Phobias, fate and embarrassing things happening in lifts

This week’s blog is sensible.  I’m pointing this out for the benefit of new readers.  Actually it always veers on the less-than-completely-bonkers side as I’m mindful of my known audience, which includes clients and sometimes family. I’m also painfully aware that on any given week it may be read by no one.  Not no one in particular, but no one at all.  So now you’re probably thinking that I should find more effective ways to spend my time than writing to potentially no one, but there we have it. The substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen.

I’m over my train phobia now.  For years I couldn’t travel into town without arriving in a state fit only for a strong Jack Daniels and a very large cream cake. It seemed a shame at the time to give up an every-girl’s-dream job in fashion buying because of it, but there you go.  That paranoia began after my close call on the evening of the Kings Cross disaster, travelling through the station maybe 15 minutes before the fire broke out. Someone Dale knew (he of Songbird fame) was holding a fundraising event in aid of Cancer Research and we were meeting in north London. I managed to get out of work a bit early, which was unusual in those days.  After that night I gradually deteriorated into a walking wreck and quit my job a few months later.   I mention this because this week marked the 24th anniversary of that disaster and it reminds me that life is fragile… but we’re always where we’re meant to be.  Of course I travel into central London all the time now – for meetings, dinners, lectures, to run training courses, management consulting, art gallery visiting, lunch – especially if you’re buying! 

So all fine now on the visiting London front, but still slightly wary of getting in lifts. Not because I’m scared you understand, but more due to a history of embarrassing myself and then being stuck for a minute or two in shamed silence.  The worst case was starting a conversation with, as I thought he was called, Sheargal Farkey.  As you can imagine, that went down great! Gill and I still shriek with laughter about our elevator encounter with Paul McCartney – can’t even begin to tell you about that!  And Chrissie Hynde was much nicer in real life in a London lift than when I’ve seen her interviewed on TV – not sure if she’d remember me all these years later.  I can only hope not…

As well as talking about London, may I quickly say that I haven’t been to Paris for a while, so if anyone fancies taking me to lunch there…?  Last time was also a bit embarrassing actually, not in a lift, but ripping back the bedroom curtains – stark naked – to view the Seine dappled in morning sunlight, and instead coming face-to-face with French workmen on scaffolding…

Enough said about Paris! With music being the cognitive soundtrack to our lives, it’s natural that songs remind us of people, places, lost loves and almost forgotten dreams.  (Don’t you agree, Bro-Lo?) This week I’ve been playing Aztec Camera’s still fantastic High Land Hard Rain album; its best song was ‘We could send letters.’  And back then, we did.  Now we email, tweet, text, Skype, and everything else.  So whether you’re in London, Paris, Chicago or wherever else you may be, what’s your reason for not keeping in touch?  @WeekendWitch.

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