Why have a Personal Trainer?

For some it’s a funny thought, that paying for someone to watch and guide you through your gym session, is quite frankly absurd. Why on earth would you pay someone to do something that you can do for free? Just bloody get up and do it yourself! I hear you PT haters and for some, this is true. Not of all us need, nor desire a Personal Trainer, you of course have a well-structured workout regime in place that nether requires change or critique. All those gym selfies and workout videos make you quite the gym expert. But have you ever asked yourself, are you getting it right? Who actually taught you to squat, YouTube? How are you learning all these new lifts and regimes? From your favourite fitness influencer on Instagram? And what credentials does she or he have? In a diluted market where just about every man and his dog is a fitness expert, how can you be sure, that what you’re seeing and buying into, is a trustworthy source?  

Training for some is not complicated, yet it’s essential. For all of us, whether you are a gym hater or a gym junkie, you, just like making time to eat, to shop, to work, should find time to be active, it’s a fundamental of life. What is mistaken by so many, is the way we work out. Not everyone is lured into the gym nest, some find their love for exercising in a swimming pool, out running with the dog, trekking, yoga, a spin class and dance, as long as we are moving, you’re being kind to your body.

For many of us we spend money on nice meals out, overpriced items of clothing (guilty as sin), boozy brunches, fancy cars and many more luxury things. Of course, whether you think it or not, having a PT is yet another luxury item to add to the list, they don’t come cheap, it can be dangerously addictive but one thing’s for sure, if you get the right PT, it may very well revolutionise your life. A little dramatic you may think, how can a person watching you train have that much of an impact on you? You buy that one session and then you’re wondering where could this possibly go? Yesterday my back was hurting, today it feels a little better. Yesterday I didn’t know how to do a deadlift, today I learned my very first Olympic Lift. Yesterday I didn’t think it was possible to run 500m, today I jogged the whole way. Yesterday I never thought I’d hold a plank again after having a baby, today I did. The possibilities are endless, it’s not about someone just watching you train, it’s about someone guiding you through a minefield of strategies and ever-expanding methods of training, to help you find your way into the path of fitness, in your very own ‘personal’ way.

Fitness, firstly is not generic. What one person can do, the next may not. What someone’s goals may be, someone else’s are different. What one person lifted today, another will lift less or maybe more. What one postnatal lady did in three months another may take a year. What one can do in the gym, another may never even fathom. Your fitness journey is about you, its personal, its individual and should not be compared to any others.

In this new cyber age, where most our thoughts and choices are influenced by what we see on social media, it’s no wonder that the world of fitness has cascaded into yet another current fashionable market. Rewind twenty years, it simply wasn’t fathomable to be taking selfies in ones very own gym co-ords, or filming yourself hitting a personal best on your favourite lift or press. Now however, social media platforms are cluttered with people showing off what they can do, what they eat and their newly polished six pack, it can all be very overwhelming.

So why do you need a Personal Trainer? For some its perhaps something you never thought about before, the whole concept of stepping into a gym is quite frankly horrifying. For some it’s not a necessity but a measure put in place to make this whole ‘fitness journey,’ a more rewarding one. For some its pure love, yes pure love! They love to train and quite often (if I say so myself), love their PT! For some it’s about accountability, that someone is checking in on you, keeping you focused and motivated. Whilst for others, it is purely because unless that appointment isn’t fixed in the diary every week, you simply wouldn’t do it.

Perhaps having a PT isn’t for one specific focus it’s about curiosity. Whilst you’re a novice at training and you are one of your gym favourites, a member clocking in 4-5 maybe more times a week, a regular in all group classes and a territorial squat rack hugger, believe it or not, it’s possible you still aren’t reaching your full fitness potential. Have you ever asked yourself, what you’re doing is right. Are you training quality over quantity? How are you tracking your progress? Are your goals being met, is there change? I see it all the time, the over trainers, slugging their guts out morning, noon and night and whilst thy are admired by the lost sheep in the gym, planning their next move onto the next machine, you guys are at a standstill and wondering why your goals are not being met.  

For many fitness is something that you will invest in all your life, making a promise to our body, that we shall look after it, nurture it and do the best to keep it well throughout your years. Exercising, however small or big contributes to a lifetime of happiness, it keeps our minds strong and it is believed that with exercise, breeds confidence. Have you ever trained, or dedicated time to some form of exercise and thought, wow I feel great? Inside a whole bundle of chemical reactions are taking place that stimulate ‘feel good,’ vibes. Pre workout you felt sluggish and now you feel fantastic, it’s Science and there is no mistaking it! A wise person once said ‘you’ll never regret a workout,’ cheers mate, you’re absolutely right! For me and so many others exercising has pathed way to a better day, to a better you. And for so many this investment into a Personal Trainer is an investment into your wellbeing, your body and what’s more, that session, that hour with your fitness guru, is all about and only about, YOU!

Whatever your goals, wherever your fitness journey may take you, it’s possible investing into a Personal Trainer could make it an even better one. Whether you’re a fitness fanatic, or the new kid in the class, it’s never too late or too early. Yesterday you talked of working out, you dreamed of reaching your fitness goals, today you made the first step and got yourself a PT. Good luck, here’s to your new journey!

HYROX 2022

Until arrival at the Excel Centre, it hadn’t really dawned on me what was about to come. Like many, I am one of the plentiful fishes in a deep blue sea of gym junkies, that continue to train relentlessly, aiming to lift heavier, aiming to run quicker, aiming to look leaner and then one day you ask yourself, what’s it all for? For me its personal accomplishment, knowing that after all the excuses and the mental battles that plague you at night, ‘should I have worked out today? Should I get up at 4 to fit a session in? Should I trade my lunch break for a session tomorrow?’ That eventually, it’s comes down to your genetic makeup, that something in the blood, in your cognitive set-up, that whilst for some its says ‘stay in bed, ill try again tomorrow,’ and yet for others it says, ‘go train today, go reach your goals, achieve something today.’

Mostly people can’t relate to us gym junkies, we are a rare but magnificent breed. And unless you find yourself standing over a loaded barbell at 5:00am, or dragging yourself out of bed when it’s still dark to hit the road and rack up your weekly mileage, or even fitting in a late-night gym sesh, because your office hours just keep getting longer and longer, well you can’t really comment, nor even relate to it. Most, are still buried in bed under a blanket of excuses, ‘I’ll start tomorrow,’ ‘I didn’t get much sleep,’ ‘I’m just not feeling up to it.’ Of course being a self-confessed gym junkie it’s not a complete bed of roses, it’s a little relentless, addictive and the constant longing to be stronger, quicker, will have you at night obsessing over how best to clean and press that barbell, or how to deadlift that extra 5kg. Yep, at times it’s a niggling obsession, like one’s fasciation for cigarettes or the desirable longing to binge, binge, binge on heavenly chocolate, no matter how hard you try to squish it, the addiction somehow boils over. Of course, the love for working out, no matter what time, where and when has people pondering, this girl moans she doesn’t sleep, has two babies under two and never puts her feet up. Why? Is she cray cray? The Instagram haters and the self-righteous critics say, ‘you’re mad girl, what’s wrong with you, who trains at 5am after getting no sleep? My answer to this is, why do you care? I got my shit together over here, just look after yours.

16months ago, I gave birth to identical twin boys. It’s one of those moments in life, where whilst consumed by ­­­­­feelings of euphoria, it has to be said, that at times, it feels like your house is burning down around you. Life yesterday was about me; life today is about keeping two little boys alive and safe. So, the following 16months transpired into hellish feeding schedules, a Covid restrained life and what’s more, the inability to be able to train when and how I wanted. Suffering from the aftermath of a C-section, it dawned on me, the once Burpee Queen, was now a sofa hugging, baby feeding robot. But, lets fast forward again 16months, a proud accomplished mother of two beautiful boys and suddenly I find myself standing at the Excel Centre, partner in toe jacked by adrenaline and about to embark on 90minutes of pain. For those who are not familiar with the Hyrox event, it’s a concoction of various fitness tools that deem to push you to the edge of self-destruction. Available to compete in a relay team of four, doubles or singularly, it reaches out to just about anyone who finds themselves longing to stand in the face of competition.

Our first hurdle when face to face with Hyrox is preparation, of course competition is not just about the race but the training, the build-up, the pacing, what to eat, what not to eat, what trainers to wear, should I go shorts or leggings, crop top or vest top ? Of course, when it comes to it, how many grams of protein you measured out that morning becomes somewhat irrelevant, because the reality is, no amount of protein or hand-picked selected co-rd gym outfit is going to save you on the day, this is about sheer will, determination and a bitter fight to reach the finish line.

Hyrox is a competition based around endurance and for me, its mostly about the running. The method of torture goes like this; 

 

1km Run 

1000m Ski-erg  

1km Run 

2 x 25m sled push (75kg + Sled) 

1km Run 

2 x 25 sled pull (50kg + Sled) 

1km Run 

80m Burpee Broad Jump 

1km Run 

1000m Row 

1km Run  

200m Kettle Bells Farmers Carry (2 x16kg) 

1km Run  

100m Sandbag Lunges (10kg) 

1km run  

75 x Wall Ball (4kg) 

 

The battle commenced, Zoe and I got off to a good start, tearing into our first run, of course this is not a battle of a 100m race, this is not by any means a sprint, nor a marathon, its gaged somewhere in a spectrum that sits between, that whilst words of wisdom from fellow team mates say, ‘take the first half easy, push hard on the second if there is still fuel in the tank,’ your head actually says, ‘screw that, Ill beast it from the beginning and hope for the best.’ And that’s exactly what we did.

Lucky for us we had some fans on the side line and in all honestly when running with the devil on your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, ‘give up now and it will all be over, you’ll never make it to the finish line, you’re running at a snail’s pace, what’s wrong with you?! Well, a familiar face chanting your name at the turn of the next corner will encourage you to push into the next realm, a lot of hard work, sweat and tears bought you here, finish it!

We had conquered the Ski-Erg, then came the sled, agreeably the most daunting of all tasks, nether one of us had spent much time practising such a method of torture. Fortunately, we pulled and pushed that dam sled so fast, flames lit from the floor and despite our hearts beating out of our chests, the lactic acid crippling our bodies, we somehow pushed into the next run and continued in true Hyrox style. Following this came the burpees and as I claim myself to be the Burpee Queen, well I Burpeed my way out of that one pretty impressively. 

Then came the row. We split the row Zoe completed the first half and I the second. For anyone planning on taking on the Hyrox, it’s advisable to work out the logistics of who goes first, second and how you plan on splitting the exercises. What became apparent, is the person to go second on the exercises, would suffer at the hands of pure lactic acid seizure and whilst your legs are screaming for mercy, you are then required to run at the pace of your team mate whose just been resting for merely a minute, don’t be fooled however, that minute feels like ecstasy. Note; be sure not to finish second every time, or risk complete cardiac arrest (jokes, nether the less, take my advice). Somehow my legs made it out of the death zone and caught Zoe heel to toe once more. Then the Farmers Walk came, followed by the lunges. Between all this, don’t forget you are required to run two laps of the arena  and as the comp continued the track became cluttered with exhausted athletes, some hugging the inside lane in a desperate attempt to run a little less, whilst others were forced to take them on the outside hoping that somehow the finish line would come quicker. 

As the competition for us, was drawing to an end, my mind wondered from the pain and pure exhaustion of it all and focused on what it meant to be crossing the finish line. Whilst others only recognise marathons, lifting and televised sports as fitness endeavours, for the rest of us, the performing gym junkies, we know all too well, what it takes to step into an arena and put on a performance that the next day will have us thinking, ‘did I actually just do that? We are not all built to run marathons, nor to have the world record for the heaviest deadlift, neither to live and breath all things CrossFit. Some of us just like to feel fit, to be fit and to embrace our physical accomplishments in the face of competition. As I said before Hyrox is a combination of many things, a concoction of strength, cardiovascular endurance, speed, core strength, determination and the courage to take your fitness to the next level. As like any event, it requires training, commitment and on the day, the ability to hit the ‘Beast Mode’ button. For many self-confessed fitness fanatics, it’s all about the ‘gram,’ posing for your fans in a skimpy gym outfit and claiming you’ve just beasted it for all your aspiring followers. This is not about the gram, this is real and this is what all the hours of training, whilst juggling work and mum life, squeezing in workouts around unforgiving hours at work is all about. Some say they don’t have time, they are too tired, what’s the point? I say to you this, find the gym junkie inside of you, focus on becoming stronger, fitter and perhaps next year you’ll find yourself on the start line, about to embark in Hyrox 2023!

Super Mumma, or Super Lover ?

It’s a funny thing being a parent. Ultimately there is for some, a burning desire to be a parent. It’s a feeling that (for some) bolts out of nowhere like suddenly waking up one day and realising you yearn for coffee but the thought and taste of it the day before was just bitter, just like the yearning to be a parent, yesterday there was nothing, today, it’s all you can think about.

What’s funny, is once you are blessed with a fresh smelling, cooey looking little bundle of cutey love, you find yourself in a whirlwind of ‘moan, moan, moan,’ and the inner voice in you suddenly says, ‘have you heard yourself? You’ve become a moaning myrtle!  

I’m not sure every parent is the same, mostly you just see visions of families looking gleamingly happy, their Instagram posts full of perfectly clean babies, with perfectly clean houses and perfectly happily ever after backdrops of blue horizons and orange sunsets! What’s more, they actually stick the knife in even further with images of intimate selfies, both parents perfectly perched on each other’s lips! But never fear, if you haven’t already learned, hear me now fellow parents, ‘NEWSFLASH,’ Instagram is FAKE!  

What’s most amusing along this parenthood rollercoaster of a ride, is that no one said before you decided to have a baby, that it may well be at the cost of your sanity but more importantly your relationship! No one warned me, that despite being blessed with life’s truly remarkable gift, you may in the meantime, lose the next best thing to you, that being, your boyfriend and fellow ‘parenteer.’ Let’s be honest, no relationship is perfect and for those who live a life of countless, romantic check ins at London’s finest of dining’s, snapping your overpriced plate of food, whilst tagging yourself in the restaurants Insta page, let me tell you ravers and fellow pending parents, your date nights are numbered.  

Life before parenthood, led Harry and I on a rocky but mostly thrilling road. Our earlier years were spent in the hub of London’s darkest and dinginess rave dens, seeing the night through a sunset and into a sunrise. We lived together in a one-bedroom flat and when we were not raving we would spend our Sundays in bed, mostly hungover. They were love verses hate fuelled years, one moment you’re ‘crazy in love,’ the next, ‘Enemies at the Gate, but what didn’t break us, made us stronger. Then came the travelling years, two and a half years of glorious, unbeatable and unfathomable adventure. Reaching the lowest of the low and the highest of the high, life for a moment was one big, wide beautiful adventure. On our return, our love for traveling was overcome by the desire to seek adulthood and so it was two years on, one pandemic later, one multiple pregnancy survived and finally we found ourselves shacked up in our own love shack, babies and all.

 

Our baby boom, whilst at times euphoric, found us, a couple, once consumed by their love for each other, then found ourselves a little undesirable, unshaven and unwanted. We had become totally consumed by the reality of keeping two very tiny, very beautiful very precious human beings alive. One day, in the midst of midnight feeds, ever depreciating sleep and countless injectors of caffeine, we realised that, (and for the benefit of my parents reading this, I shall choose my words wisely) our love life, our passion that burning flame that had so bought us together, was dying out!

Once two love birds in a king-sized bed, spending our boozy weekends not far beyond the walls of our love nest, were now uncomfortably wedged apart by two bundles of wriggling joy (or wriggling anger) a far arm stretch away from each other. Overnight Freshly shaven legs, became trunks of bristly mass, freshly highlighted and groomed hair became a bundle of wiry mess and what was once youthful dewy skin, was now a palette of dark tones. We had got caught in a web of all things baby and had slipped into survival mode, any compassion or alone time was jaded by the desire to sleep, the desire to slip under the bedsheets and never to rear you head in the twin realm again.  

Harry and I had become passing ships, he’d return from work and that was my signal to get some ZZZZZZs before my half of the night shift took place. The sound of his key in the door, suddenly triggered a storm of anxiety, just hours later, he would collect me from the serenity of my bed and we would trade roles, he would sleep and I would take over the night shift. For the first few months of Albie and Henry’s life, we were servants to the grip of a twin allegiance.  

After the first few weeks (months maybe, it’s all a blur), of life with Albie and Henry, days began to take a different from. My new mission, get busy parenting and get busy loving, a new pledge to myself, after attempting to be mum of the year, one must honour service to one’s better half. So, out came the razor, lounge wear was exchanged for smart wear and granny knickers were swapped for a more complimenting thong! The next move was ‘operational kick baby twin boys out of mumma’s bed.’ That was merely child’s play, after two restless nights, those boys were right back where they should be, waking five to ten time a night but at least in their own bed.

I can hear all the feminist out there crying in dismay! Why oh why must a woman make herself better presented to be wanted? Calm down sisters, it’s not about that, I’ve had Harry bent over the toilet seat with me, massaging one’s bum cheeks to help a very constipated post -C-section Mumma go to the toilet. That man has quite simply seen me and my worst, most vulnerable and most gruesome, it seems not much can discourage a man and his burning libido!  Making an effort ladies, is not for Harry, nor for any other man, it’s for me, it’s for you, it’s for that freshly dishevelled mother who once showed of her six pack loud and proud, now hidden in all things lounge wear, grey and oversized. Sprucing ones self-up, reminds you that there’s more to life than just the motherhood realm but another life, a life once forgotten, one full of passionate all nighters, fine dining with trips to the nail parlours, gyms and swanky hotels. So, it was in our power to make a change, to bring back what made Harry and Ria so cosmic, Albie and Henry had placed a new path in front of us but the old path had not been written off as history yet.  

So, with a little TLC and a ‘STOP RIGHT THERE’ sign placed at the foot of the bed, to somehow remind ourselves, that not all nights were we permitted to fall at the hands of pure exhaustion but to rejoice for a second, in everything that was pre twin, pre parenthood and hail ‘Harry and Ria’ against the headboard again!

Suddenly we had but a snippet of our sanity back, passion, love, mummy and daddy time, lust, fireworks, nooky, rumpy pumpy, whatever you want to call it was rejoiced again and merely at the price of shaved legs and a faded old thong. After our little freeze frame of time, our lust for one another, was no longer ‘the elephant in the room,’ Albie and Henry had not only taught us how to be patient and resilient but they had made us realise, the next best thing in life to them, was each other and no matter how tired, how drained how bitterly resentful at times of each other we were, always address that elephant in the room and put that old thong on!

Motherhood verses Adulthood

Since being a mum, for me, the biggest sacrifice and change has been the temperamental retirement of my social life. Now evenings and weekends are spent doing ‘family stuff,’ trips to the coast, play groups (actually, so far, I’ve managed to swerve this, the excuses being, there is one of me and two of them), long walks with the pushchair to somehow stop that incessant screaming, parading the boys around a long list of family, friends and just about any other gooey baby fan that wants a peek at the little critters. Life has very much become less about me and more about our new additions Albie and Henry.

 

So when the time came to hang up my vintage Converse, lay the sparkly hot pants down, burn the plentiful crop tops and exchange them for ape sized knickers and nursing bras, I suddenly realised, life had just rolled out of dancing on table tops in Ocean Beach Ibiza, and spat me out, saggy, haggard and laid me to rest as nothing more than a feeding machine chained to the sofa, boobs flopped out, hair in disarray and the bits that were once freshly waxed now concealed by a jungle of wiry mess. Yep, overnight life had just handed me to the clenched grip of motherhood and it suddenly dawned on me, ‘there was no going back now.’

 

As the months ticked by, I realised motherhood was full of sacrificial renditions. The occasional bottomless brunch with some of my finest, was declined, all the whilst I had two critters hanging off my milking machines, I temporarily, respectfully declined. The usual Sunday morning hangover brunch up the local café, well for now, I respectfully declined. A last-minute Friday evening meal, complimented by a few cocktails, I respectfully declined. A trip to Bluewater to grab a coffee date, I respectfully declined or a shopping trip up the city, again, I respectfully declined. Had I totally sacrificed my whole life to motherhood? Was these constant, ‘no, I’m busy feeding. No, I couldn’t possibly leave the boys with Harry for more than five minutes. No, the whole world will implode if I leave the boys for an hour. No, I only have 3 hours between feeds, I cannot deny them of breast milk, even though the fridge is stacked full of it! I realised that not only had I become an obsessive mother, drowning in all things motherhood but Id become an anxious one, incapable of seeing a world outside of it.

 

I blame Covid. My first taste of motherhood was spent lonely. Christmas came and went, New Year’s was spent sleeping on the front room floor, intermittently woken by hangry new-borns thrown in with a moments of merriment and damming the year we all were merciless to the hands of Covid 19. But nevertheless, it was a New Year to remember, our first in our new home and our first as a family of four. Then the colder and wetter months drew in and January 2021 cast a cold, grey banket of solemn over us. Unable to meet with friends and family I spent most my days getting by, feeding around the clock relentlessly expressing like a cow and when the lunchtime feed was down, I raced to assemble the pram, dress two new-borns for a bleak winters day and got my ass as quick as possible out the door. I know what you’re thinking, ‘come on girl, get a grip, do you know how lucky you are? And the answer is ‘yes, yes of course I do,’ but loneliness is a funny thing and despite being in the company of two new-borns, that unfortunately do not share my love for Gin, nether are keen runners or enjoyed my new found love for Game of Thrones, loneliness still crept in and I missed my friends terribly.  

 

Quite frankly, before having babies, I spent merely a minute alone, ether sharing my time between beloved clients, Harry, friends and family. Suddenly the absence of a busy work/life schedule, reminded me that life, for now, had taken a very different path. For a while I was inundated with visitors dropping parcels and packages of generosity at the door. From baked goods, to takeaway meals, to lavish gifts for the boys and self-care ‘mummy packs’ for me. But visitors and their cherished goods came no further than the front door, where a haggard mother would exchange but a few words with comforting friends who were desperate to get a glance at the handsome kings. On one occasion one of my besties knocked on the door. Sabrina placed a large parcel at the door, full of fashion favourites for the boys. We spoke briefly and mostly we spoke about wretched Covid and how it had doomed the day she was supposed to have her first cuddle with her friend’s precious kings. I remember how I longed for her to come in, how I stood there and tried to convince her that I was coping just fine. Sabrina of course, kept a clear distance from me, not because she thought I would give her some deadly disease but the Covid spell hung heavy over us and it just wasn’t worth the risk. As we said our parting words, I closed the door to her and in that moment broke down in the middle of a dingy porchway. I thought, ‘screw you Covid, I want my bestie, I want her to cuddle me, I want her to come in and drink tea with me, I want her to tell me that everything is okay and these days will pass, I wanted her to talk all things gossipy and I wanted her to cast a glance on my two little boys who remained oblivious to a broken mum in the porchway. I stood there for a few moments deliberating over whether to beg for her to come back. Then that little voice of reason spoke to me again, ‘get a grip Cherry, everything will be alright.’

 

Once the Covid lockdown clock hit midnight and sometime later, the dawn of a new day rose, suddenly a new world awoke. Friends passed through the doorway, Albie and Henry got their first cuddle, with aunt’s, uncle’s friend’s and randomer’s. Gyms reopened, bottomless brunches became fashionable again and suddenly, I found my place right back where Mother Earth had intended, a mother to the most beautifully handsome boys there ever were, sitting on a Spin Bike, with a glass of prosecco in her hand listening to Swedish House Mafias finest! Life was balanced again and despite the confusion and upheaval that motherhood had placed upon me, I told myself this, ‘get on with it Cherry, just like learning to deadlift 120kg, it’s a long hard process, but eventually you’ll crack it!

 

So here’s to embracing motherhood! Better still, here’s to embracing motherhood with friends, family and your very own Harry (or whoever your prince charming may be). In this unwritten world of parenthood, me and so many others find ourselves lost in a web of, ‘is this right? Should I be feeling this? Is it normal to sometimes want my old life back? Will my friends forget me and find their very own ‘new Ria? Will I ever fit into my sparkly hot pants again? Will I ever get loose with the girls again and roll in when the sun has come back up? Hold it together sisters, those days will return and if you never fit into that unforgiving crop top again, sod it, your body just made and carried, quite frankly the most beautiful being in the world, stand proud and shake what your mumma gave ya!

Ten months into motherhood

When I told my fellow twin mum Nikaela, that I was having twins, if I recall, her answer was, ‘……………. Oh, wow Ree that’s so amazing! It wasn’t until I was six weeks in, that I realised that long pause that Niki had so stumbled on, actually meant, ‘Good luck sister, you are well and truly screwed!

To most people, the idea of cooking up twins, is the cake, the icing and the cherry on the top. To me, it was like choking on the last Burpee, of a painfully long workout, that mouthful of sick hitting the back of my throat followed by a large gulp and then a shudder as you try to keep the burning ball of fire down. Twins on a scan, on paper, on Facebook, Instagram and to your friends and family on group WhatsApp chats, is simply sensational, the reality, is you’re about to enter the world of the great unknown, you’re about to bet your whole life on a hand of Poker and your opponent just laid a ‘Royal Flush.’

Mostly amongst a group of several maternal girls, I counted myself as possibly the least maternal human I had come to know. Inevitably, I planned that at some point Harry and I would decide to enter the world of parenthood, when was unclear. But in the height of lockdown, our first and most daunting exposure to Covid 19, we decided to get busy making or get busy baking, it seemed our baby making skills, exceeded my baking and precisely eight months later, we were blessed with our identical twin boys, Albie and Henry.

Yet just eight months ago, I asked myself, ‘am I having a breakdown? Is it normal to feel like this? Is my copious Gin drinking normal? Is it okay that I haven’t eaten in the last 8 hours? Covid of course introduced me to a very lonely start at motherhood, no play groups, no regular cake and coffee dates with fellow fresh into motherhood mums. Mostly I didn’t care much about that but I did want to know if what I was feeling was normal. This constant dread and empty pit at the bottom of my stomach, was that motherhood? Or was I hanging on the edge of a breakdown? As time passed and with the help of friends, family, Harry and the most unlikely friends, I came to realise that motherhood was quite simply one of the toughest jobs out there and no credentials, degree or personal statement was going to get me through this one. Nope, this was a battle of severe fatigue, endless Espresso shots, screaming into the pillow nights and pure mental and physical wheel power. As an infamous man once told me, ‘Drink a cup of concrete Cherry and bloody get on with it.’

Now as I sit here writing this blog, one eye on Albie hanging off the drinks trolley, the bottle of Bombay Gin sliding ever closer to a most unfortunate tipping point and the other on Henry, eating his left over lunch that he carelessly but yet quite precisely managed to spray across the floor and my third eye….ummmmm I stand corrected and in between that, I manage to write down the words that I have been so longing to write, to explain just what the last ten months of learning to be a mum of twins, has been like.

I go over in my head where these last months have taken Harry and I. How we started, a naive couple oblivious to the adventures that were ahead. I was reminded this, when I arrived at the hospital for a last-minute C-Section, with barely a bag big enough to fit one’s maternity knickers and toothbrush. The other women on the ward stared at me, ‘where’s your bags love? I replied, ‘this is all I have.’ They looked astounded, little did I know, two nappies, one packet of wipes, two baby grows, two vests and a tub of Sudocrem was not suffice! Believe it or not, these Polly Pocket sized babies’ poop like six times a day and mostly need at least two changes of clothes a day, because apparently Harry and I just couldn’t master how to stop that green like smoothie leaking outside the cracks! Little did I know, what I believed to be a quick ‘nip and tuck,’ was actually major surgery and 24 hours later, I was still dosed up on codeine talking gibberish and fantasising over White Toblerone. In another room just a corridor away, our two baby boys were resting angelically feeding from tubes and supported by oxygen.

But we are ten months past that. No longer do I worry about being that delicate mum, dabbing on the nappy cream with precision, no readers, I slap that stuff on, thick and hard! No longer do I carefully pull each limb through the annoyingly small arm pockets in one’s vest. No love, I want to get that dam arm through that hole as quick as possible, and then to deal with those psychotic flipping legs that know all too well how to hit the bullseye and boot one right in their mummy’s most precious of places! Sorry but these boys are getting pinned down in a fully loaded death grip, no prisoners taken here! Get busy surviving parents, or get busy mentally breaking down, it’s a lesson I learned very quickly. But it’s not all about the fight for survival, it’s about the smaller things in life, isn’t it? Those moments that when you think you have hit rock bottom (get a grip love), then realise that you simply are one of the luckiest people alive and then I recall all of the precious snippets of euphoria that we have been blessed with, opposed by moments of horror and ‘I cannot take anymore, throw me out the window now.

From the countless night-feeds, to the long sessions of relentless expressing like a cow, with sucker like instruments hanging off my nipples. To the plentiful hysterical cry’s and waves of hellish anxiety. To the first smiles, the first laughs, the momentous first roll, to the never-ending pit of washing. To the unexplainable and torturous witching hours, to the countless arguments with Harry of who is the most tired and no matter how many hours you work, motherhood mate, is still more tiring! To the workout videos that I managed to make, week in, week out. To my first 5km after giving birth, to the C-Section step that still presents itself when wearing anything ether tight or unfortunately light coloured, to the dark bags that hang on for dear life under my eyes. To our first outing as a family to a restaurant, to our first family holiday, to the first time the boys suck a lemon, to the first time they put their feet in sand and unforgettably the countless times they slip and slide in the bath and dunk their heads under the water. Yes, it’s been a rollercoaster of laughs, cry’s, colliding hormones and contagious smiles and suddenly we find ourselves on the cusp of Albie and Henry turning a year old. Just where has the time gone? Forever longing for the next phase has shadowed the fact that these last phases are long finished. No more three hourly breast feeds, no more long naps and three-hour walks with the pushchair, no more beautifully clean looking babies. Now its chasing two Lewis Hamilton’s around a ground floor circuit, demolishing everything in their pathway and if it cannot be broken or pulled over it most certainly will be devoured.

I suppose like all mums you’ve just got to bloody get on with it and ten months later, surprisingly and quite wondrously we have two healthy, happy and handsome boys reaching for their year benchmark. So enough of the questioning and self-help book bashing, to all parents out there, I feel your pain, your happiness and your ability to be your own worst critic, from mother to mother, a parent to a parent, it may not be text book, but we are doing a good job.

And suddenly, life changed overnight

In a matter of minutes, my path was written out for me. From one scan, to a second and then another, just to be sure, I was sent from Medway Hospital, to Darent Valley, where the door closed behind me and the clang of surgical instruments suddenly sent an utter shiver down my spine. This was it, for seven years, it had just been Harry and I. 1000, raves later 10,000 drunken arguments, 1 boozy party flat lived in, 13 countries explored, 2 years of us shacked up with the in-laws, one intense lockdown and our first family home purchased, suddenly none of that really mattered anymore, suddenly we were facing the imminent arrival of two little humans and there was simply no going back. 

Life for the best part of this year, for most, has been like being engulfed by a ‘big black hole,’ for Harry and I, we have been largely fortunate. We bought our dream house in the height of lockdown and conceived, quite quietly, whilst living with one’s in-laws, identical twins. We both managed to work throughout the evil spell of Covid and luckily, in two years, had saved a dreamy deposit, for our dreamy house. And by the power of mother nature, eight months have passed and from sperm and egg, to embryo, to foetus, to two nearly, not quite, perfectly formed little humans, were about to enter this crazy but very beautiful world.

Whilst laying on an operating table, with an overwhelming amount of people, dressed in white cloaks, looking down at me, Mariah Carey serenading us all with ‘All I want for Christmas is you,’ I wondered, ‘what the f*ck have I done? A planned C-section was not what I had in mind when I thought about having a baby. I for one, had always planned and hoped for a natural birth, the thought of being numbed from the waist done and having a baby extracted and dangled above me, much like Rafiki did when showing Simba to the rest of the animal kingdom, was a little unnerving, sick and just completely unethical. Why, oh, why, do women opt for a c-section, I just don’t get it?  

The anaesthetist team were brilliant, reassuring me, making small talk where possible and it light of a very unnerving situation, you can’t beat a bit of small talk. Once all was prepped, I then awaited the start of the surgical procedure. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for, a pull and a tug, nothing at all? Or was it to be more like a scene from a horror film, me, butchered by a serial killer and his team of merry men and women. The first 30secs were much of a blur, but mostly I remember excruciating pain, pain that when some one asks you, ‘on a scale of 1-10, how painful is it,’ I would have screamed, ‘one f*cking hundred!!!!!!  It was clear then that the anasetic had not worked and a continuous flinch of my leg, confirmed that. Game over, the consultant stood alongside me whilst the sweat poured from my brow, ‘I’m afraid Miss Cherry we will need to put you to sleep,’ I cried and cried some more, pleading we could continue, but the sensation of a pack of rats rummaging into my lower stomach, was too unbearable to bare. It was a reluctant farewell to Harry and off to the land of nod it was for me. When I woke, delirium had set in and it took me a while to register that of course, it was now Harry and I plus two. And then harry, glanced over, smiled and gave the grand news, that of course we had bought two little boys into the world.  

In that second, I awaited the feeling of euphoria, this overwhelming surge of endorphins and love that so many women talk of, it never came. Mostly women describe of this out of body experience when they are actually cradling their babies. My babies however, were nowhere to be seen, the aftermath of the anaesethic, was way too powerful to be able to comprehend anything else. And now, I was just a delirious woman, laying in her gown, staring at her boyfriend and trying to put the pieces of the puzzle back together. Where were my boys? Were they safe and well? What actually happened? What is this incredible burning in my lower stomach? Do my parents know I’m okay? In the midst of all this, I had the overwhelming urge to sleep, my eyes rolling in their sockets and the rotation of nurses that came in, was just enough to keep me coherent.  

I was filled with dread, a black cloud seemed to shift its course and cast its darkening shadow over me. This was my worst nightmare; history was repeating itself. My mum had had a C-section when delivering my sister, she too and in them days it was procedure, was completely put to sleep. She largely blames her spout of post-natal depression on the fact that she didn’t see my sister enter into this world and that when she woke, my dad was holding her, not her. I am my mother’s daughter and whilst my sister is more like my dad, emotionally charged and not a cold bone in her body, I am more like my mother, a little colder and honestly, not at all maternal! I wriggled with discomfort, all I could think about was sleeping and little about the two little humans I had just bought into this world. I longed for my back at home, swaddled in my toasty duvet, what’s more, is I longed for the life I had before I fell into this unforgiving deep sleep.  

Fast forward six hours, a little food, some more pain killers and plenty of napping and I was beginning to feel a little more human again. The lengthy gap from delivering my two little boys, to still awaiting a meet and greet with them, was becoming vast. How much longer must a mother wait to see her children? Was I even go to connect with them? Would I love them? Are they sure they are my boys? How can I be sure? In a sudden whirlwind of emotion, Harry took charge and demanded at the desk that I was to see the boys, as a matter of urgency. It wasn’t long then, until I was carted out of the ward, in my bed, down the corridor and into Walnut Ward, where our two little fellows awaited us.  

It was instant, love, overwhelming love. I knew, as much as I could, by propping my head up just a little from my bed, without tearing my abdominals back open, that they were ours. And despite the many cables, wires and incubator cage, you could quite clearly see two Cherry nose’s and four, beady Ringo eyes. It wasn’t difficult to name them, we had been pondering over names for some time now, but seeing as I was so adamant they were boys from the get go and of course, I was right, we had plenty of material to work from. Albi was our first choice, Henry was our second and they both stuck straight away. Henry the smaller of the two, won his royal name over his brother, because after all, you only have to look at him to know he is a king. Albie, slightly larger than his brother and the older of the two, won his name because of his chilled persona and charming good looks. Albie, still of course royalty had already won our hearts as our very own Prince Charming.

And there it was, parenthood staring right back at me in the form of two beautiful, perfectly formed little boys. Life had slipped into another realm, far different from the realm before. Suddenly all the yearning to travel again, was pocketed somewhere else, it was simply irrelevant now. Life had set a new task, a new adventure and that was to cherish our two little boys, keep them happy, well and content, what wasn’t so certain, is how we were going to do that. I don’t remember anyone handing me the manual on ‘how to keep twin boys alive? Life had just served me a super-size measure of ‘the great unknown,’ and it didn’t get much scarier than this. Here was to our next adventure, farewell backpack, hello sleepless nights, saggy boobs and absent sex life, it’s going to be fun!

Love Loss in Lockdown

Some time has passed and what originally felt like a death sentence, suddenly becomes normality. Elements of my week, has resumed to much the same as pre-Coronavirus. The Friday feeling buzz has crept back in, purely based on the fact that Harry returns home and we then get to spend the weekend together. The early mornings have recommenced, not merely because my body clock demands so, but the early 5:45am Personal Training slots are back in the diary. Training is back on schedule, I’m feeling fit, strong but a little heavy. Despite what my mother-in-law may think, I haven’t put on weight, but whilst the scales stay the same number, what was once muscle, is now less familiar tidy rolls of fat.

It’s hard in lockdown, not to eat yourself silly into a COVID-19 food comma. Since the day starts around 5am and finishes around 9:30, that accumulates around 16.5 hours of grazing for food a day. How is one supposed to just eat three meals a day, with an ‘elevenses’’ and ‘foursey’s.’ Impossible! After breakfast I’m already thinking of sweet, sugary snacks, justified by the fact that I have already worked out once, so surely one more biscuit out the biscuit tin wouldn’t hurt? Wrong!

Social media flourishes with self-confessed ‘Merry Berrys,’ claiming that their Victoria Sponges, chocolate coted flapjacks, Nutella cookies, brownies and plentiful cupcakes are the best ever! I mean, as a junior baker, who bakes perhaps once a year, through fear of just cake binging every weekend, can see a deadly cake plan unfolding. Less activity plus an increase in heavenly cake and all sugary indulgent snacks, equates to a significant gain on one’s scales. Problem number 1, a much heavier British public released back into the wild after lockdown, solution number 1, they all flock to R Fitness to book their ‘Quarantine Rehab Personal Training sessions’ and after all the over indulgence and the self-confessed ‘Great British Bakers,’ I’m quid’s in! Carry on cake addicts, for your interest, my number; 07507695557, all Coronavirus weight gain pandemics, accepted here at R Fitness.

Of course, it is inevitable that most will gain a few pounds. Endless days spent at home, ticking off day to day, visiting the fridge, hour to hour and grabbing whatever will satisfy the COVID-19 mindless eating. I have even fashioned such snacks, including Nutella on a banana, peanut butter on a snack a jack, slices of apple with peanut butter, just a mouthful of peanut butter, Greek Yoghurt and peanut butter, some more peanut butter and a mix up of peanut butter and Nutella on toast, or simply, served best, peanut butter on a spoon, straight into my big gob! It’s never ending, I may be greedy but I certainly cannot be classed as lazy. Around my busy schedule of snacking and fridge raiding, I’m training, training hard, training often and training big. Every day, I am in the ‘garage gym,’ lifting weights, or doing body weight circuits and even streaming LIVE virtual workouts to all that wishes to get involved. The problem with some and I am inundated with people who seem to have the same problem, is self-motivation. Requests come in daily, ‘can you do a workout at this time? ‘Can you use this type of equipment? ‘Can you make it five minutes later? ‘I’m not going to make it this week, I’m too tired.’ I’ve had a bad day, sitting on my butt all day, so I’m going to sit this one out.’ ‘I am feeling so big, I don’t get it, I’m eating less, exercising, but yet I’m just feeling bigger than ever.’ Denial! Guys, its simple, we all have more time than usual, we all spend time in front of the TV, we all could get up an hour earlier,  we ALL have to make sacrifices in order to get our training in and as the famous Nike saying goes, ‘JUST DO IT ! Endless excuses, endless reasons why you didn’t do something, endless days of feeling lethargic, crap and fed up with yourself.  I’ve said it again and I’ll say it now, exercise is an ESSENTIAL part of our day to day lives. Its recommended by every health and fitness professional across the world and right now, in this current pandemic, it is at the forefront of the government’s legislation to ‘stay safe, and exercise from the safety of your home.’

It’s been a tough couple of weeks, fortunately work and training, keeps be focused from what is really unfolding around us. My Grandad turned 90 on April 9^th, for the last year he has been battling on and off health issues and unfortunately last week, he was tested positive for Coronavirus. By Easter Sunday, we had sadly lost him. And there it was, Corona, staring right back at me, consuming me that little bit more, triumphant in yet another claim to its merciless hand and this time, it wasn’t a tragic story on the news, not a friend of a friend, not a story passed through a series of story tellers, no this time it was someone closer to home, this time it was my Grandad, my mums father and my nans husband. Despite our sorrow and loss, my Grandad survived his last few days, I know, feeling safe, feeling loved and feeling humbled by the amazing staff at The Wisdom Hospice, Rochester.  On the day of his 90^th birthday, three days before he passed, the nurses there dripped champagne on his lips with a sponge. I would imagine in those small moments, that my Grandad felt heavenly, as he so loved to have his head stroked, or his brow wiped, I’m sure the mere taste of bubbles on his lips, would surly have been ecstasy. Of course, in my Grandad’s last moments, we could not be with him. My mum and her siblings, now find comfort from their loved ones, whilst in lockdown at home, with nothing but their thoughts and reflection of better times with their Dad. Undeniably my Grandad was old and most would respond to his death with the infamous line, ‘well he had a good innings.’ If you could describe ones 90 years as a ‘good innings,’ then yes, his long legacy could be likened to a long innings between England and the West Indies, in a never ending battle of Crickets finest, a contest that at many moment, the enemy nearly seizes victory and then somehow, some way, the underdog, surprises us all and lives to fight another day.

So, I salute my Grandad, I commend his bravery, his undisputed will to survive, I commend his love for his family and how he so very gracefully, faced the loss of his son in recent months. I commend his knowledge, his life experiences, from providing for a family of five, to chasing plentiful boyfriends away, for fear of them steeling his precious girls, for teaching me how to throw a super knockout punch,  for setting himself alight in the middle of the kitchen with lighter fuel and nearly burning his nose from his face, for his services in the Royal Air Force but mostly, for being my Grandad. I will forever treasure the many hours I have spent, listening to untold stories of him growing up,  stories of when he first saw my nan on the train platform and claimed her there and then, the story of how his work employees honoured him with his every own personalised Rolex and the story of how he always made my dad sleep on the front room floor, even when my mum and him were set to be married, but of course Grandad, these stories aren’t untold, I’ve heard them but a 100 times. Despite listening to the same episode of Grandads life,  I would hear it a 1000 times over to be with you now, sitting with you on the sofa drinking tea and indulging in a buttery hot cross bun claiming to have never heard this story before and ‘please continue one more time Grandad.’

We love and miss you so very much, sleep easy Grandad, be at peace, be with Uncle Phil now and hope for better times for us all here. To us, it wasn’t Coronavirus that killed you, it was a battle for you, that simply couldn’t be fought any longer, the innings you may have lost, but you forever live in our hearts. Goodnight Grandad this one is for you xxxx

Quarantine, Day 11,12,13 and 14

Its Fridaayyyyyyyyyyy!!! The hum of Bootcamp from Thursday night, is becoming very detrimental to my sleep. I must get so hyped from the endorphins and the anxiety of any potential technical problems, that when I hit the bed, the adrenaline is still pumping. So I spent most my night rolling around, attempting all sorts of different positions, whilst listening to the monotonous sound of Harry snoring. Snoring, the bane of my life! Throughout my 32 years, I have for one, had to spend many a night with numerous different men, some nights with close to ten men! Don’t get excited, this is not about to turn into another rendition of ’50 shades of grey,’ no unfortunately I’m not into swingers’ parties or mass orgies, I simply am referring to several nights, with several different men, spent in several hostel rooms, all over the world. Men and their snoring. Men and their general hygiene. Men and their incessant eating, men and their intolerable flatulence. But let’s stick to one issue at a time. For two and a half years, I’ve had to tolerate men, men and their snoring. I wonder, what did women do before the invention of the ear plug? Stick tampons in their ears? And what about before that? Perhaps the ear plug was invented first? I spent most my travel years, sleep deprived, exhausted and very close to putting one’s pillow over Harrys face when sleeping. Or better still a pillow over mine, to end all the suffering there and then! In the morning Harry would flash his bright white teeth at me, climb up onto the top bunk and nestle in, all the hours of insomnia, were suddenly forgotten. As for the fellow travellers, sharing the several other bunk beds, I had other plans for them, RIP my fellow backpackers.

 

Another weekend spun around and this time I was adamant not to let lockdown get the better of me, so I accumulated a job list. The usual amenities were in there; train, wash hair, catch up with blog, check in with friends, bike ride with Harry and this weekend, commit to and absolutely do not avoid, cleaning car. I managed to complete most of the ‘to do jobs’ on Sunday. The rest of the household, pottered around with their usual pottering, Harry these days, spends a lot more time on his phone, I’ve come to the conclusion that ether he’s having an affair, or is just plain bored. This then got me wondering, I wonder what people are doing, the people that are in full swing of committing infidelity. How do they continue with such affairs? Are they now resulting to a virtual world of ‘sexting,’ unbeknown to their poor partners, that they are building a virtual spiderweb of lies.  I mean, I’m fairly confident that Harry is faithful, but who knows, we have all seen stranger things unfold. For now, I presume to think he is obsessing over motocross bikes and fantasising over summertime barrels on the West Cornish Coast.

 

On Saturday we ventured out on our push bikes. I’ll be honest, we broke the one-hour rule and got lost in the privilege of our one-time freedom a day, in venturing out on a 25 mile bike ride. It was a taste of heaven and even though it extended into three hours, we forgave ourselves and thought Boris would too because after all we were exercising, social distancing and relishing all that is beautiful about Britain. The skies were blue, the nature affluent and the roads were empty. Many have spoken about this COVID-19 curse, being sent from a higher power. Whilst out and about, with the sun on my back, the birds singing and nature in abundance, it’s hard not to ask yourself the same question. Has mother nature restored the balance? Is this now a time for nature to flourish? In the last two years there’s been a huge move by many, in raising the awareness of global warming, protests have paraded our streets and did we listen, have we changed? The answer to that is, no, not really. Don’t pretend that you do guys, most of us, still drink bottled water, still grab a takeaway coffee in a take away cup, still drive to the local shop, rather than walk, still mass consume items that come in plastic packaging and still over consume on animal meat. Rather than be in denial, just accept it, we all have a part to blame in global warming and now, supposedly, ‘Mother Nature herself, is damming us all, inflicting us with a human killing virus. Is this Noah’s Ark all over again? Okay, let’s not get carried away but will we learn anything from this? Will we look back on this time and remember how little we really need? That you don’t need yet another new outfit, for yet another Saturday night out, that having a car pay-out every month as much as your mortgage, is totally unnecessary, that grabbing a takeaway coffee every single day is a little extravagant and is it entirely essential to eat takeout every single week ? We need so little, yet want for so much and now more than ever, we are realising we live in a world where we are in constant competition to have more, look better, be better, aim higher and portray to the rest of the world, that life is in fact a lot sweeter than it really is.

 

Since lockdown, my life has changed dramatically, as I’ve said before, mostly my days consisted of 4:30am get ups, racing around to job after job, eating breakfast, lunch and dinner in the car and barely getting six hours sleep. I was wired and tired and as a result of this, my body seemed to be suffering. Problem number one, constipation. To my disbelief Harry goes to the toilet (number two) around three times a day, is this normal? What’s more alarming is that it seems, most men, go as regular as this. I, wait for it, only go TWICE A WEEK!!! Monday to Friday, I simply just do not go for a ‘number two,’ why, I have never been entirely sure, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, possibly stress? On holiday breaks and weekends, I am far more regular and since Boris told us ‘Shutdown,’ I suddenly have been going every day, regular as clockwork. So, what does this say about my gut health? Similarly, when I was working as a Pearl Farmer, during our stints on the boat of anything up to 28 days, I would hardly go to the toilet. Long, physical 12-15 hour shifts on deck, were tiresome on the body and it wasn’t until we made it back to land, that suddenly, the flood gates opened and I’d spend the best part of my first few hours of freedom, sitting on the throne.

 

On reflection, this is simply a sign that lack of sleep and physical labour, is messing up my gut health. Since having more time at home, I’ve managed to sleep easier, have more down time and reduce the level of craziness! My friend Rachel, would say to me ‘you need to slow down, work less and make time to relax,’ but when your goal in life is to work your ass into the ground so that you have the biggest deposit possible, for your dream home, then quality of sleep and gut health, just doesn’t come into your agenda. She was right however, everyone, including me, has a duty of care in looking after our bodies, after all, we only get one, and no money, no house, no materialistic luxury item, can compensate for the health and function of your body.

Quarantine, Day 10, 11 and 12

Another day in the Big Brother house. It’s hard to actually remember what day it is now. They somehow all blend into one. My week was usually governed by what work I had. Monday, double spin day, Tuesday, work in school day, Wednesday, Wipeout day, Thursday beloved Bootcamp day and Friday, well you didn’t need reminding, because it’s that Friday feeling kind of day! Saturday and Sunday, well, its ‘let’s go absolutely mental kids,’  kind of days! God bless the weekend, it’s what we are all striving for right? That repetitive cycle of, Monday morning blues, Wednesday ‘hump day’ jitters, feel good Friday feelings and roll forward to Sunday evening, feelings of Monday morning blues are already setting in. Surly life was not made to be recycled in such a way? But I know I’m not the only one. My friends and I long for the weekends, some of us even ring each other daily, my friend Rachel and I, often ring each other early morning and sing to our hearts content, ‘it’s Friday baby, friiiiiiidaaaaaaaaay, boom shaka laka, its Friday, Its Friday , its Friday, its Friday ! That Friday feeling is like waking up on Christmas morning to find a bag of treasures sitting at the foot of your bed, it’s like Arsenal winning the Premier league (whenever that will happen), or like beating my deadlift 1 REP MAX. No matter how many weeks into the year, it never gets boring, that Friday feeling is worth more than a pot of gold and I never get bored of it.

Fridays now, are quite a different affair. The highlight of the day is Harry returning from work. He for now, has been summoned back to work, apparently his work is ‘key work,’ it certainly is ‘key’ for his sanity. When he walks through the door, I make sure I’m wearing something nice, usually not a lot, the door swings open and I pounce on him, wrapping both my legs around his waste, swinging my head in a ‘head and shoulders’ kind of way. I consume him with my long golden locks and ‘Gucci Rush,’ aroma then I back flip off, and begin one full strip down for him, right in the centre of the hallway. And then, and then Jeanette appears with her bin bag and plastic gloves, demanding a full COVID-19 decontamination screening and then my ‘Friday fantasy,’ is splat all over the hallway floor, in one big fat Corona mess.

Despite not being able to walk around in my underwear or seduce Harry at any given moment, we do on the brighter side of life, have much more time together. In light of COVID-19 we have become frequent training partners, lovers and frequent daily strollers. Just like in our travel days, we pretty much spned all our time together and every day, even though I have to pick up hs socks, make th bed, isten to his snoring and squeeze his balckheads, I am reminded that I have chosen ‘a good egg.’

Nowadays I seem to have the time to focus on me, which means finally getting round to shaving my legs, plucking my eyebrows and washing may hair more than once a week. For now, I’ve managed to do just two of them things, my legs are freshly shaven, my eyebrows pruned, but washing my hair more frequently, is a task. In the Ringo household, as I’ve said before, a roster of showering, eating and general relaxing is in full swing. On average and I have worked this out, it takes me two minutes to shower, impressive right? This suits the rest of the family nicely, especially when I’m showering twice a day. Chris on the other hand, well I’m not sure what he does in that bathroom, but all the pruning in the world could be done and Chris would still be loitering in there until one of us shouts ‘Chris hurry the hell up! Its actually impressive. Every morning he goes into the bathroom, the shower goes on lasting around 7-10minutes. Immediately after he proceeds to dry himself and then suddenly he releases a ‘fog horn’ like sound, in three big blows. I mean it’s a like a warning call going off, ‘the Germans are coming, run for your lives! Pre-Corona Virus, there was no need for a Chris alarm clock, I was up, ready and out of the house before the rest of the Ringo sleeping beauties even stirred but now it’s one of life’s daily essentials, just like shaving my legs, it’s something I’ve just got to get used to.

Another hump day came and went in the Ringo household and like a click of the fingers, we were back to Thursday, Bootcamp day. ‘Here, here,’ to all my Bootcampers, they are a splendid bunch. For the second time we came together at 7:15pm via video streaming, in an effort to blow off some steam, with a common endeavour of, ‘forget about this dam Corona’ and it certainly works. In the first five minutes, the Ria Cherry ‘emergency button’ was hit, with 35 people staring back at me and the internet cutting in and out, it was operation ‘complete meltdown.’ One things for sure, you can never rely on technology and secondly, always have a back up plan. After resulting to a state of total erratic behaviour of screaming to Harry for help and damming the person who ever invented the internet, I finally cracked it and manged to stream the class from my 4G data and all was calm again. I guess I’m somewhat of a performing monkey for the best part of that 45mins, jumping around like ‘Mr Motivator,’ thrusting my hips, singing and clapping my hands in a joyous display of happiness. In that that small moment, we laugh and train together, in that small moment we are reminded that together we are united, together we are stronger and together we can complete around 3000 burpees in just 45mins! We ended our BOOTCAMP session much the same way as the last with a united, universal clap for our beloved NHS staff. To all those fighting for us on the front line, we love you, we salute you and we owe you everything. Thank you.

Quarantine, Day 7,8 & 9

The mood in the Big Brother house, has changed a little. Maybe it’s me? I mean, it’s probably me, in fact it’s definitely me. Some days, I just can’t help it, the Corona cloud, just consumes me, everything that once was normal is now tainted with Corona. My business, my local café where I go to get my daily coffee, my local gym, my social life, my family life, my online shopping, the list goes on. On reflection of this, I remind myself every day, that no matter how heavy the cloud feels, I know I am fortunate, fortunate for my health, my friends my loved ones and of course having a roof over my head and money in the bank. I mean yes, I know all that, I absolutely know how lucky I am. When I complain about anything out loud, Harry will respond with ‘well at least you’re not dying, at least you’re alive,’ yes mate, I know that, why do men always do that? I think I could fall over, break both my legs and lose the ability to walk forever, therefore never being able to return to work, never fulfilling my career dreams and spending the rest of my life in a chair and Harry will say, ‘well at least you’re not dying! It still doesn’t cushion the blow any less, it still doesn’t take away the anxieties of these unprecedented times, it still doesn’t stop self-loathing moments of, ‘oh why is this happening to me, why, oh why God, why me? Marcus Aurelius once said, ‘Don’t be overheard complaining, not even to yourself,’ the Roman Emperor is probably right, he is a man after all, he surely would be appalled by all this complaining and social victimisation streaming. It would take several lifetimes to read everyone’s gloomy statuses on Facebook, a Roman Emperor would surely just say, ‘off with their bloody heads!

My Saturdays were usually spent, starting the day with work, then early afternoon, Harry and I would usually go to our favourite café ‘No 84,’ and get our favourite veggie breakfast, accompanied by arguably the best Flat White Gravesend has to offer. Largely it depends on who is the appointed Barista of the day, walking in and seeing Adrian on that coffee machine, is like a kid walking into a sweet shop. I wriggle with contentment, that man knows how to deliver a coffee. Harry argues that perhaps it’s a little too strong, sorry mate, I’m made of the strong stuff, no room for latte lovers here! Coffee was made to have you buzzing off life, get you jumping off the walls, have you ready for the adventures ahead! I mean why else would people be begging for coffee at 5:00am in the morning, not the taste, it’s about the only high in life that comes at a small cost and doesn’t risk you having a major come down or potential heart attack.

This Saturday however, was quite a different one. I started my day with a live workout, streamed from my Instagram. Great start to the day! A spoonful of endorphins, a load of Instagram love and a fair few calories burned by 8:30, then a quick one-to-one virtual Pt session with one of my many beloved clients and then, something very unusual, unfolded in the Ringo household. Harrys parents, have a friend named Martin Trumble, Martin reminds me much of Robin Hood, a man and his lorry, metaphorically his merry man, has adopted the duty of delivering food to his merry family and friends. Unlike Robin Hood, he does charge a fee for this, but of cost value only. So, Chris and Jeanette took him up on his home delivery offer, eliminating any unnecessary Corona cross contamination risk. The shop was bigger than expected, I think even the bill was bigger than expected also. On arrival of the shop, Chris, Jeanette and Harry came together and a systematic operation known as

‘Operation UNLOAD SHOPPING,’ began to unfold.  The plentiful bags were brought around the side of the house, via the back gate. ‘Operation UNLOAD SHOPPING,’ was led by Kernel Chris, his troops consisted of comrade Jeanette and comrade Harry. Together their military operation, adopted a militant system of unloading bags on arrival, disinfecting any items in plastic and rinsing fresh produce. The troops, in their surgical plastic gloves, stood in line, passing one item to the next, admitting a full COVID-19 decontamination screening and then storing it in it’s necessary place.

Watching the operation unfolding from the ranks, whilst at first was amusing, became somewhat unsettling. Had they simply lost their minds? Had this completely got out of hand? Had one week in isolation already finished them off? But in reality, this was just, by most, considered necessary. The reality is that any of those items could have come in to contact with someone who was potentially infected with the virus. How many times had one item of food been handled? One, two, three, more? Who knows? I’m sure the process of handling such items is largely monitored and in conjunction with health and safety procedures, but there hasn’t always been the threat of a mass spreading, human killing virus. In that moment, reality dawned on me, ‘Operation UNLOAD SHOPPING,’ was real, it was necessary and whilst I know others do not take the same precautions, in the Ringo household, we take our shopping seriously.

After the amusement of ‘operation UNLOAD SHOPPING,’ died down, it was back to getting on with Saturday. All the Instagram, virtual PT and shopping, took around 3.5- 4 hours and then, nothing. A Big fat nothing filled my big fat void. Usually on Saturdays, I would make plans to see girlfriends, get blind drunk , hit the city or venture out for a tasty bit of grub but now of course, only one of them options still remain and seeing as Jeanette keeps her wine stash padlocked up, straight gin or raspberry vodka, will have to do. Despite dragging my heels around most of the day, I finally managed to succumb to the lure of the sofa and an afternoon film. Honestly, I’m not a sofa girl, sorry if you’re one of these people that are. Apologies also if you are one of these people that spend their days constantly social media streaming, it’s like the whole world constantly moans about not having time, yet they spend their whole time talking to Facebook. If you actually accumulated the amount of time it took to write long, grammatically incorrect, tedious statuses, you would actually realise that you have so much time, you wouldn’t know what to do with it. Whilst we are on that topic, talking to Facebook, what is that all about?  Some classic quotations include, ‘I have no time! How on earth do I home school my children, work from home, wipe my arse, keep up with my social media streaming and cook dinner? Who are these people actually talking to? Me? You? The rest of the world? And then of course, the hundredths of replies, from other similarly estranged people with their own first world problems. Sorry guys, I for one DO NOT care, because I can list you right now, the real people in this world who really don’t have time to wipe their arses, because they are too busy saving the world from a human killing virus.

For me it’s the quiet ones, the ones that don’t reach out on Facebook, the ones that silently go day to day about the business and yet we hear no mention of their struggles on Facebook. They are the people worth checking in on, they are the people most likely suffering alone. Despite my love-hate relationship for social media, it has, in such troublesome times, been a useful tool for reaching out to others. Many have used it as a tool of spreading a whole lot of positivity across the country. That’s the beauty of social media, the idea that one simple click of a button can reach thousands of people, in one simple moment you have the power to influence the minds and wellness of so many others. So, my aim, as much as possible, is to send out as much positivity as possible. Utilise the power of social networking for all that is good in the world, send out plentiful virtual hugs, because in a time, where we are deprived so much of the longing feeling of human contact, a social hug, is surely better than nothing.