The joys (and pitfalls) of the comfort zone

Last weekend I decided to do something a bit different. Instead of the usual lie-in, lunch and shopping, followed by a few mojitos, I attended a 2-day ‘inspirational and motivational’ course.

Always the cynic, I was sceptical from the start, refusing to wear my name badge and darting towards an empty seat on the back row (in case I fell asleep or needed to make a quick getaway).

The minute I sat down I’d resigned myself to the fact this course was going to be utter rubbish. No doubt the speakers would be preachy and unqualified do-gooders and it would be a total waste of time.

As time went on, my train of thought lost all sense of logic. I looked around me. No one looked like my kind of person. They all looked a bit weird. It could be a cult. What if they brainwash me and then, when I’m least expecting it, kidnap me and bundle me into the back of a van?!

I felt tense. I was outside my comfort zone and I definitely didn’t like it. I longed for my familiar Saturday routine; my lie-in and shopping. Panicking slightly, I checked out the windows to see if they provided a viable escape route.

All of a sudden I was brought back to reality by the sound of a woman’s soothing voice. I thought I may as well hear it out for a while. I could always scarper at break time if it wasn’t my kind of thing.

Fast-forward an hour and I was on the edge of my seat hanging off the woman’s every word. My earlier fears had completely vanished. I’d learned it was perfectly normal to move outside your comfort zone. In fact, by getting out of bed and attending the course I’d actually taken myself into ‘stretch zone’ without even realising.

I pinpointed my fears and ‘limiting beliefs’ and found myself telling total strangers my life story. The speakers encouraged us to set lifetime goals for ourselves and break them down into five achievable steps. Suddenly my crazy fantasies and daydreams actually became realistic.

By the end of the course I felt on top of the world. I’d realised my biggest limiting belief was a lack of confidence in myself and my general ability. I always look at others and think they're better than me.

But last weekend changed my entire way of thinking. Obviously I’m not planning to become an egotistical bag of hot air any time soon, but I’ve definitely got some new-found self belief. I've even decided to leave my job so I can focus 100 percent on becoming a journalist. 

The moral of the story? Ditch the shopping and take yourself out of your comfort zone once in a while. You never know where it might get you.

An ode to mayonnaise

I treated myself to a pea-sized portion of full fat mayo on my sarnie today. Doing so made me think back to the days when I would slather the stuff over everything I ate, blissfully unaware I might as well be wolfing down a lump of lard.

After a night at the student union it would be considered almost rude not to head to the local kebab shop for a large portion of chips, cheese and mayonnaise. Followed by a greasy fry-up the next morning and a burger with chips between lectures.

From the way I've just described my student lifestyle you'd think my physique was comparable to a spacehopper. But it was actually the opposite. I was 8 and a half stone and a size 8.

When I started working I learned the importance of being healthy. No longer could I rely on getting my energy from long lie-ins and my exercise from throwing shapes on the dance floor.

Developing 'office arse' scared me into action. As each day passed I could feel the gradual expansion of my bum as it started spreading itself across my office chair...and it didn't feel good. Then, whilst shopping in H&M I caught sight of my cellulite in the mirror and nearly dropped dead from a heart attack.

So, I started eating my 5-a-day, cooking from fresh and even (in a desperate attempt to maintain my weight) subscribed to Good Food magazine. Okay, admittedly I only choose the tasty looking recipes, which generally aren't in the 'Super Healthy Suppers' section, but there's no doubt I've cut out some serious calories.

Not to mention joining the local gym and vowing to do four workouts a week. After a hellish session on the treadmill and cross-trainer (my fourth in the space of 5 days), I decided to weigh myself. Feeling completely smug and very proud of myself, I was imagining huge weight loss as I stepped onto the scales. After all, I'd virtually killed myself over the past few weeks with my heavy exercise regime. I'd envisaged I'd dropped at least half a stone, if not more!

I gasped loudly as I found out my true weight...and not in a good way. A million thoughts instantly flashed through my mind, the first being that the scales must have been broken. I mean that was the only way. How, how could I weigh an entire stone more than I did at Uni? It was just so unfair and seemed clinically impossible.

After I'd calmed down a tad, a light bulb pinged inside my head. Instead of focusing upon the weight I was, I need to be happy with the weight I am. It's unlikely I'll ever be a size 8 again, but I'm a size 10 which isn't exactly massive. Living in London and being constantly surrounded by willowy women who sashay past in their Chanel sunglasses and trendy clothes made me lose a sense of who I am. What I hadn't thought was they probably survive on a lettuce leaf a day to maintain their weight.

One of my best friends - a qualified nutritionist - once told me I could eat everything as long as it was in moderation. So I spread some mayo on my sarnie then had a slice of my brother's birthday cake. And guess what? I didn't feel guilty at all.

To tell or not to tell, that is the question...

The latest leaders' debate sparked a rather interesting discussion in my office on Friday. Sitting at my desk, I was engrossed in writing an urgent email when a booming voice from the upstairs office nearly gave me a coronary.

My boss, in his typically inappropriate fashion, had begun hollering his opinion on the previous evening's debate to anyone who'd listen. A staunch Lib Dem supporter, he wouldn't hear a word against Nick Clegg's performance, announcing it would be 'a complete joke' if the opposing parties came into office. He then launched into a tirade, criticising just about everything from David Cameron's immigration policy to Gordon Brown's choice of tie.

It soon became apparent this was a one-man debate. The few who'd dared disagree were immediately lambasted, so we all shifted in our seats uncomfortably, hoping the outburst would soon come to an end. It only got worse. Finishing a long-winded speech slating David's fake tan, my boss turned to me saying: "So who are you voting for?"

The dreaded question. I'm the most open person in the world under normal circumstances, quite happy to divulge details of my life to pretty much anyone prepared to listen. However, there are a couple of things I think should be kept quiet. Call me old fashioned, but I've been brought up to believe there are two topics you should never discuss: your salary and who you vote for.

My Dad (a Conservative who always pretends to vote Lib Dem) told me to keep my mouth shut when it came to politics; especially in the workplace. I pointed out I wasn't about to shave my head and join the BNP, but he told me to keep quiet all the same.

Hence why I refused to tell my boss (and eavesdropping colleagues) who I'll be voting for come May 6th. Admittedly I was being a bit self-righteous in the wake of his completely unprofessional outburst, but I had the right to remain silent and I was using it.

His response? "Oh you're such a fucking Tory!" Errr, hang on a minute. He’d just slapped a label on me despite having no facts whatsoever. I’d been judged...in front of all my colleagues. 

The whole debacle got me thinking. Should you tell? Why are politics still such a taboo subject? Why, in this day and age, should people worry they'll be judged by others for supporting a particular political party?

The answer is they shouldn't. We're lucky enough to live in a 21st century democracy, not a dictatorship. People should keep their views private because they want to, not for fear of being discriminated against because they have differing opinions to others.

Whatever the outcome on May 6th, I'll be safe in the knowledge I didn't shout my views from the rooftops. My boss, on the other hand, might be forced to eat a rather large slice of humble pie. 

Caught red-handed

We've all done it. Said something we shouldn't have - and immediately regretted it. Whether it's having a crafty bitch and being caught out, or making a controversial joke in the wrong company, it's a horrendous feeling.

Luckily for the majority of loose-tongued people, this feeling is one that lingers a few days and quickly dies a death. A new piece of juicy gossip replaces it and all is practically forgotten, with the culprit having well and truly learned their lesson.

Shame the same can't be said for poor Fergie. A woman who's made more fatal errors of judgment than Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig on the battle of the Somme, she's enjoyed a few tabloid-free years before once again being slaughtered by the press.

Candidly claiming she was so broke she "didn't have a pot to piss in," the Dutchess thought she was chatting to an international business tycoon when she offered to 'open doors' and set up a meeting with her Trade Envoy ex-husband. And all for the measly sum of £500,000.

Unfortunately for her, the businessman was actually an undercover News of the World reporter with a camera hidden somewhere in his lapel. That camera was whirring away as she pocketed her £40,000 deposit. And the story was soon splashed over the front cover of every red-top in the country, leaving her highly embarrassed (yet again) and with no other choice but to make a public apology.

You've gotta hand it to Sarah. It's probably the most spectacular gaffe of the year so far (with Gordon's 'bigoted woman' coming close second). But it's the latest in a string of faux-pas made by the former Princess since marrying Andrew in 1986. In fact, the woman's committed social suicide on a number of occasions, with the long-suffering Queen finally washing her hands of her and encouraging other red-faced royals to do the same.

But is all of this Sarah's fault? Okay, she's lived a privileged life most of us could only dream of. Never has she had to brave the tube at rush hour with someone's sweaty armpit in her face. Come winter, despite being dogged with debt, she's the first to hop into a first class seat, champagne glass in hand, headed for sunnier climes and some millionaire's luxury yacht.

She's also peed a considerable sum of cash up the wall when most responsible adults on a divorce settlement of £15,000 a year might have saved a few pennies for a rainy day.

But being posh doesn't mean she's the sharpest tool in the box. Neither does it mean she's streetwise - least of all when it comes to the media. You'd think with all the millions the royals had stashed away they might have sent the poor woman on a media training course. Prince Philip really should have joined her...they might have even been able to haggle a BOGOF deal.

Her latest slip-up was crazy behaviour even by her standards, but it's also desperate behaviour from someone who should have just been paid off by the tight-fisted royals in the first place. If the £15,000 a year settlement rumours are true, it's a surprise she's even got a roof over her head, never mind a pot to pee in.

So come on Queen Liz, pay off Fergie's debts and buy her a place in the Caribbean. That way you may never have to read about her again. For another few years anyway...

Every cloud has a silver lining...

Move over election…all everyone’s talking about right now is that cloud of ash.

Its continued presence over Europe’s airspace is dominating the headlines and causing all hell to break loose on the ground.

Unlike the Eurostar debacle last Christmas, it’s not just the average Joe who has been affected by the flight ban. A whole host of celebs have been forced to unpack their Louis Vuitton luggage and chuck out their first class tickets.

Demi Moore has cancelled her press junket. Miley Cyrus can’t attend the premiere of her latest film. Katie Price is marooned in Egypt. And, shock horror, Whitney Houston had to brave the passenger ferry to Ireland.  

Joking aside, there are still over 150,000 British people stuck abroad, which probably isn’t the biggest barrel of laughs.  Especially if you’re travelling alone. There’s no doubt if it happened to me (being the drama queen I am), I’d have sent a melodramatic text to everyone in my phonebook telling them of my ‘horrific’ ordeal and warning them they may never see me again.

However, if there’s one thing us Brits are good at it’s pulling together in times of difficulty. I’ve heard all kinds of heart-warming stories from honeymooners giving up their luxury hotel suite to stranded pensioners, to triumphant backpackers cycling across Europe to get home. 

But let’s put things into perspective. Nobody’s been killed or hurt. The world hasn’t come to an end. Quite the opposite - the 6-day flight ban has actually saved around 2.8 million tonnes of CO2 emissions from being pumped into the Earth’s atmosphere. This is more than the annual emissions produced by developing countries such as Malawi and Rwanda put together.

We’re so used to having everything instantaneously at our fingertips we’ve forgotten air travel is a privilege not a right.  If the hullaballoo surrounding the flight ban teaches us anything it’s that Mother Nature rules. And she’s allowed to be bossy occasionally!

The moment of truth...

I've got to admit I don't usually have a eureka moment on a Saturday night whilst I'm sipping a cocktail in some trendy bar. But last weekend I made an exception. After a long conversation about careers with a group of friends it didn't take long for me to realise only one out of the five of us was actually happy in our jobs. No one was desperately unhappy...just plodding along in jobs they didn't enjoy.

It was still on my mind the next day, prompting me to do a bit of internet research into job satisfaction. I was shocked to find an article on the BBC website claiming over 50% of workers in the UK hate their jobs. And it only got worse. Since the recession hit Britain things have apparently got so bad nearly 20% of these workers can't even face getting up in the morning.

Reading that article made me wake up and smell the cappuccino. It's not that I hate my job. It's just not what I want to do. It doesn't inspire me. I can't see myself still doing it in ten years' time. In fact, I'd been so busy attempting to climb the career ladder I'd tried very hard to ignore the fact it was propped up against the wrong house. So, it was that moment, that very second, I decided to turn my life around and pursue my dream career.

I've always known what I really want to do. Aged ten we had a 'career day' at Primary School. Everyone in class had to do a five minute presentation 'in character', playing the role of whoever they wanted to be when they grew up. There were the standard doctors, nurses, teachers and lawyers. Then there was me.

Loving being centre of attention for a full five minutes, I went all out, dressed in my smartest skirt and blouse, with a pair of fake plastic glasses to make me look 'professional.' I also brought along a prop to make me really look the part - my gran's old typewriter. I thought I looked like a real journalista. Truth was, my look was more Enid Blyton than Jo Elvin ;-)

Fast-forward fourteen years and here I am. It's now or never...after all I have a quarter century birthday looming! So I decided to start this blog to document my quest for journalistic fame and use as a platform to express my opinions, ideas and occasionally vent my frustrations! Watch this space.