assistant. Beautifully shot and acted, well worth a watch.

The second, the 1996 film, Bound. Starring Gina Gershon and Jennifer Tilly the film is a classy, sexy, gangster movie. Unusual in having two leading women who start an affair then take on the mob. A cult film much loved by fans of film noir and lesbians in equal measure. The diverse audience at my cinema certainly had a good time.

The play, Mass at the Donmar. Set seven years after a school shooting in the USA, the parents of the shooter, Hayden, meet face to face with the parents of one of the victims, 14 year old Evan. The acting is sublime, tense, charged, heartbreaking. All four have lost so much. All struggling to move on. The play’s central themes - forgiveness and restorative justice. So raw, so tough, yet for the parents perhaps the only way to move forward after experiencing such violence and grief.

On Saturday I met a group of women from Noon to dance our hearts out at an ‘over 30s’ afternoon disco at Scala in Kings Cross. Two rooms to choose from – Indie or Club de Fromage. I floated between the two settling mainly for cheese, gotta love a Club Tropicana vibe on perhaps the hottest day of the year. And the best part? I was done by 5pm, leaving time to escape the heat of London for the rest of the bank holiday in the country.

And to top it all, Arsenal, my local team (and one of the three teams I support which I appreciate is not allowed…), won the Premiership after 22 years. North London, well half of it anyway, erupted when Bournemouth held Man City to a 1-1 draw.

All in all quite a week.

Soul

I’ve certainly been busy.

And I’ve had fun.

Spent some time with friends. Some time alone.

But have I fed my soul? I’m not so sure. Fortunately, as I write this, I’m on my way to see good friends in the country to just be. Good food, good wine, good chats. Nurturing, restorative, soulful calm time. Exactly what the soul ordered.

The thing is, it’s easy to be busy. That’s what I do.

And the world keeps on spinning.

And I’m another week older.

You

A slightly strange end to this post I know. A glimpse into my life. The fluff, froth and underbelly. Happy, yet slightly off par. It’ll pass. It always does.

Enough about me. As ever I’m interested in you. It’s easy to be busy isn’t it.

How do you ground yourself and make sure your soul is fed?

Pour yourself your favourite tipple and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today, accept not every day, week or month is perfect, just live them anyway.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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The empathy delusion. The title of a panel I attended last week at a financial planning conference. The subject of AI woven into practically every other sentence of every presentation. Visions of a world where AI will gobble up many of the technical roles existing today in financial planning.

The comforting caveat for most speakers and attendees - people will still want to interact with people when it comes to life’s big moments or decisions – births, death, divorce, redundancy, career changes, later life planning. Indeed, I wrote about this following the same conference twelve months ago.

Deconstructing the delusion

Against this backdrop I was fascinated to listen to a colleague, Dan, provoking his fellow panellists as he presented an alternative view.

His starting point: most financial planners expect to have face to face meetings with clients who talk openly about their debts, savings, pensions and investments alongside their hopes and dreams for the future.

But the reality for many clients, or potential clients? Talking about money is hard.

And it goes deeper than a simple lack of understanding of investment, tax and pensions. Money is a source of strong emotions - pride, shame, guilt, worry, anxiety, greed, over confidence, fear - to name but a few. I’ve lost count of the number of clients, women in particular, who said to me “I’m no good with money”, “Money’s boring” or “Just tell me I’ve got enough”. Code for, I don’t want to have this conversation.

No judgement, always available

Dan continued: It’s hardly surprising then that many people are turning to Claude or ChatGPT for their financial guidance and advice.

Claude: super helpful, friendly, non-judgemental, available 24/7. Sure, it may not be offering regulated advice as such, but it sails pretty close asking relevant and insightful questions to finesse the guidance it offers. All from the comfort of the sofa. An always on financial adviser. No sense of shame or embarrassment about asking ‘silly’ questions or the pretence of understanding when confusion prevails.

As I listened, I began to think Dan is on to something:

Are financial planners deluding themselves in believing the moat that protects their position is the ability to show empathy?

On a similar theme, Abraham, the founder of the firm powering the conference, used a powerful analogy of the US Admiral who, before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour, was adamant of its impenetrability. And we all know what happened there.

Those who think that chatting about this weekend’s Eurovision winners, FA Cup results or the weather means they have a strong relationship are no longer going to cut it. The tech natural client of the future, by which I mean now, will demand more.

Interest piqued, I prompted Claude directly:

“Do you have empathy?”

It told me it has “something that functions like empathy” adding:

“What I can’t claim with certainty is whether there’s genuine feeling behind it — the subjective, felt sense of ‘I know how that hurts’ that comes from human experience. I don’t know if I have inner experience at all, and I think intellectual honesty requires me to hold that question open rather than confidently assert either way…. empathy in practice is largely about behaviour — listening carefully, not dismissing emotions, trying to understand before responding, recognizing what someone needs in a given moment.”

Thinking about this fascinates and fries my brain in equal measure.

Might AI have the edge?

I’ll be bold and put it out there.

The better financial planners are skilled in deeply personal conversations using carefully trained questioning and listening skills . Gently coaching and guiding clients to good outcomes.

But AI might appear to exhibit empathy more convincingly than a significant proportion of financial advisers. Heresy? I think not.

In just twelve months, the momentum of AI has shifted noticeably. At last year’s conference the position of a financial planner with life coaching skills seemed assured. I’d posit it still is, yet none of us in the knowledge industries should rest on our laurels around the security of our position. The antidote will be a deliberate development of truly human skills; trust, behavioural management – when fear and greed rear their heads- the exploration of personal meaning and being there at the moments that really matter to listen, calm and guide.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. Financial Planner or ‘normal’ human, how are you using AI to guide you? And how do you see the future role of humans in advice and planning?

Reboot your brain and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today; what can the uniquely human you do today that can never be taken over by a machine? Go do it.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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Home from my travels, I’m settling back into London life.

Local life

I’ve loved my travels. And I’m happy to be home. Grateful to be back in England. London. Hackney. Back in time to witness this week’s local and mayoral elections. No longer a two-horse race, a shakeup of our political system not seen in my lifetime. In Hackney, a Labour stronghold, we’ve gone Green. In Havering, a mere twelve miles away, they’ve gone Reform.

The perfect backdrop to today’s post contrasting my experience of an ordinary May, Friday night/Saturday morning, and the quiet and free ‘highs’ of living where I do.

Friday night with The Godfather

On Friday I went to see a classic at my local turn of the 20^th century cinema, The Rio. Whilst not exactly ‘free’, The Rio has been a community-led charity since 1976.

My pick? The Godfather Part II in original 35mm film. I thought I’d seen it before, clearly my lack of recognition of any of it meaning I’d confused it with the original and Part III!

Introduced by Asif Kapadia, a Hackney born filmmaker, the near four-hour film (with an interval, just like old times) began. Part prequel, part sequel, it was the first film to bill itself as a ‘part two’, with outstanding performances by Al Pacino, Robert De Niro and Diane Keaton, to name but a few.

The crackly, slightly jumpy film, with its strangled sound part way through, enhanced the depiction of the times, moving back and forth between early 1900s and late 1950s Sicily and New York, as we watch Michael Corleone grow into the family business.

So many themes relevant today – corruption, power over, violence, sycophantism and the ‘supporting’ roles, violence and judgement of and towards women.

An extraordinary film. Made even better by the enthusiasm of the youngish film boff I sat next to who told me of the art house cinemas he frequented, sharing our mutual dislike of large, soulless multiplexes.

We said our goodbyes and I wandered home. My gangster land evening taking on a lighter theme as I lapped up the relaxed fun and party nature of Dalston High Street; a melting pot of London’s diverse cultural, religious and LGBTQ+ communities.

Saturday morning joy

Saturday started with a cycle across my local park, Clissold, and around the Emirates stadium (can Arsenal do it this year?1) to the glamour of my local dump - or to call it by its correct name, Hornsey Recycling and Reuse Centre, technically Islington not Hackney - to deposit my load. How satisfying to finally dump those old clothes and shoes, too worn out to give to a charity shop, I’ve been meaning to ‘rag’ for months, you know the ones…

Buoyed by my dump trip, and eventually recovered from a tendon mishap last Autumn which I chose not to bore you with, I decided to do a slow trot around aforementioned Clissold Park.

I love my local park in all weathers, but on a sunny Saturday May morning, it’s a joy. By 1030 the park was buzzing with runners of all shapes, sizes, ages and speed. Some alone, some in gangs, proof that running has become the new dating for twenty/thirty somethings. Runners mingling with the dog walkers, toddlers and grunting boot campers. Londoners at play before indulging in one of the many barista coffee sheds and carts dispensing reassuringly expensive single origin coffees and pastries. The atmosphere topped off by the May fair readying itself for a midday opening and the food festival already partly open to the early crowds.

Perspective

As I strolled home, red faced and sweaty, I reflected on my good fortune; to have loved my time away, and feeling content and happy to be home. My mood in contrast to the news oozing with stories of discontent, dislocation, inequality, and division.

I’m not denying we have difficulties and challenges. Yet there are communities, here in Hackney and beyond, living in (relative) harmony, accepting each other’s difference, and just getting on with life.

Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’m seeing the world through rose tinted spectacles, my age and good fortune insulating me from reality. There may be some truth in that. But perhaps I’m also a realist who sees the difficulties the country is facing and instead choses to see the simple things that are working too.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. What are the things you see or do in your local community that lift and inspire you? And, I must ask, have you seen The Godfather trilogy and if so, which is your favourite?

Grab yourself some popcorn and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today, stop delaying that trip to the dump, you know how chuffed you’ll feel once you do 😉

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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Last week the Assisted Dying bill (The Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) bill) ran out of time in the Lords. A private member’s bill bought forward by the MP Kim Leadbeater. Passionately and intelligently endorsed by the broadcasting legend we all grew up with, Esther Rantzen, herself terminally ill with lung cancer.

Filibustering

The bill was intended to allow those over 18 with a terminal illness - meaning they have less than 6 months to live - the choice of an assisted death. The recommended safeguards included oversight and ‘sign off’ by an ‘expert panel’, the members of which were under debate.

The unwhipped ‘free’ vote passed the Commons, 330 for to 275 against on its second reading. It then went to the Lords where over 1,000 amendments were tabled by a minority of Lords. Claims of filibustering have been made - the practice whereby a proponent talks and talks and talks essentially to prolong the debate such that the debate runs out of time.

Thoughts, experiences and observations

I don’t claim to know the intricacies of this debate, so I merely comment as a member of the public, who’s lived a bit of life, including a stint as a nurse, and years talking to clients about their plans for dying. Including one lovely guy, who, aged nearly 50, was diagnosed with a rapid form of Motor Neurone Disease – the same that took the life of Doddie Weir. My client knew he was going to die a distressing death, sentient to the end, having lost his ability to perform even the most basic of bodily functions. And all he could do was wait…

I also comment as a daughter having discussions with her mother. My mum, a woman who is 100% cognitively sound, certain that if she is unable to live a life of independence and knowing, she would rather not live. A statement I believe to be true. The reality though - macabre family jokes aside about my brother’s fishing pond, a small boat and a pair of concrete wellington boots - a decision such as this does not currently sit with the individual nor the family. In fact, by the time someone might wish to invoke such a right, they may have already lost the capacity to do so, a cruel irony.

Of course, we have Lasting Powers of Attorney, which can cover Health and Care decisions. This allows the ‘donor’ (the person who is appointing others to make decisions on their behalf) to direct their attorneys to make the decision whether to consent to life-sustaining treatment.

Yet an individual cannot choose the time they wish to die. And should another individual assist in anyway, such as a trip to Switzerland, they can be found guilty of assisted suicide which is illegal and punishable with up to fourteen years in prison. Incidentally, have you seen the Pedro Almodovar film The Room Next Door with the luminous Tilda Swinton and Julianne Moore? Watch it. Thought provoking, beautifully acted and stunningly shot.

It’s complex yet…

I can of course see the risks of such a bill becoming law. Potential abuse from relatives perhaps keen to receive an inheritance or relieve themselves of heavy caring duties. Dependant individuals feeling they don’t want, or shouldn’t be, a burden to relatives. Some may not have the mental capacity to understand the implications of a life ending decision not to mention those suffering from severe mental ill health or depression who might not take such a decision were they in receipt of effective treatment. All need to be protected, without doubt. Of course there must be safeguards.

There will be some who disagree with euthanasia or assisted suicide on religious grounds. Views which also need to be respected.

There are many who would argue if our End of Life and Palliative care services were properly funded and more robust, those facing these heart-breaking decisions might have different options.

And then of course there is the Hippocratic oath taken by our doctors, the commitment to cause no harm - an undeniable tension with assisted dying. I believe our medical profession does its best to manage this in close discussion with family members or next of kin but, in my experience, this happens right at the end, the end of life. When it’s too late to make any other choices.

Like so many decisions in life this is not clear cut. It’s complex. The tension clearly exists. And right now, I have never had to make this decision personally, or in collaboration with someone I love. Yet I can’t help but think, as an advanced society, the option to manage this most important choice should exist.

Kim Leadbeater has vowed to bring back the assisted dying bill in the next parliamentary session. Let’s see what happens.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. What are your views on Assisted Dying? And what experiences may you have to share. Pour yourself a thoughtful brew and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

It’s a tough one this week. But, as Esther would have said way back when, ‘That’s Life’. Life at any age, and not least when you’ve entered your 1000Weeks. Which reminds me, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today, do you need to have a conversation with someone about your or their end of life wishes? Not easy but I’m sure you won’t regret it.

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

ps photo, Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington this morning, worth a trip.

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My Mallorcan vacation continues.

One of the reasons we come here is to cycle. As do many of the tourists here right now.

Made for cycling

Those canny Mallorcans realised some years ago there is a whole cycling market to cater for in the off-summer season. And cater they do, very well.

Velvety tarmacked roads, Hackney, and to be fair most of the UK, eat your pot-holed hearts out. Sweeping mountain switchbacks varying in length and gradient. Breathtaking coastal vistas. Evocative smells, oranges, lemons and spring blossoms.

Freshly brewed coffee, thirst-quenching orange juice and tasty tapas stops dotted along the way in beautiful hillside and port towns.

Respectful motorists, patiently waiting and giving distance as the cyclists climb up and down the hills.

Cycling meccas in villages such as Pollenca, built to cater to every velo whim.

Essentials

Kit and clothing are an essential part of the cycling experience. The precious metal bicycles with their whirring wheels, near-silent electric gear changers and efficient disc brakes. The essential clippy cleats, melding person and bicycle as one.

Then the gadgets. Beeping and buzzing as groups pull in for refuelling, monitoring every movement - heart rate, speed, metres climbed, distance travelled, cadence, calories consumed - all ready to upload to Strava to tell of the day’s highs and lows.

And then there is the Lycra. Clingy, crevice-and-bulge-hugging, encasing cyclists one and all, young and old. The adonis-like young men and women, not an ounce of fat between them, all sporting the muted pastels of the season; not colours for the faint-hearted. To be sure, there is also a fair mix of MAMILs (Middle Aged Men in Lycra) among them, with a sparse but determined sprinkling of more-than-middle-aged, Lycra-clad women. We know who we are.

My rides and experiences

Our climb out of Port Soller over the Col de Soller — some 10km from sea level to peak, with an average gradient of 5.7%. Chuff, chuff, chuff, as we slowly make our way up the mountain. Thirty switchbacks in all. The toughness eased by my Spotify playlist of legendary artists: Katrina and the Waves bringing the sunshine, Kate Bush running me up that hill, Erasure demanding A Little Respect (fair enough), and those Four Non-Blondes asking What’s Going On?

The descents are dramatically less gruelling on the heart, lungs and legs, replaced instead with fear, concentration, and a constant inner monologue about loose stones and buses swinging just a little too wide around the next corner.

Some days a pleasant 40km, others a more gruelling 70km with 2,000 metres of climbing spread over seven peaks. Each of us riding our own pace. Some faster uphill, some like bullets downhill. Regrouping along the way, encouraging each other when it gets tough, and comforting ourselves with the entirely reasonable observation:

“How many other 62-year-old women have you seen out today?”

What joy. Exercise, sun, mountains, sea, friends. I can’t think of many better ways to spend a day.

Which leads me back, as I often do, to reflecting on and cherishing the life-enhancing, compunding benefits of being outside and moving my body. Counting myself supremely lucky that I can and do. Long may it continue.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. And I’m conscious I’ve lingered rather lovingly on my Mallorcan sojourn for three weeks now - normal service resumes on Sunday when I return to Blighty. My question to you is this: cyclist or not, what sporting or exercise culture do you belong to, whether as participant, spectator or fan? And what are the must-have kit, gadgets and clothing that go with it?

Pour yourself a protein shake and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember: you’re never going to be any younger than you are today. What one thing can you challenge yourself to do this week to raise your heart rate? I have no doubt you won’t regret it.

Until next week, my friends,

Ruth x

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Our Mallorca adventure continues. Four, soon to be five, women in a house on a hill, overlooking the stunning, forever changing, Tramuntana mountains. When the mist and rain lifts anyway.

This blog almost didn’t see the light of day. My mind has been empty. Just enjoying the sun, the early morning sea dips, cycling, chatting, eating, drinking, reading, studying…but then, I kinda made a promise to commit to a weekly muse. And after all, it’s been raining for the last 36 hours so here’s today’s.

A taste of the communal

In some ways this follows my Come Live with Me thoughts. The benefits and accommodations of living with others, even if just temporarily. Four/five women. All in their later fifties and early sixties. Each a product of the years leading to today. Experiences, relationships, habits, upbringing. All playing out in how we navigate three to four weeks of communal living.

A fascination for me is the roles we play and the tasks we naturally default to.

My three friends, each amazing cooks. I’m not. Each night we eat delicious, creative, healthy food. Fish and vegetables grilled, baked, barbequed, roasted. The odd sausage thrown in for good measure.

My role becomes shopper, chopper, table setter, bottle opener, and clearer-upper. All valuable supportive roles. Never the main act. But that works for me; here at least. Why wouldn’t it, I get to eat delicious food in the company of good friends. And someone’s got to be in the chorus line.

I’m also pretty adept at rubbish and recycling, which can be a puzzle in overseas lands. My sensitive nose identifying when food is on the turn or leftovers in need of disposal. And give me a broom or a brush to sweep away errant crumbs and I’m away.

Ingrained habits

It’s curious to observe the habits of my friends. One an inability to shut a cupboard door. Another a need for geometry of items. The other fresh air. Me, I’m drawn to light whether natural, electric or candle.

Each finding a way. Giving each other space. Letting each other be. Recognising we are all odd creatures.

Last night we were talking about our homelives growing up.

One of my friends making us laugh about her mother’s “BN Box” – the Bloody Nuisance Box. In her childhood home her mother’s mantra “a place for everything, and everything in its place”. If it wasn’t, it went in the BN Box.

What a perfect solution to a messy teenager who can never find anything. We don’t have a BN Box as yet, but I guess there’s still time.

Another friend recalled her mum’s egalitarian and foresighted holiday decision to plan food and cook one day each week with her, or one of her two siblings, a sister and a brother, encouraging the art of cooking as she went.

Unlike my friend, I recalled the sexist division of tasks in my home – me the food prep and ironing. My brother the rubbish or any electrical tasks…we don’t talk about the exploding electric blanket. In those pre-You Tube days nobody had told him the importance of the ‘earth’. I guess he had to learn somehow.

Fascinating how we are all formed by these early experiences and how they travel with us through life.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. What’s the division of tasks and habits in your home? And how do you recall the chores being split growing up?

Put down that broom and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today, is it time to drop that ingrained, irritating (for others) habit of old?

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

Thanks for reading week 112. If you enjoyed it, or it rang a nostalgic bell, please do leave a comment, a ❤️, subscribe or share. Why not all four? Thank you.

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I rather fancy myself as a woman who relishes new things, change, different experiences. Yet arriving to Port Soller on Thursday for a few weeks with friends, I found myself gratefully relaxing into the familiar. Self-image dimmed!

The source

The source of my familiarity envelops me; the route from the airport, arriving into the Port, the hotel, the bars, the restaurants, the bike hire shop. The welcome from the restaurateurs remembering our annual visits. The Dorada, the Albariño, the various salts – local, Maldon and the forever untouched ‘eggy’ variety from Pakistan.

The cycle ride, climbing from the Port, up the switchbacks to Deia. The long slog from Deia slowly climbing to the peak, legs grumbling, head chattering, before the steep sharp down into Valldemosa. Lunch at Cappuccino, looking onto the town square, served by familiar waiters. All of us showing signs of gentle annual ageing. The arrival of more friends joining us for the umpteenth year running, all equally relaxing into the easy familiarity.

Competing yet compatible

The familiar v the unfamiliar? Each has its attraction. Competing yet compatible. Both have their place and balance.

Arriving to Port Soller offers predictability. Comfort. Anxiety falls away. An easy routine sets in. The ease of being with friends. Supporting each other through ageing parent worries and health niggles. Laughing, chatting, swimming and cycling up steep hills together. Time together and time apart. A welcome and easy escape from normal life.

But stay too long and the relaxing escape morphs. Boredom and a sense of stagnation seep into the initially welcoming routine. I start to crave difference, the unfamiliar. Something new, whether place, people or experience.

Claude, my AI of choice, tells me what I’m feeling is what makes us human. The tension between security and adventure. An evolutionary survival mechanism and the fuel of personal growth.

Each unique

Observing my friends I sense we each have differing tolerances for the new and the familiar. Whether in relationships, career, location, travel, pastimes, food…I guess that’s what makes each of us unique. Routine leading to contentment or discontent depending on where you land on the familiar – unfamiliar continuum.

Sometimes I feel too restless. Sometimes not enough. Maybe it’s enough to just recognise my own individual balance. Familiar foundations in one space giving me the courage to seek unfamiliarity in another. The boundary conditions ebbing and flowing as I move through time. One only existing due to the presence of the other.

You

As ever, I’m interested in you. Where do you sit on the familiar – unfamiliar spectrum? What are your familiarity non-negotiables and where do you seek novelty?

Pour yourself a comfortable drink of choice and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be any younger than you are today, what’s one familiar yet neglected thing you could do today to ease and comfort yourself?

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

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Sorry. Couldn’t help it. No this isn’t a reflection on the ubiquitous Heaven 17 song. This is a contemplation of communal living.

Dinner party talk

Friends and I have been talking about pooling our resources and living together for ages, normally after the second bottle of wine…But out of this dinner party chat, a few of us, less restrained by money, age, work, family or geography, are starting to talk more seriously about making this happen.

As the financial planner in the group, I’m charged with exploring ownership structures and finances. Which led me to a fascinating conversation last week with a woman who has made co living happen with her husband, children and two other families.

Before we spoke I’d done my share of thinking on the subject- how do you decide on the location and structure of the property; what’s the legal agreement; is the financial commitment equal or on an affordability basis; how do you divide the square footage fairly; how are collective decisions made; what are the boundary conditions; what if someone gets ill, falls out, finds a partner, loses a partner, dies? It’s easy to stop before you start.

But how?

Which brings me back to my conversation this week. My new friend generously shared her community’s journey. Their collective why. Their decision-making matrix. The financial commitment. The property viewings – which amazingly turned out to be just one! The purchase process. The legal decisions. The development of each home. The Memorandum of Understanding they drew up. The collective expectations. And how they made their dream happen.

Like most dreams it’s had its challenges but six years later they all continue to live happily together but apart. The model they chose, separate but adjoining homes. In and out of each other’s houses but independent. Separate but with a shared garden, land and assets to use and be taken care of. Agreed rules in place to manage differing views of ‘done’, ‘enough’ or ‘left as found’. Harmony maintained by weekly round tables where everyone shares what’s going on for them allowing ‘stuff’ to be aired.

She was clear it’s not all rose coloured spectacles. She told me of a few friends who’ve done similar projects with different ownership and legal structures where things didn’t go to plan.

Collective courage

As we spoke it became clear it’s all in the planning. The anticipation of potential problems. Managing risk as far as possible. Completing a pre-mortem1 and keeping the collective conversation rolling on an ongoing basis. Communication, as ever, key.

The thing that excited me most was her answer to my question:

“What has been the best outcomes from living together?”

The colour and warmth of her reply crystallising the idea for me. The leverage arising from collective organisation- in their case large projects, parties and gatherings. The collective courage of the group - the whole being more than the sum of its parts, and being with and seeing daily the people she loves and cares for.

Love that.

The next stage for me and my friends is to build a collective spreadsheet to gather each of our ‘core’, ‘nice to have’ and ‘wow’ property and living criteria. Bring on the highlighter pens, gantt charts and coloured pencils!

I know co-living isn’t for everyone but it really appeals to me. I like my own space but I am not a fan of living on my own. Why live on your own, or as a couple, when you could share with others? I’ll keep you posted.

You

As ever I’m interested in you.

What are your thoughts and or experiences of co-living? And what am I not thinking of in my Pre-Mortem that I really should include?

Brew yourself a cafetière of your favourite coffee and drop me a line, I’d love to hear from you.

And remember, you’re never going to be younger than you are today, what’s the first step you can do this week to make your dream a reality?

Until next week my friends,

Ruth x

ps photo is Grayson Perry’s stunning House For Essex which I was lucky enough to stay in with friends in February 2020.

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