Category: UIO: You Inside Out

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Why I Bother to Drive

Monday mornings in west London are bustling with road users, lorries dropping off loads, blocking the roads, motorists, cyclists and heavy sidewalks of pedestrians, the odd one or two spilling onto the streets, all amid road works. Great, pretty much the only day I take the car out on cue. Sometimes I wonder why I bother.

In short, it is the most convenient way for me to get to my weekly hair appointment. And the truth be known, it gives me an opportunity to do some character analysis and character building.

Behind a steering wheel, I continue to learn a lot about myself, some of it is admirable and some, well that is the part I need to keep working on. That is where the character building comes in.

But first the admirable part. I feel incredibly independent when I am driving, but not at the expense of others, more on that later. The point is this sense of independence is indelibly linked to my self-esteem. I hate hailing taxis, and I am not so mad on the London Underground either. And with a broken toe, my ability to walk long distances has been put on ice but that is another blog.

No wonder I didn’t hesitate to get my UK license when I moved country’s nearly 30 years ago. Already driving for nearly 20 years, I thought my transition would go without a hitch. It did not. One failed practical test after a major fault, cutting someone off at a roundabout, and a few fender benders later, I felt traumatised but if I was going to hang on to a shred of my independence, after all I had left life as I knew it behind in the US, I needed to keep driving. So, I did.

Alongside maintaining my sense of independence, driving had already taught me some of life’s most important lessons, including how to manage a crisis, (okay, I worked in crisis management for years in New York but driving came first). Anyhow, possibly the first accident that I had as a driver involved skidding and hydroplaning. The lesson: do not panic. Control what you can and let go of the rest. Fair enough, my father, the chief defensive driving instructor for the Marines stationed in Albany, Ga, at one of the country’s largest logistic/supply bases, might have helped with the lesson but either way it came through driving. 

In addition, driving continues to help me understand the importance of interdependence. Sure, independence is great, but we cannot live in this world alone. Furthermore, driving keeps me reaching for that illusive concept of patience, no wonder I keep driving. But before you judge let me be clear, I do not do road rage, though I am provoked regularly, speed demons tailgating in a 20-mph zone, laying on their horn and all the rest. And cyclists, need I say more. Whatever happened to obeying the traffic laws and riding in the lanes that were built especially for you. Never mind, pedestrians wandering in the road aimlessly and sauntering across a motorists’ green light.

Thankfully, I am a seasoned, quite skilled driver who handles it with tact, most of the time. Here is the thing, we need each other to use the road, safely, right? So why not yield to the lessons that life is throwing at us?

Recently, after an onslaught of hazards that came to a screeching halt in backed up traffic, I let out a sigh and mumbled that I was tired and would no longer moan or be goaded into aggression. Suddenly, my car went into action, announcing loudly the energising programme that I did not even know we had. No kidding, my seat went into a lively, sports massage with blue lights flashing all around. It was terrifying. Thankfully, it responded as swiftly to my command to stop as it did the inadvertent one to start.

Honestly, this was a test of patience–AI spying on me. Trust me, I have come a long way in this area, though I still have a long way to go. I am a work in progress but if I keep driving, I have a feeling I will get there. That is why I bother.

 

 

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Know Your Big Red Buttons

I have always known that effective communication is important—it’s one of the hallmarks of a healthy relationship, of course. No matter who the relationship is with—spouse, partner, friend, child, parent, boss, hairdresser and so on.

But it is only recently that I realised that good communications, when it goes awry, bad communications that is, is one of my Big Red Buttons. Apparently, we all have them, the things that get the nerves in a tailspin. You know what I mean. And once that button is pushed, a sort of neurosis likely follows.

For example, a strew of ignored messages and emails, unanswered calls and pretence that it is normal behaviour puts me into an unhealthy space. Metaphorically, my head begins to let out steam like Fred Flintstone in the Flintstone’s cartoon when he was angry. And the mind gets unbelievably imaginative.

The said person is branded rude, inconsiderate, selfish or even flighty at one end of the pendulum, and at the other end, it is about me. What have I said or done to deserve this disrespect? When that train of thought loses steam, I begin to worry about the person. Do they have problems more alarming than my Big Red Button.  Sure, they do, otherwise they would not be behaving so badly, right. That is when pity sets in.

But it’s all speculation. The facts are the facts. They did not write, call or communicate, full stop. Is their behaviour reasonable, is it right? Of course not. In a morally conscious culture, all these things are counterculture.  But to hit people over the head with information they already know, while allowing it to consume your mind, is tiring and quite frankly, a nuisance to you and only you. I should know.

At its extreme, obsessive behaviour can cause real neurosis or at the very least, disrupt the flow of peace within, making it hard to enjoy life and deal with the challenges that really matter, like good behaviour and effective communication.

So, what do you do?  First, know your Big Red Buttons and watch them closely. Next, call out the behaviour but that does not mean leaving curt messages or telling the person off. And you don’t go awol either. Trust me I have thought about all the above.

One mind expert tells me, give them a chance to escape. As mentioned, they too know it’s wrong. For this to work, however, you must have a strong foundation where there are spoken or unspoken moral codes. Otherwise, you get rubbish responses such as that is your truth, not mine. If that is the case, run. You won’t be able to control your button.

But if the relationship is a keeper, show you are concerned and try asking questions like: Are you okay? Is all well with you?  Why didn’t I hear back from you? That is not naming and shaming bad behaviour, it is putting it in the room, making it tangible while leaving the judgments out the room.

Solved, right. Wrong! Finally, if it continues to happen, my expert reminds that taking a firm approach in a calm state of mind, (not when the Big Red Button is still flashing) is preferable to a heated row or bottling it in and at some point, exploding or imploding. You might even be able to make light of it to find perspective.

The key is you want to keep the relationship healthy and if you get that point across, your Big Button Red Button is unlikely to ignite, nor will theirs. In the meantime, remember, we all have Big Red Buttons, and life pushes them from time to time but when they are alarming all the time—it is time to get to know them, monitor them closely and finally exercise some control over them.

Suddenly, life will feel a lot healthier. Count on it!

 

 

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Physical Purging Clears the Conscience

I don’t think I am a pack rat, right. But from a closer look at my office, I just might be.  On the surface, it is amazingly neat with lots of personality. From a swanky light on the wall, a globe that turns by sunlight or any kind of light, a gorgeous chair and desk, and a plethora of books relatively neatly packed in a custom-made bookcase, it is all here.

So, what is the problem? Books galore and notebooks and all the rest, so much stuff that I had a pile of books on the floor near my bedside table, and a few others scattered about the house here and there.  When Paul suggested that I give some of them to charity to avoid putting them back on our clean carpet, I went into a melt down and exclaimed quite loudly that he was out of order. Really, was a pile of books bothering him that much?

He looked at me rather quizzically and backed off.  I had won so I thought until about thirty minutes later when my conscience taunted me.

Fine I thought, I will find a small bookcase, a job that proved to be impossible. Though our bedroom is quite big, our house, a modern London townhouse, has minimal wall space and storage space for that matter.

Still, I persevered hoping to find a suitable piece of furniture to stick in the one empty corner of our bedroom. Delighted, Paul happily measured the space and reviewed all my selections. Alas, nothing worked.  Too tall, too dark, too handsome. You get the picture.

Back to the drawing board I went but this time to my office and sat in the middle of the floor, looking for space and then it dawned on me that I had a cabinet full of used notebooks, 23 to be exact, most of them Moleskin, and all sorts of old devices–an iPhone 5, two Blackberry’s, a Nokia phone, an iPad, a Kindle.  I could go on, but I won’t.

Furthermore, I noticed the open shelf beside the cabinet, crammed with all the UIO podcast scripts and mounds of papers from my parents’ estate (if you will), not to mention the rammed packed cupboard on the other side of the room, a part of the bookcase.  In there, I found two old manuscripts, and God knows what else.

Facing unrest from my subconscious, I was relieved when my rational mind reminded me what was at stake. Not only were most of the books good reads and some were my own and the works of friends and other cherished authors, but also the papers and notebooks were packed with memories, and the manuscripts were valuable, too, if only to me.

It prodded me to come up with a plan that would save the books, the memories and manuscripts and find a final resting place, if you will, for the items I needed to let go.

First, I gathered the notebooks and saw that more than half of them could be discarded, and the rest, still had a few empty pages to be filled. So back in the cupboard they went.

With the discards, I learned that Moleskin covers are not recyclable and all anyone on the internet could think to do was remove the paper and recycle it, which is the last thing I was prepared to do, after reading pages of personal dreams, actual nightmares, arguments and discussions which took place over the years. I laughed, even cried and thanked God I had not put some of those words out into the world.

Without hesitation, I got shredding what I could not recycle and began the search for a new home for the Moleskin covers. So far, I have failed at the latter, so they are likely on their way to the tip. Don’t judge!

In the meantime, the other precious items such as my parent’s papers and my manuscripts have found a new home in a box underneath one of our storage beds, with the rest of the manuscripts, while the old devices have made their way back to their originators or a suitable recycling outlet.

As for the books, I kept them all, every one of them but they are in their own happy spaces now on shelves in my office.  The day will come when I must let some of them go but for now, I have had plenty of purging, letting go of the old and embracing the new.  I like the space! My conscience does too.

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Stand for Something in 2025 

Ever heard of Blue Monday? I hadn’t either until a few years ago when a curate from our church used it in his sermon.  Apparently, it has been an annual event in the UK since 2005, normally the third Monday in January billed as the most depressing day of the year owing to the aftermath of the festive season. Its founders pitched it as a marketing ploy to get people to travel to sunnier skies to overcome their woes.

I wish I could say that jetting off to a sunnier place cures the January blues. I can’t! I have tried it. Make no mistake about it, it is a great temporary solution, depending on where you go but getting out of a lull after the high of the holidays takes more than another holiday.

Also, it takes more than resolutions and the willpower to stick to them. It must be said, however, that while January brings the automatic blues, as well as untimely ones such as loss and tragedy like any other month, it brings happy days for many—births, weddings and wedding anniversary celebrations and so on. We married in January and never miss a beat celebrating.

Still, few are exempt from the greyness of it all. It is contagious.

So, what do you do? Back in 2016 when my mother was at the end of her life in January, I remember coming across a powerful quote that is as appropriate this January as it was then.

“Stand for something or you will fall for anything. Today’s mighty oak is yesterday’s nut that held its ground.” Rosa Parks

Though I have read this quote and others like it many times, it always gets me thinking and reflecting on what it means to stand for something.

First, standing for something doesn’t mean you have to be an activist, a lobbyist, if that is not your thing. It was not Rosa Park’s thing. It is not mine either, but it does mean that you can find a space even in a world that you don’t understand where you can hold your values.

Next, recognise that standing for something doesn’t mean avoiding what is getting you down.  A good friend, who is an executive coach, recently published a fantastic piece about the dangers of avoidance.

She is right. Avoidance has no place in standing for what you believe in. Let’s be clear, I am not telling you to wallow in social media, get puffed up and pick a fight with everyone who has fallen from a cliff and bumped their heads in your opinion, but it does mean staying on high grounds. Don’t engage with nonsense; remember you are an influencer by default. Say what you do and do what you say which leads to the final point.

Do something! We’ve heard that phrase somewhere before and it works a jewel for standing for something. Do what is within your gift to do.  Take mentoring, for example, you don’t have to join an organisation to do this, though there are some great ones out there. Mentor the young women and young men in your life, help them to stand up for what they believe in, help them to shape a better world for everyone, in a constructive way, so they avoid falling for anything.

You don’t need a world stage to do this. You just need your values and a metaphorical place to stand in, holding them proudly and securely. Just stand for something!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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How to Handle Question Dodging

I have a short fuse for question dodging.  The thing is, question dodging is nothing new but back in the day, say even a year ago, it was not so prominent or acceptable.

Just ask my nieces and nephews or anyone who knows me well.  Within a reasonable amount of time, say a day or two, I would call you out and ask if you were still interested, available, etc.  Are you going to answer the question or not?

Admittedly, most times the answer was ‘not,’ followed by a bit of stonewalling. I was busy with so and so and so on. Stonewalling is not great either but at least I got an answer, even if it was evasive.

No matter how you look at it, we are talking poor communications and quite frankly bad behaviour, which is appalling when the question dodger responds to part of the content and ignores the timely, most significant bit.

Ah ha! I reverted to asking one question at a time. Sadly, the dodgers fell back on completely ignoring the message altogether, letting it fall in a black hole of unanswered questions and then when confronted resorted to tired excuses. I didn’t get it! I overlooked it somehow.  You know the drill.

No wonder the short fuse, right.  Admittedly, however, my firing back at the matter sort of backfired, got me isolated. All communications ceased, one short step away from ghosting. You can’t ghost your aunt or friend, right. They no where you live. But if it was a bureaucratic business matter or customer service issue, I got ghosted. And was pulled into the vortex of red tape, as if I was the person behaving badly.

An acquaintance confessed losing the will to live (not literally, of course) when this repeatedly happened to her. I know the feeling. I can’t tell you how many times I have given up, if only momentarily, and found myself stewing in isolation. Not good for the anxiety, either so I had to take a different approach.

First, I acknowledged that question dodging is not acceptable, no matter who tries to normalise it or who does it. It breeds unhealthy relationships that become fragile to any cracks.  So don’t accept it as normal.

Though it is on the rise, most people who do it know it is rude.  Maybe it is the crowd syndrome that sucks people in. Everybody is doing it.  So why not?  Because following the crowd does not pay off, particularly when a situation is unhealthy, and can do far more harm than it can good.

Next, I realised that question dodging is not personal and that it says more about the dodger than it does you.  Sure, some people don’t communicate out of anger for ages and others are poor communicators full stop.  But most people dodge questions when they don’t know the answer or feel uncomfortable saying no or giving an honest answer. Knowing this does not fix the situation but it does wonders for self-worth and anxiety. Nothing to do with you.

Okay, so how do you handle question dodging?  If you are the dodger, recognise that it is poor communications and quite frankly rude and not helping you or the person you are dodging.  Send a holding note, saying I’ll come back to you soon.

That takes the edge off your anxiety and leaves the door open for a gentle nudge from the receiver if too much time lapses. And if you still don’t know or want to answer, say so.  Your relationship will be in much better stead than it would be if you keep dodging. Promise!

As for those of us on the receiving end of question dodging, again recognise it for what it is and that it has nothing to do with you. That will abate the self-righteous bit of your ego that wants to explode. And from a practical standpoint call to ensure that the person has received the message.  If they don’t answer and continue to dodge you, let it go, unless it is life threatening or life altering.

Later, when the turmoil has passed bring it up in a healthy friendly way without naming it question dodging. Remind your acquaintance that it is unhealthy and that you don’t want to pretend like it is normal.  And if the dodger feels offended, leave the offence with them. If they display remorse, laugh it off and move forward together! Now that’s normal and totally acceptable behaviour.

 

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Why Getting My Name Wrong No Longer Triggers Anxiety

All this mispronunciation of Kamala Harris’s name got me thinking about the pronunciation of my own name.  In short, my mother named me Sonja with a hard j and straight from go, society rejected this name. Not sure why but here is the story.

First off, the attending nurse at the hospital recorded Sonja as Sandra, not giving a toss that my mother had clearly said Sonja. The year was 1962 and it was likely a microaggression, plain and simple. Though my mom would have likely asked for a correction early on, her voice was overlooked so rather than to feed into the negative, often volatile loop of the times, she decided there was another way to fight the battle.

Though Sandra reigns on my birth certificate, my parents called me what they named me and so did everyone else around me, until I reached first grade—this was the second rejection.

My first teacher, the most wonderful woman I had ever met, corrected me when I proudly called myself Sonja and carefully explained that the j was silent, therefore I was to be called Sonya.

This revelation brought tears and a heavy heart and quite frankly ripped into my very young identity. I carried this scar home but thankfully, my mom, on the battlefield, made it clear to the teacher that the j was not silent. There, the j was reinstated for the next few years. My dad even nicknamed me Sonj-ay!

But it was not over yet. When the schools integrated, my new teachers consistently silenced the j. It was only when my peers joined in that the scar reappeared. Of course, at 9 years old, I was too young to understand what was brewing.

Looking back, I can see that the j was whitewashed by an American society that felt far more comfortable with the Western European pronunciation, which is a lovely name. Apparently, some eastern European nations recognise the hard j, as do some African and many Asian countries.

As the years flew by, I noticed how interchangeable my name became to peers and even family members—some days the j was unmistakable and other days it was silent. I sort of got used it, though I felt a bit down about it.

As a young reporter, I had a good spate with amateur linguists who loved getting it right. Some even nicknamed me Sonj, which I proudly answer to, even today. There were exceptions, of course, such as when I interviewed the renown Abigail Van Buren ‘Dear Abby’ who decided she would call me Sandy and thus sent me a lovely note underpinning her choice.

In NYC, as a young media specialist, I became Sandy, Sandra, Sonya and even Angela, all because people claimed they couldn’t understand my pronunciation. Imagine being told that you don’t know how to say your own name. The scab came off the wound.

I went into battle correcting and protecting my j. And then about 10 years ago I realised that this battle was like an autoimmune disease. It was debilitating! From a legal perspective I had always been Sandra anyhow, so instead of wasting further energy on the correct pronunciation of my name, I leaned into it. And the wound closed. Honestly!

Make no mistake about it. I am not suggesting that VP Harris does any such thing. We need to get her name right. But what I am saying is this: when my name is misused, I do one of two things—ignore it or give the correct pronunciation and shrug it off. I have often said privately and publicly I will happily answer to Sonya or Sandra, too. I know who I am.

In short, the correct pronunciation of a name lies with the pronouncer and if they can’t be bothered, then don’t let it bother you. Anxiety lifted!

 

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Beware of Worry

I am worried.  No surprise there, right!  In the past, I have been a worrier about little and big things and thankfully most of them didn’t come to pass.

As someone who has had health anxiety, I have laid awake at night endlessly worrying about the next big health problem. Some of the worries have landed me in ER while others have culminated in a long tormented sleepless night.

Once before appearing on a major talk show in London, I pulled an all nighter worrying about performance, so when daylight arrived, I dragged myself out of bed to meet my fate. At the studio, all went well—nothing ill-fated about it. I functioned like I had slept and looked that way, too. I can only think of one other time when I pulled this off, but that is another story.

This time let’s say I had an angel holding me up because after the show, I literally just made it into my front door before my body quit. I had to go to bed. I cannot recommend worrying.

It is debilitating, to say the least, and worse yet does not change a thing. So why do we still worry? During the Covid pandemic, one therapist explained that my worry stemmed from the sudden loss of control of life as I knew it. My belief that I was in control was a fallacy anyhow, she insisted. Never mind!

Before Covid what I had worried about rarely came to pass and suddenly, everything spun out of control. Only at that point in life did I come to terms with the statement—the only thing that is certain is change itself.

Furthermore, she explained that I had created this thinking pattern of anticipating a negative outcome, the worst-case scenario and Covid had delivered fast and furiously.  

Four years on and I still worry about many things—health, doom and gloom for girls and women the world over, war, global warming, this new world that normalises gaslighting and worships immorality and so on. Another blog, right.

But wait a minute, I am no longer a hostage to worry. Admittedly, I don’t engage much in the news anymore, except the odd story that flashes across my phone or social media or a special event. Whatever it is, however, when it starts to coax me out of my safe place and fling me into a dangerous one, I put it into perspective.

And you know what, my new Oura ring says I am getting good sleep. Sure, I have learned that worry doesn’t solve problems but, on some level, I must have always known that.

But what I hadn’t known was how to cultivate an awareness about worry that kicks in as natural as my next breath. And in this awareness, my mind assesses what is within my control and what is not. 

Take health, for example, I can’t always say what is around the corner, no one can but what I can control with diet and exercise, I am all in. Just ask anyone who knows me.

Look I don’t want to oversimplify the matter; it is complicated but all I am saying is that trying to stop worrying is counterproductive. What is productive is to beware of worry, recognise it for what is—the mind’s attempt to control and resolve the problem, even if it is global.

Do what you can and accept that the rest is out of your control.  Worrying, yes, it is, but it might be the best way forward for your health’s sake.

 

 

 

 

 

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Stuff Happens: How to Handle It

We had a curious incident with a dog recently, that left us sort of light-hearted and with a profound understanding that stuff happens, often and fast, and most times completely out of your control, save an adjustment or two here and there.

For example, had we not left the driver’s door of our relatively new car opened while sitting on the bumper to change out of our muddy hiking boots, Lucy, the dog, would not have jumped into the seat muddy paws and all.  But we did and so it happened.

Suddenly, there was an outburst of shouting coming from the car next to ours. I ran to close the door, thinking the drama was about not being able to get into their vehicle.  But before I could apologise and close the door, I met a distressed man who explained that Lucy had enjoyed the brief pleasure of romping in our car.

Oh, I said, fumbling for words to only find apologetic ones for creating the opportunity in the first place. I closed the door and shot off to fish out the one microfibre cloth we had for emergencies. Meanwhile, the gentleman produced a wad of wet wipes which were very helpful, and Lucy looked on with doleful eyes as if to apologise for the commotion.

At that point, I was laughing in my heart, so outwardly confessed that it was kind of funny. Lucy’s owner disagreed. He was mortified but surely quite relieved that Paul and I were more relaxed than he had anticipated.

There, we had a story to tell and had no idea what lesson we had learned, other than to keep the doors of our car always closed, particularly after a muddy walk in the Lake District.

But there was more to come, which leads me back to my first point. Stuff happens that is often well beyond your control which likely pushes your melt down buttons. Feeling the heat, we have a choice to escalate the matter or shrink it so to speak. Depending on our reaction, we maintain calm or cause further calamity.

So, what happened?  We had a flat tire on a relatively narrow country road and had to pull the car over to the side but not off road, as the road was not big enough for that. Meanwhile, we stood on the boggy, leafy verge for three hours. Cars whizzed by. Most of them approached at a dangerous driving distance with the speed of a demon and others sceptically looking on as if we were simply out of our minds for breaking down in such an inopportune place.

However, two or three slowed and offered help, which we respectfully declined, awaiting pick up from our vehicle’s rescue team, which arrived three hours later.

So, what does Lucy have to do with this? First, the experience with her reminded us that incidents and accidents happen. The question is what perspective do you take—one that starts from a place of calm or one of upset? Thankfully we chose calm. Instead of blaming one another or someone else, we encouraged and helped each other to stay safe and well.

When we had the flat tyre Paul could have reminded me that it was all my fault that we were out in the first place. He wanted to stay at our lovely spa suite kitted out with an outdoor hot tub and indoor sauna, steam room, massage chair and infrared light. This was our penultimate day on holiday and the only good weather day we had experienced. Never mind!

Next, our priorities were in order as we quickly recognised that the situation could have been far worse. So, the road was country and narrow, but it was not a dirt track where only one car can pass safely at a time. And most importantly, no harm was done to us or the car.

Finally, we focused on gratitude. Sure, it was unthinkable that the wait was three hours, and we had to rely heavily on our crisis management skills to get rescued and wait at the dealer for a rental car for a further two hours, all the while the day was fading. But we were grateful that we had a solution in sight.

Sure, there were many moments when the melt down buttons blinked glowing amber, but we overcame before they burned red. Well, I probably over heated once and was quickly reminded that melting down stalls action.

That is not to say that passivity is the key in times such as these. It is not! But there is a space somewhere in between that hinges on perspective, priorities and gratitude.  Remember, stuff happens!

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That Holiday Feeling

I love visitors! Please, however, do not take this as an open invitation to visit me. I do have limits; you know.

But here is the thing. Visitors get me out of the house and into London and surrounding areas and I am always amazed at what there is to see and do. I get that holiday feeling right here at home.

For example, during my niece Nikki and her husband Keydrick’s recent visit, off we went to tour the state rooms of Buckingham Palace, a place we had not toured since my sister, Carrie, visited with her son Chandler, who was eight at the time. Chandler, now 28, visited again at age 21, and likely opened other doors to us at that time, too.

In the last year, say August to August, we have visited the Tower of London, Windsor Castle, Hampton Court Palace, as well as Buckingham Palace, and a whole host of other places that visitors love to frequent.

I know. I know. These are all tourist hot spots, the last place where any local wants to be. Can’t argue with that. Anyone who knows me, knows that I don’t enjoy battling crowds. Nearly forty years ago, a longstanding friend and I got caught up into the New York City Fourth of July celebrations, firecrackers being thrown into what felt like a mob. Scary!

Thank God, we lived to tell the tale, but I have been wary of massive gatherings ever since. Over the years, I have only made a few exceptions, one being the Notting Hill Carnival some 20 years ago where I had a ring side view from my then hairdresser’s balcony just off Ladbroke Grove.

That was a wonderful experience, soaking up the colourful sights and taking in the echoes of steel bands, until we braved the crowds to make our way home. We were jostled and squeezed no sooner than we hit the streets, conjuring up the fear of a stampede ensuing.

A child at heart, I promised to never enter that magnitude of crowd again if I got out alive.

And maybe I have kept my word, barring sporting events and concerts, themed events and tourist attractions, which tend to be well orchestrated to provide enough order to avoid chaos. For example, when we last visited the O2 Arena, we ducked out early and was amongst the first to hop into a taxi. It was a smooth get away if I must say so myself.

Still, I am so glad we hit the tourist trail with our visitors some of the time. We do leave them to it most of their holiday unless they really need company. Anyhow, aside from taking in many intriguing lessons in British history, we have seen countless gems and jewels that are not displayed elsewhere. As for art, the walls at castles and palaces are lined with Vermeer’s and Rodin’s and other famous originals, too, much like a popular museum.

Admittedly, however, I could not tell you who created the most memorable paintings I saw hanging in Buckingham Palace. These life-like beauties featured Queen Charlotte, wife of King George III, and Queen Alexandra, wife of Edward VII, especially Queen Alexandra’s painting. There was something about her style that felt eerily modern. Apparently, to hide a scar on her neck she made the neck choker famous.

How lovely I thought, overcome by that holiday feeling, even if the temperature was uncharacteristically hot both in and outside.

Alas, the holiday is over, the English summer of great and inclement weather all in one day has returned and has turned its face towards autumn.  Even more reason to leave it with the tourists, right? Enjoy, weather and all!

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I Take My Coffee Black

I love coffee, its alluring aroma, its gown-up taste, the buzz it offers, the latter so much so that my grandmother used to ward us off it, contending that coffee would make you ‘omnish,’ her vernacular for womanish.

Her warning has stayed with me for years, wondering what in the world she meant. If a sip of it was going to turn me into my graceful mother and her lovely sister sipping coffee in the early mornings over a past due catch up, after my aunt had made the gruelling 14 hour drive from Ohio, then I would happily suffer the fate of becoming ‘omnish’.

In hindsight, I think Mama, my gran, must have been protecting us from the drink’s bold taste, which can be too big for a child, and its addictive nature owing to caffeine and other perceived health hazards.

From being called the ‘new cocaine’ recently by a chatty London taxi driver, who notices coffee shop queues spilling onto the streets regularly, to being blamed for a many sleepless nights, anxiety and all the rest, coffee gets a bad rap.

And quite frankly some folks just don’t like it, my taxi driver being one of them. “I don’t see what people see in it. Can’t stand it.” He twisted his face much like a child who has tasted tar.

Though I have no basis to make the comparison to cocaine, I do know it can be addictive, but so can love if it becomes unhealthy. Okay, so an unfair comparison but you get my point.

All I am trying to say is that coffee does have a good side. No wonder its popularity on the high street and in hotels everywhere has surpassed other drinks of its kind.

For a small price to pay (relatively speaking) in a big-ticket world, people can indulge in an invigorating drink that gives them pleasure, if only for a little while, and something about it is binding to relationships.

We meet friends for coffee, make business deals over coffee, settle arguments over coffee and some find love over the hot stuff. We even catch up with relatives over it.

Remember my mom and her sister. Tid, our affectionate name for my mom, would add a dash of evaporated milk to hers and likely some sugar, but Auntie would take hers black, which is apparently the ticket to getting many of the benefits. Here, here to that. I take my coffee black.

According to recent research by Zoe Science and Nutrition, coffee has many benefits. Let’s be clear, drank in excess and at the wrong time, it can surely become a problem for some.

But if drank in the right dosage and at the correct time, (not before bed), it offers rewards such as improving microbiome diversity, cognitive function and healing damaged cells.

Go figure the beans have polyphenols, which are a type of antioxidant that has anti-inflammatory properties. According to the National Institutes of Health (NIH), all plants have polyphenols on some level and science is rapidly uncovering their benefits to human health.

I must say this is good news for me and coffee lovers everywhere. Still, it is best not to overdose. Experts say caffeine has an average half-life of about six hours. In short, that means if you have it three hours before you sleep, you might be in for an awakening that night.

For some time, I have come to love coffee in the early mornings or rely on decaffeinated coffee, particularly in the evening on the occasion that I grab a coffee after dinner.

Apparently, caffeine does provide some of the benefits to coffee that decaf lacks, but all is not lost, not even in taste. There are some good decafs out there. I should know. After all, I take my coffee black.