Holiday reds

Given that the bottle was now enjoying its third day, I didn't expect it to be amazing. The over-excited rush of the competing fruits from day one wouldn't be there. Nor would the mellowed out smoothness from day two, washing over you like the gentle strum of a guitar in the early hours of the morning at a party nobody's in a hurry to leave.

The best I could hope for was drinkable really. After my first uncertain sip I acknowledged the merits of a fair trial and started to go back for a second opinion, when all of a sudden: BAM! There it was. The signature farewell of a quality red: the sumptuous, lingering aftertaste.

As I scurried around our little campervan to locate the cheese and thereby placate my tastebuds (is it only mine who oftentimes beg for the combination?), I realised that our latest holiday, like those before it, had much in common with my liquid friend. At first, the new experiences are wonderfully overwhelming. With a gasp of awe, or a yelp of excitement, we welcome the assault on our senses. Then softly, quietly, the breathtaking view begins to fade in power as we become accustomed to its presence. Or the thrilling crocodile swim-past a mere metre away becomes a relaxing boat trip, our thoughts idly drifting to what's next on the agenda, photos (as opposed to limbs - fret not, dear reader) safely snapped.

We may think the experience is diminishing, but the delightful truth is that the real splendour is in the memory. How many times will we recall these moments and smile? Or recount them to friends and family, and watch the smiles multiply? And can we even begin to quantify how much closer it has brought me and my campervan companion, my husband of five years, partner of ten, to behold these beauties side by side, our experiences morphing with each recollection into some sort of joint keepsake?

And so on this note, as my glass drains, it seems fitting that I should propose a toast: to life's glorious aftertastes. Drink up friends; this is the stuff smiles are made of.

Heads down, thumbs up

... was a brilliant primary school game. You'd sit at our desk, forehead resting on your crossed arms, thumbs defiantly standing tall. Nervously you'd listen for the footsteps approaching, and when they got near enough you'd strain a peek at the shoes (if you could) as the cold, clammy fingers pressed down on yours. Always a dead giveaway, if you could see the shoes. (And by the way, it's wasn't cheating. The game name started "Heads down", not "Eyes closed", so you could get off on a technicality. Aye, we were all lawyers in those days.)

Once all those who were "it" had chosen their victims and returned to the front of the room, the "Heads up" call announced that it was time for the flattened thumb owners to guess their perpetrators. Who did it? Who tiptoed up? Who put your thumbs down?

Sometimes I wonder if I'm still playing the game today. And I see other people playing it too. We're all merrily going about our lives, thumbs metaphorically up in that widely recognised symbol of positivity, when all of a sudden, someone squashes our happiness. It could be a direct hit, or it might just be a gentle nudge, but whatever it is, we come out of the experience with our outlook tarnished, standing a little less tall, bearing a slightly smaller smile.

Who did it to you today, dear reader? Who skulked close enough to get to you and change you for the worse? Did you get a good look at their shoes? It's quite probably not who we think it is. Very often we're quick to call out the unfortunate straw that broke the camel's back, when the real culprit was the person who wore us down earlier in the day, for example. Or the colleague who failed to support us in an important situation. Or the permanently needy friend who drained our energies by bringing the mood down and offering nothing in return for the fifth time in a row.

Look for the shoes. Really look for those shoes.* Then you have two choices: kill the behaviour outright (if the person's worthy of your trust they'll listen; if they're really worthy they'll act on it), or else get that person far enough away that they can't put your thumbs down again.

It really is that simple, folks. I've heard it said that you're the average of the five people you spend the most time with. Make them people who rejoice in seeing your thumbs up, and you'll find it very hard for those proud, upstanding digits to be any other way. And how great would the world be then, eh?


* It's not cheating, remember.

Right of way

"Don't get in MY way."

The voice came from inside a grey ute. Slightly startled and wondering if I'd accidentally cycled into the Goldilocks' fairy tale ("Who's been eating MY porridge?"), I glanced into the vehicle and saw a firm - but to be fair, not menacing - face looking out at me, his sun-worn skin lending him age beyond his years.

As it happened I carried on well clear of his lane, and when we both turned on to the main road I watched as he aggressively tailgated the car in front before ultimately screeching past the poor driver who presumably hadn't been lucky enough to receive the same warning I did (though my sun-worn friend did seem to offer him a helpful dose of constructive criticism whilst speeding off).

But you know, for all I spent the rest of my ride pontificating on various witty retorts ("I'm sure that's a rule most girls do their damndest to keep" / "Got any plans for Valentine's Day?" etc.), I realised my leathery friend had at least one redeeming quality: he set out his position, and when this was compromised, he took action.

I'm going to let you into a secret, dear reader: I love instructions. I think it stems from Lego manuals as a youngster. What looked like a random assemble of bricks would, if I faithfully followed each step, magically transform into a space station (or a castle, or a fire engine - buildings were best, but vehicles with flashing lights which had 3 settings (3!) were pretty cool too).

Now keep this thought with you while we meander on - I promise the threads will entwine later...

There's one word in the English language that someone can use in conversation that makes my heart sink, my eyes narrow, and my whole frame start to cave just a little. With that one word I know damage has been done: this irreversible emotion may well fade in time, but will forever leave a slight tarnish.

"Disappointed."

Even reading it now, you feel a sense of flatness, don't you, dear reader? It conjures up moments we'd all prefer to forget; times when we've not been perceived to be at our best; episodes where we've felt frustratingly helpless, knowing there's little we can do. For even if the disappointment is unwarranted, I'd wager this is one of the most difficult feelings to dissipate. Under the right circumstances, anger can be quietened remarkably quickly, frustration can be calmed, and panic alleviated, but the half-life of disappointment can seem interminably drawn-out.

Fortunately, I've observed an interesting phenomenon: when we know what's expected of us, we are far less likely to disappoint one another. Sure, we may not always do exactly what was originally asked of us, but we understand the other person's needs and minimise the potential fallout when we give fair warning. We text when we're running 5 minutes late. We clarify that the visit can only be a short one. We flag that a project's going to finish a week after planned. People are just as frustrated I believe by the mismatch in original expectations, but for some not-entirely-fathomable reason (to my mind anyway) they don't wander into that spirit-crushing d-word territory - and the relationships recalibrate much more quickly as a result.

So where does the Lego fit in, I hear you ask? Well, from now on I'm going to try harder to issue - and listen to - instructions. For while I have no desire to share tarmac with my ute-driving neighbour again any time soon, my realisation that I couldn't profess to be disappointed by his behaviour has led me down a very interesting path indeed tonight. Luckily for me, he very much got in my way.