MiMiVuVu

We lost a legend recently. One of my heroes - Steve Jobs.  The ultimate “when I grow up, I want to be..” fantasy. He was one serious kickass entrepreneur. Fuck Dragon’s Den. This is how you do business!

He is quoted for a particularly good soliloquy that has proliferated over the internet, and is now part of our common mantra , but it’s worth reflecting on again: “ "Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on."

I have a bit of a work fetish. I don’t really know how to do anything else. This is not a healthy trait. I can’t switch off. I’m basically an adrenaline junkie, running from project to project. Seeking more and more responsibility and working like some kind of out of control over-caffeinated and over-carbohydrated Duracell bunny. I just can’t stop. Where is the emergency exit. where is the stop button. Fuck knows.

As crazy as it may sound, and I know this does sound crazy, but this is how I love it. This is when I’m happiest.

There are many things that I am not particularly good at. Sewing. Cooking. Subtlety. Inertia. Balance.
It’s all or nothing. Stop or go. Fight or flight.

I am embarking on my first full 2 week holiday in nearly 4 years. We are heading for the beautiful beaches of India which will involve little more than getting on a plane, eating, drinking, attending a music festival, laughing with friends and the occasional spot of splashing in the sea. Between tragic yet terrific Bollywood films, I have spent most of the  flight thinking about work. “oo, now I wonder if that could work?” and “hmmm, perhaps we could improve our workflow and decrease our overheads by restructuring our capitalisation process. Note to self: arrange a meeting with the Finance guys to crunch it out.” I actually didn’t make that up to impress you with business jargon... I was actually thinking that could work. That’s not the worst part.... no, the sad reality, my friends, is that I really enjoy it.

When I was a kid, I was the Captain of the Chess team. Look, I never said I was cool, so don’t gasp out loud in sheer terror at my clear lack of street cred. And to me, business is simply an oversized chessboard littered with pawns, kings, knights and Queens. I move. You move. I anticipate and plan. You change the rules. I adjust. But always move forward and always with a central goal. To win. My favourite book is the Art of War. Enough said?

 As I head towards some Winter sun, leaving behind my Crackberry with trembling trepidation, I am hoping I will be able to switch my brain off. I need to breath. I need air. I need perspective.
If you were to ask my husband what I lack in life, he would not suggest such benign things as food, water or champagne. He would simply answer, “Mimi needs balance”.

I’ve gone from laissez faire champagne-aholic at the beginning of the year, back to my roots of insomnia, frenetic slapping at my laptop like it deserves to be beaten into submission.I am not a good house wife. I have no patience with laziness and I am incredibly driven. 

Honestly, I hated the first part of this year when I wasn’t working. The frustration of brain redundancy and the paralysation of inertia drove me to the brink of  depression. I need to accomplish. I need to create. I need to build, motivate, challenge, deliver. And once again, I am doing just that.  Ah. Liberation.

I know this isn’t normal. But I don’t understand people who hate their jobs. What a waste of a life.
Although I confess, sometimes it does all get a bit too much for me. I start to take it all a little too seriously. I have to remind myself constantly that it isn’t worth taking home. Why do I take it all so personally? I get so emotionally wrapped up. Why can’t I let go? It can be hard to disconnect. To get perspective. 

I had a rather tough start to this week. The shit seemed to be raining in from every angle. And in the midst of the brown haze it can be hard not to lose heart, to keep your faith.
Despite my incredible husband compassing me through the quigmire, my soul seemed to weigh a thousand tons, imprisoning me like an anchor to my melancholy and stress.

I am desperate to make a real impact. To make things better. I have a bit of a meglomaniac messiah complex. “Wow!” I hear you say. “Yep. Mighty fucked up stuff”, I say. I want to save everything, everyone. The fear of failing drives me to anger and frustration. Despite the eventual positive outcomes, it’s a rather negative process. I’m still not sure if the end justifies the means. It certainly won’t if I give myself an early heart attack.  But my friends constantly sapena me to my growing inability to talk about normal things and my almost neurotic passion for my industry and my work. I am pleased to say that their relentless, and incredibly annoying flagging has buffered me from full blown eccentricity. Well, for the moment anyway.

In the meantime, I feel like one of the lucky ones:  I do what I love.  And, man, do I love what I do.

Mimi's Playlist... I don't have any bloody time to create a playlist.... I'm busy working!

Listen to Mimi's playlist of vintage sounds on Spotify:

http://open.spotify.com/user/mimivuvu/playlist/1nPlKw0JrwGI7wz4GHLUIO

It’s nearly my birthday. I don’t like birthdays. I normally get quite emotional and slightly (more) unstable around this time of year. I dislike the reality of growing up. There is nothing exciting about it at all.
 
As I mentioned in one of my last post, I’ve noticed an increase in my penchant for the melancholy. I'm slowly morphing into a grumpy old lady. I laugh less, I'm irritable more. I like slower swing music. I'm listening to a lot more Al Green, Elton John and Adele. Oh god! Soon I'll be listening to Mellow Magic for classic soothing tunes to guide me into the coffin.

Age is a bitch!

I like the blissful ignorance of indestructibility that I had when I was younger. I seemed to have magical bounce-ability. I could party everyday and all night and miraculously my cells would  immediately begin to rejuvenate the second I began to gobble my way through a recovery fry up. But, quite literally, the cracks are starting to appear. Mostly around my eyes.

I notice it in the small things. Bones creaking and cracking like embers in a fire when I bend over or try anything even mildly adventurous during sex. My flexibility is shot to hell too. I’ve gone from a dancer able to split against a vertical wall to being barely able to touch my toes. My body seems to be staging a coup d’tat.

When I go to the gym or my trainer manages to coerce me into some form of physical activity, I awake the next day feeling as if I’ve been rickrolled by a tank. Every muscle aches, angry with me for the torture I inflicted upon it the day before. I used to be fit. I used to be able to dance for hour upon hour... for pleasure! Now a 5 minute session on the step machine feels like some kind of modern Guantanamo cardiovascular torture technique. But I have to keep pounding the treadmill/ cross trainer/ punch bag/ etc because my body appears to be very determined to hold onto every single calorie I consume. If I so much as look at a cupcake for too long I seem to put on 5 pounds.

The latest thing is that my knees have started locking for no reason at all and my left hip needs to be clicked if I spend too much time on the step machine. I did not sign up to this!
Mobility, youth, vitality, health and beauty... These are the quintessential characteristics of my life contract. I need a good lawyer to review my T&Cs.

I’m not overly nostalgic, but as I sat on an aeroplane heading for the  Alpine fresh air of Austria earlier this month, I realised I was surrounded by a bunch of 19 year olds, obviously heading out on some kind of pre-ski season tour. They all looked so fresh faced, so youthful. I let out a gently sigh, reminiscing about how I too was once young and wrinkle free. Look at their dewy youthful, make up free skin. I just look tired. Hagged. Urgh. What are those weird pins and needles rushing along my thighs? For god sake! I’ve only been on the plane for 15 minutes.

But then, as if my some divine intervention... maybe because I was at higher altitude and god does something marvelous! As if she were to say, “I know how it feels to be old as fuck...” and we oldies have to stick together, I watch a beautiful scene unfold in front of me. These hormonal teenagers pull out their velcro wallets with A&F grossly stitched in some neon thread across the front/ back of it and watch as the moths fly out in slow motion. The kids begin to furiously count out their pennies, and realise that they can only afford one diet coke between three of them. Now I begin to feel a little smug. Yes, they have incredible metabolisms. Yes, they have more energy than Duracell could ever produce. Yes, they have their whole lives ahead of them. But I’m older, pumped full of botox, and glugging back bottles of gorgeous Nicolas Feuillate. Because the upside of age, is money. And, goddammit, I am going blurry eyed into my 35th year on this planet, and I am not doing it on a budget. I’m going full-throttle, Chanel purse open, and waving the flag for Dom Perignon. Afterall, anything worth doing, is worth doing properly... even ageing disgracefully. 

Mimi’s nouveau vintage sounds for my creaking bones:

• I Got Trouble - Christina Aguilera
• Lord Knows Best - Dirty Beaches
• Me Gustas Tu - Manu Chao
• Bullet & a Target - Citizen Cope
• Give Me One Reason - Tracy Chapman
• Cajun Moon - JJ Cale
• Midnight in Chelsea - Jon Bon Jovi
• Yellow Brick Road - Angus & Julia Stone
• Nancy Lee - Vintage Trouble

I know my position is unique. I have all the marks of someone who should do it. I would be so good at it. My husband would be too. It’s the normal thing to do. It’s what’s next.

But the reality is, I just don’t want kids.

We have both had all the tests done and yes, it is possible. All the kit works. But this isn’t a question of biology. This is a case of preference. We are making a conscious choice not to. We talk about it often. I think because we are expected to. Do I get broody sometimes? Of course. I look at my gorgeous godchildren and think, “ did I make the right choice? Will I regret this when I get older? What if I change my mind? What if a baby is the thing that will bring true happiness to my life?”

But I just keep coming back to the fact that I don’t really want one.

I’m sure it really is the most wonderful thing you’ve ever done. And I’m sure it is incredibly rewarding for you. And I don’t doubt that it gives you great pleasure and joy. But it’s not for me. And I genuinely don’t feel like I’m missing out.

I get tired of the perpetual questions that demand that I justify my position. I’m sick to death of explaining that it isn’t due to some deep-seeded problem or negative position. I haven’t come to this decision lightly. It is one of the most considered things I’ve ever not-done.

And yes. I would be a great mother. But I’d also be an extraordinary Prime Minister. A great lawyer. A brilliant historian. But being good at something doesn’t mean you should or even want to do it. I am not robbing the world of a mini-Mimi. In fact, some would suggest not having kids is saving the world from another Mimi. One is quite enough, thank you.

I am surrounded by children. In fact, these days I seem to spend more time at 2 year old birthday parties  than at 32 year old birthday parties. And all the children I have circling my ankles, on any given day at a friend’s house, are beautiful. And I do love them all dearly. I actually like their little personalities, in spite of the fact that they are kids, not because they are children.  I think they will each grow up to be marvellous adults. And as much time as I spend with other people’s children, who I adore, I have no drive to push any out of my vagina.

Occasionally I have hormonal spikes where I suddenly get a weird biological longing to procreate, but it passes as soon as I have a really good shag. Turns out, that ovarian hunger was just lust for an orgasm.  

I’m not going to justify my “one way only” vaginal policy with the old adages of “selfishness” and “career focus”, although there is an element of that. Mostly, it’s because I like my life just as it is. I do have more love to give - this is true. I often feel a longing to love someone else beyond just Ru and me, in a truly meaningful way. I talk about it often. But I don’t necessarily think that hole is baby-shaped. I have many wonderful friends in my life. I’ve had incredible lovers. I have the most inspirational husband. I feel I have an overflow.... Fuck it! Maybe I should just get a puppy.

Some of Mimi’s songs for the little munchkins:

• Forever Young - Rod Stewart
• Father & Son - Cat Stevens
• Gracie - Ben Folds
• Butterfly Kisses -  Bob Carlisle
• In my Father’s Eyes - Eric Clapton
• In My Daughter’s Eyes - Martina McBride
• Daughters - John Mayer
• God Don’t Make Lonely Girls - The Wallflowers

Listen to Mimi’s playlist for the mini munchkins
http://open.spotify.com/user/mimivuvu/playlist/6HNnVFDVw9FHwWYIQpVm6b

Now after months of endless working and nose-to-grindstoneing, I decided to take my husband’s advice and allowed myself a few days off. But something rather odd happened. Despite my capability in the professional world, I appear to have become completely indecisive in my real life. I used to be an expert decionmaker. And there was no greater evidence of my keen decisonmaking than in my ability to travel. I traveled light. I traveled smart. I arrived at airports with enough time to pop into the lounge for a drink and a fellow lounger flirt. I pre-booked. Pre-planned. Pre-checked. 

But some kind of weird Vice Versa spell has befallen me. Within the last few months, I have missed flights, run through airports, huffing and puffing, weighed down by the excess luggage that had to be transferred into my hand luggage. What on earth happened? 

Something incredibly annoying has begun to change within me. I appear to have developed a severe case of indecision... about almost everything. 

So, it would appear that my non-work self has become decidely indecisive. Categorically useless. So whilst my professional alter-ego has become stronger, smarter and more engaged, the non-working Mimi has turned into an airhead.

Should I take the A-Road or the M40? Should I take the Hammersmith Flyover or go through Kensington? Should I have the scrambled eggs or the omelette? Vanilla Syrup or Hazelnut? Come on! It’s really not that difficult. I think because I make decisions all day, the minute I leave the office, my brain regresses to the featal position and shouts out “no more.”  

Holiday packing, in particular, has become a serious challenge. What if it rains? What if it’s hot? What if I bloat from the criminal combination of alcohol and altitude? What if I decide I want to wear jeans (I hardly ever wear jeans)? And every girl knows that no single pair of shoes goes with everything. How can I possibly decide which 5 pairs I will need this weekend?  

These indecisions lead to packing nightmares, travel nightmares and  general life chaos. My most problematic indecision however, comes to my human connections. I can’t seem to decide what I want. What is important. Do I need space? Or do I want to get close? Love or sex? Laugh or cry? It’s quite exhausting. Mostly for my husband. 

This is going to sound utterly absurd, but I actually think I’m having a life crisis. And I think it is brought on by a general overdose of fabulosity. I told you it was going to sound ridiculous. But hear me out:  

I live in a world where everything is possible and readily available. It is as fantastic as it sounds. But I think I’m turning into a poor little rich girl with “first world problems”. Pretty girls. Pretty boys. Bars. Clubs. Fast cars. Fast bikes. Tunes, tracks, DJs and dancers. Ibiza. Miami. Vegas. St Tropez. Sydney. India. Hong Kong. Michelle Roux. Heston Blumenthal. Veuve. Bolli. Sex. Drugs. Rock n roll.  Why have one when you can have it all. It’s like a childhood collage of everything you hope you’ll be when you grow up. I think I’m getting greedy. 

My indecision is perpetuated by the ever-growing menu of options. Why have one when you can have a threesome. Why have only Vanilla when you can have it with Chocolate , Caramel and swirls of gorgeousness? Why would you ever want to stop? 

Ironically, the life of excess has a natural way of screeching you to a full stop at some point if you don’t have the courage to apply the brakes yourself. Something eventually gives. You hope to god it’s not your health, your sanity or your relationships. Inevitably it is one of these. 

In recent months, my relationship has suffered. Suffered awfully. Between the chaos and the mayhem of divine indulgence, you begin to lose the people you love. You can only spread yourself so far, so thin. So fragile. 

I work 60 hours a week, I party as many hours, I have so many incredible people to share this with. But one has to have the common sense to realise that you cannot be everything to everyone all the time. I sometimes feel like I’m losing my mind. Who do I say no to? Just one more drink and then I’ll leave. This time I mean it. But let me just  have one more fling in the arena of options. It’s a highly addictive, adrenaline fuelled frenzy of wonderfulness but my god! if you stay too long it will consume you entirely. 

I don’t even know if this makes sense. I can’t decide if the problem with me is that I have too much, or that I haven’t had enough. I’m in deep. And I definitely don’t feel in control. I can't even decide why there is so much chaos. All I know is that anarchy andexcess seem to be the loudest voices in the room. Maybe it’s because everyone around me seems to be settling down, finding their inner Mummy, their inner homemaker. I just keep finding new demons. Untapped penchants. Frustrated drives and angst -ridden hormones. Surely by now I should have grown out of this?

I have more questions than answers. 

There is a great expression that eludes to the fact that one is only as honourable/ committed/ loyal as one’s available options. Well what happens when you have too many options? What happens to the soul when there is no bottom to this magical world at the top of the Faraway Tree. It never stops turning, yearning, calling. 

I know this has far too many questions to really be an artful dialogue. All I know is that I have fewer and fewer answers, and a lot of undecided decisions to make.

Mimi’s Playlist for Burnout from the Life Spectacular: 

• Manic Street Preachers – A Design For Life
• Foo Fighters – DOA
• INXS – Devil Inside
• The Rolling Stones – (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction 
• Starsailor – Four To The Floor (Thin White Duke Mix)
• Lady Gaga – Beautiful, Dirty, Rich
• Gwen Stefani – Rich Girl
• Jamie Foxx featuring T-Pain – Blame It
• Scissor Sisters – Fire With Fire
• Beth Orton – Best Bit
• The Eagles – Life InThe Fast Lane
• Dire Straits – Money For Nothing
• Dr. Feelgood – Milk And Alcohol

Or listen to Mimi's Burnout Playlist on Spotify:

http://open.spotify.com/user/mimivuvu/playlist/4DBdmYwYIqEqE6Px7l4hcm

As I sit here listening to the legendary “Faith” album by George Michael on gorgeous scratchy old vinyl, chugging back Barolo likes it’s mother’s milk, after a thankless day of grudge in the office, I’ve come to an astounding realisation.  I am quite melancholic. Some would even say downright grouchy.

Now, I’m sure you are probably sitting there resolutely dumbfounded by my sheer nievity that I was ever anything else. But please understand that this has come as rather a bit of a shock to me. I’m in Marketing for god’s sake. I’m supposed to be the eternal optimist, purveyor of sunshine and all that glitters. Unfortunately, it turns out, I am decidely prone to irritability, frustration, impatience, petulence, grump. And as I get older, it seems to be ratcheting rapidly.

Thankfully, I have found a cure to my general discontent. No. It’s not a beautiful home or a loving spouse or wonderful friends - although all those things are life-survival-necessities. No, I’ve come to the conclusion that to get through this life with any iota of sanity on the other side is to embrace your vices - wholly - and never, ever apologise for them. And so it is, that I declare my profound adoration, neigh, reliance on furmented grapes that make fine champagne.

Now, before you wave your pointy finger at me... can I just say,”I know!” I’ve heard the lectures, the reasoning, the rationale. All my protective friends in the know... my boys in PR and girls in the zeitgeist, remind me constantly that “Mimi, do what you want under cover of darkness, but could you please stop advertising your penchant for the nectar of the gods.... you look like an alcoholic!”
I listen, nodding. They are right, in the real world. But fuck it! I do like to drink, but in the inimitable words of my husband “I like my vices too much to turn them into addictions.” That would mean that at some point I would have to check myself into some type of rehab clinic and deny myself the pleasures of my flesh. Never!!

As Frank Sinatra said, ““I feel sorry for people who don't drink. When they wake up in the morning, that's as good as they're going to feel all day.” So basically, drinking that cup of tea with a dry McVities at 4pm is pretty much as good as it gets. I would, quite honestly, shoot myself through the tastebuds if that was the highlights of my day. 

The secret is to not to refer to your vices as addictions. I simply enjoy sex and alcohol. But I’d never profess dependency. Although I am a far nicer person when I have these two things in inhumane abundance. Russell Brand, the ultimate pinup child for excess and one of my favourite characters in the current studio of opinion ventriliquism,  said in his Booky Wooky that “We all need something to help us unwind at the end of the day. You might have a glass of wine, or a joint, or a big delicious blob of heroin to silence your silly brainbox of its witterings but there has to be some form of punctuation, or life just seems utterly relentless.”

Whilst I do not indulge in his extremities of mind altering paraphenalia, I do appreciate the sentiment. Life is relentless. People pacify themselves with ridiculous mumbo-jumbo like “tomorrow is another day.” I know! That’s the bloody problem. That is not a solution. So pass the Bolli darling, and let’s forget today and hope that tomorrow brings with it another crate of La Grande Annee 1995 and as next year, well, we can only hope for a superb good vintage!

But I will let the godfather (Frank Sinatra) have the final word on the subject... for who knows better than Frank, “Basically, I'm for anything that gets you through the night - be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniels.”

Artists that sound better on vinyl:

• Petula Clark
• Frank Sinatra
• Marvin Gaye
• Al Green
• Kool & The Gang
• Stevie Wonder
• Miles Davis
• Ella Fitzgerald

There is one law that I believe to be undeniably true: Pareto’s Principle. Also known as the 80:20 rule. Named after Vilfredo Pareto, a famous Economist, a management consultant - see, from time to time, they do produce something useful! It is the theory that roughly 80% of the effects come from 20% of the causes. For example, 80% of wealth is generated by 20% of the population. Or 80% of your sales come from 20% of your clients. It’s essentially an interpretation of the Ying & Yang theory applied to economics - to every perfection there is an element of imperfection.

As you probably know by now, I don’t really believe in anything fundamentally, but  the reason I really love this principle is because it transcends religion or economics. It’s about life. It’s the idea that life is complex. That there is no truth without a margin of error or falsehood, and reversely, that to the most deprived, there is always a glimmer of salvation. Really, there are so many applications.

It is the most beautiful and most human of all Economic theories.

If your average week has 80% good days, you can probably quite comfortably deal with 20% bad days. Essentially one shitty day a week is ok if the other 6 are good. But if that balance reverses, life can become morbidly distressing. I think its fair to say that none of us expect a perfect life, without trouble or strife, but none of us want pain to rule the 80 percentile. Apply that to relationships, business, bank accounts, everything.

It's even true of personality. From my own experience,  I would say I am a good person about 80% of the time, but there is also a slightly unhinged femme-Frankenstein 20% of the time. I would love, in the words of Edith Piaf, to have no more regret. To go through life blissfully and ignorantly believing that everything was perfect and that my every action was completely justified. The complex reality however, is that we have all done things we feel remorseful about. I think that is healthy. I'd never want to lose my humanity to the point of indignation about my every action. I don't trust people that say they have no regrets (or no vices). I mean, how blinded do you have to be to your own fallibility and reality to think that your life has been one steady stream of perfect  synchronisation between man and universe. Sometimes we fuck up. That's just the way it goes.

Frankly, I've done so many stupid things in my life that to compile a list would be a full time job and a whole blog in it's own right. I guess the only thing that keeps me sane is the hope that I learn and grow from my mistakes. At least occasionally.

My greatest regrets are the times that I failed my husband. I could be a better wife. There are times I have been cruel. There were times I purposefully hurt him.  These are moments I regret immensely. Followed very closely by times when I have hurt friends. I hate anger, although I do seem to have a particular knack for it.  I hate it when people say things like, “ we always hurt the ones we love.” This is contrived and dismissive bullshit. Such rethoric does not excuse bad behaviour. 

I'm trying to improve. Attempting to not get stuck in my ways. I hope I’m getting better. 

Sometimes self improvement really does just feel like masturbation - to quote Fight Club. I’m not entirely sure if I’m actually making any real progress nor am I sure whether it will make any marked improvement on my connections with people. Who knows. But I remain blindly optimistic.

Have you noticed how the older one gets, the more nostalgic we become? I find myself reflecting on my younger days quite a bit. Retrospection is important to contextualise one’s previous decisions and actions. It is possible that the things we regret are just symptomatic of a time when we had different priorities. About 5 years ago, I invested the equavalent of a house deposit on a holiday in the Maldives. Do I regret it? Retrospectively, sure. But at the time, it seemed like a completely reasonable thing to do. And I had a bloody brilliant time. But these days, my value system is different. I want more stability, not less. What is important to me now, would never have even entered my consciousness 10 years ago. My benchmarks have shifted. My goals are in a completely different stratosphere. So, I have to learn to not be quite so hard on the younger version of myself. And understand that my actions and decisions were the result of a different set of values.

And so  I guess instead of reflecting back with a nagging sense of “I really should have known better” or “what on earth was I thinking”, I am looking back more fondly. Giggling at my madness, my mayhem. My life has been a marvellous journey so far, and if the past is anything to go by, the future really is going to be really rather exciting.

And I'm focusing on the 80% sanity rather than the 20% insanity. I'll let you know how I get on....

Ode to Aerosmith - my favourite tracks from the legends who have done it all.. twice.

• Dream On
• It’s Amazing
• Pink
• Blind Man
• Crying
• Crazy
• Angel
• Deuce’s are Wild
• Janie’s Got a Gun
• Dude Looks Like a Lady

So last night I went to the most incredible concert I have ever been to in my life. Yes. Ever, ever. Epic and profound. It was overwhelming, all consuming, genius - exactly what music is supposed to be. I saw Roger Waters perform The Wall concert in London. Unimaginable perfection.

Here is a man who is an absolute visionary, a master of his craft, a renegade, a revolutionary, a true artist. It’s rare to see such a thing. To feel such a thing. You know that moment when you think: fuck! I want to remember this forever. For years to come, I will say I was there.

Music can create those mystical moments of pure escapism and pleasure. Where you lose yourself entirely and in the haze of euphoria, the sound of the guitar tickles your nerves like you are the instrument being strummed. I love that surrender. I love that utter release. It’s religious.

It’s the music of another generation. Not mine. You can hear it when you play some old vinyl by The Who, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Eagles, Jimmie Hendrix, Cream, ACDC. It makes me nostalgic. It makes me miss my Daddy. Last night I really missed my Daddy.

I’ll be honest, I don’t really think about my family that often. I have a cliche story of a broken home, raised by a single mother, an absent father, blah blah. I’m an only child with no real model of what a family is supposed to look like, act like. Don’t feel bad for me. From a lot of the so-called “perfect families” I’ve seen, I prefer my version of life. I have no preconceived ideas about marriage. I have no real experience of sibling rivalry. I don’t think about how my parent’s relationship (or lack thereof) have tainted my ideas of sex and love forever. There were no arguments or fights. There was just nothing. Maybe that’s why I love music. It broke the silence. It fought back. It pinched. It proded. It loved. It laughed. It teased.

And maybe on some level, it brought me closer to my Daddy, who I never saw. As I've mentioned before, he’s a musician. He is truly lost to the music, like Alice in Wonderland. But destined to never escape. Rather he wanders around in the blue haze of Bass guitar licks and slaps. I think I still have some seminence of “feet on the ground”-ness. But whenever I hear those great musicians play, I can almost hear my Daddy playing the notes. And as I watched Roger last night, the tears poured down my cheeks as I thought just how much my Daddy would have loved to have been there. 

I never really knew my father when I was little. And if it's even possible, I think I know him even less now. But I miss him as much as when I was nine years old. Maybe I just miss the idea of him. I guess that's also possible. I don’t really think it matters which is truer. The reality is that I miss a parental figure in my life. I guess I always have.

My mother was an incredible woman of strength and character when I was young. She worked hard. She gave me an incredible education of life and was such a great example of a modern woman. She was a wonderful mother. And then, she found Jesus. Or more accurately, I lost her to Jesus. I won’t regurgitate my ideas on religion again, but I lost the one parent I had, to a cult faith. And without her there, even now, I sometimes feel lonely. Sometimes a girl just needs a mummy. The odd thing, is that I talk about her like she is dead. In a way she is - to me. In reality, she’s alive and well and living within a 50km radius of me.

Perhaps the greatest irony is that despite the years of great motherhood where she laughed and cried like a real human being about real issues, my Mummy ended up finding god and losing her soul. Whereas my father never lost his. His art has kept his heart alive and passionate. Yes, he was an absent and uninvolved father. But he also knew that. He knew he failed. He shows remorse. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. He has made mistakes that he regrets. He has maintained his humanity. Ironically, he is now the better parent. And although he is far away  - he is still there. And today, I miss him. I really miss him. I miss my Daddy. 

It is a well known fact in music that the second album is notoriously hard to get right. Usually, an artist will have struggled for years and years to perfect a repertoire of 12-16 songs that eventually make it onto their first album. Those songs usually represent a lifetime of work, of rewriting, or rerecording, of rehearsing, of re-editing. By the time an artist is “discovered”, those songs have gone through about 3,000 tests in live performances and studio replays. So the masterpiece first album flies off the shelves and up the charts. Perpetuated by talent and tireless promotional tours and hobknobbing and shindigging. Then the inevitable happens... between the parties, the influence of the industry, other artists, management, financial compromises and the need to build a loyal fanbase. Don’t take risks now. Pressure for a quick second album as marvellous and mind blowing as the first, is intense. But unsurprisingly, that second record seldom delivers the same impact.

Gobsmacked Producers question Artists, "But surely you have a back catalogue we can tap into?" Well, yeah. But the band doesn’t play them because they weren’t as good as the songs released on the first album. So the second album is normally lacklustre in comparison to the first. Artists often seem too media trained and industry-weary and the songs resonate with over-production and meaningless lyrics. Like most sequels to great films - they just don’t seem as good. Although Ru will be quick to remind me that Godfather II was the best in the series and the second Star Wars film was superior to the first. And undoubtedly, the second Adele album is incendiary and her most powerful work to date. So there are expections. I hope to be one of the exceptions...Here is my second chapter. Let’s hope it’s more Dark Knight and less Matrix Reloaded.

I  had to take a little time out from my blog. I needed some space to think. The problem with writing something so personal, is that it begins to feel like you are simply giving yourself away, like a free toy with a Happy Meal. It is difficult to be so vulnerable, to give away so much of yourself. So inevitably, you start producing crap.

I’ve mentioned before how this state of vulnerability in such a public forum is actually quite terrifying for me, and I needed a little respite. Basiclally, I ran away and hid under a rock for a bit. The barrage of negativity and criticism can become overwhelming. I know I have to take it. I put stuff out there. I have to take the rough with the smooth. Yes. I know that. But it’s sometimes difficult to remove the personal from the product. I needed to grow some balls and “man-the-fuck-up” as a rather good friend of mine would tell me.

Honestly, I was beginning to annoy myself. Thinking about my feelings about everything was beginning to become irritating. God. One can only look inwards for so long before the sickly taste of narcissism starts to regurgitate like bad mussels. But that said, despite the amount of food poisoning I’ve had from seafood, I still love shellfish.... so, in a metaphorical sense, here's another serving of Spagehetti ala Vongole...

I may write less frequently but I will keep you informed of  all the shenanigans and updates.. I’m more focused on the future these days. I’ve returned to my love of art and creativity, to my penchant for politics and propaganda. For the first time in a very long while I feel like me again. I think I’ve rediscovered my soul, but of course it is all within the nostalgic contexts that make up the reference library of my mind. I hope I can express them in a meaningful way. In a relevant way. I hope you will be right there with me- I’ve enjoyed your company so far. And please keep the feedback coming in - It can only make me stronger.  

 For the past 10 days I have been on a roadtrip across Europe. I’ve driven from London, through France, Brussels, Luxembourg, Germany, Austria and stopped over in Brescia, Italy to absorb the sweet petrol fumes of the Mille Miglia. Then returning to my little Maserati Coupe to once again hit the road to Switzerland, back through France and homeward to London. I have eaten in 5 different Michelin star restaurants in 5 different countries. I’ve seen some of the most beautiful countryside in the world as I wound through the Alpine passes of Switzerland, sucking in fresh air that smelt like nectar. On the flipside, I have inhaled more fumes than a 75 year old smoker as I danced with the most beautiful and richest people at the most elegant car race on the planet. I  have stayed in some of the most sumptuous hotels in the world including a 13th Century castle, a lakeside palace, a number of boutique art hotels, spa retreats and alpine guest houses. 

I think I actually did “man up” somewhere on the Autobahn in Germany a few days ago. I was driving at about 145 miles/ hour. Despite the world flying by in a haze, an Audi A4 overtook me like I was parked in the layby - can I just add at this point that I now have a HUGE new respect for German engineering! Vorsprung der technik indeed! But I had a little moment of enlightenment as the Audi cruised passed: I realised that no matter how fast life goes, there is always someone going faster. I guess the only thing you can do, is choose your lane in life, try not to fuck off too many other drivers on the road, and overtake as many as your engine will allow. Sometimes you overtake, sometimes you are overtaken. But in all things always know the capacity of your own engine, drive for your own pleasure, stay sharp and try not to let terrible Swiss drivers who cut you up get under your skin.

It’s difficult to create a playlist on the road so I have instead created a list of some of the "interesting outcomes" of my recent travels:

• I weigh about 5kg’s more than I did 10 days ago
• Never underestimate the importance of a good pillow
• Good sex really is the meaning of life
• Not all Michelin starred restaurants are created equal
• Modern Art, and especially Marc Quinn’s work, and prolific architecture makes me immensely euphoric
• Everyone looks better with a tan
• Driving fast in Germany and driving the higgeldy piggledy hairpin bends of the Alpine Passes in Switzerland are two of the greatest experiences in life
• The next car I buy is a 1950 Jaguar XK120 and I will partake in the Mille Miglia as a driver within the next 5 years
•  I have laughed and cried more than any one human should in such a short time frame from sheer awe of the majesty of our great motherland and her rich history
• I have some serious speeding tickets from pushing the Maserati to it’s most extreme capabilities on the speedometer
• My husband doesn’t like driving fast, but I’m very good at ignoring his yelps to “slow down slow down”. teehee.
• I have kissed and cuddled my godson who lives in Austria, who I miss dearly
•  But most of all, I have feasted on the company and conversation of my co-driver of life. Thanks Baby for being the best Navigator and best friend I could ever ask for.
  

It’s seems like such a cliche now, but gap years and ski seasons were not the obvious choice for girls graduating high school back in the dark ages of 1994. When I suggested to my Guidance Counsellor that I would take a “year off” between High school and University, you would swear I had fucked Santa in the middle of a Cathedral. The horror and shock were deafening.

My high school was a feeder school for two of the main Universities in South Africa. There was no “if” you would go to University – that was a given. So as each girl dutifully stated, “I’m going to study Law, Miss” followed by, “I am going to study Medicine, Miss” and of course, the obligatory, “I am going to study Finance, Miss.” My answer of “Well, Miss, I’m really not sure what I want to do with my life. My mum wants me to be a Lawyer, but I don’t know what jobs are really available. So I think I am going to go travel,” brought with it a lot of tutting, sighing and general interrogation as to why I wanted to “throw away my whole life at such a young age”.

When you think about it though, it really was quite rational. For god sake, I grew up on the furthest tip of Africa, I had never left the country I was born in and I studied History with complete wonderment and fascination that led to a thirst to experience the places I learnt about, first hand. Not exactly rocket science.

My curiosity was further fuelled by the fact that one of my best friends in high school used to frequently travel abroad with her family, returning with awesome gifts of Disneyland memorabilia, Harrods shopping bags and key chains of the Eiffel Tower. I kid you not, but I would treasure those London T-shirts  –  the type you buy in Piccadilly Circus with a glittery picture of the Houses of Parliament printed onto some see-through cotton-esque rash-inducing fabric. There are so many photos of me as a teenager in those T-shirts: London, Singapore, Texas. 

Now I wanted to go and see the world for myself and bring back souvenirs from exotic locations for other people. So after the Christmas break, when everyone packed their bags to go to Uni, I headed for the airport for my first international trip ever.

It was such a weird “coming of age” moment. I remember clinging to my mother, sobbing almost like I was heading towards certain death one minute. And then the moment I passed through the security scanner, it felt like something in my brain just clicked. Almost  literally within a single second I grew up. The tears stopped, just suddenly and I felt fearless. Like an intrepid voyager on a great adventure. It was very odd and exciting and frightening.

Although I have always been fiercely independent, I found my gap year incredibly daunting and difficult. I have some amazing romantic memories, but the world just seemed so big, and I felt just so insignificantly small. I had never done anything of this magnitude in my life before. And I was completely alone. Up until that moment: I had never been on a flight longer than 2 hours; I had never been on the Underground, I had never seem a youth hostel or had to live with anyone that wasn’t exactly like me, I had never had to clean a toilet; I had never had to think about money and how much stuff costs. It was, quite literally, all so foreign.

The mere fact that people could or would do things in a different way to me, was completely strange. In my closeted world there was only two ways of doing anything – the right way and the wrong way. There was no grey, no interpretation, no variance, no negotiation. That’s why I was good at Debating. It was uncompromising. My way or the highway. And to be exposed to this world where, technically, nothing was right or wrong, just an endless discussion of moral elucidation and fluctuation. Well, I felt like Alice.

But like Alice, as the Frabjous Day drew ever nearer, I acclimatised to my new world. I began to refind my muchness. I began to appreciate the marvels of the world around me, and adapt to my new environment. And as the evolution began to settle in, I suddenly realised how much I loved being a chameleon and how much I really enjoyed changing landscapes, moving targets, debate, discussion, disagreement and discourse.  O My! It grabbed me - heart, soul and head.

My first stop was in London. And I guess, that may explain why the City remains my first love to this day. I was captivated. Although my beginnings were less than salubrious. In fact, my first job was working as the dishwasher and potato peeler in a large hotel kitchen in Kensington. I started at the bottom... in fact I was cleaning the scum off the bottom of the pan. But with some hard work and a lot of charm, I was soon promoted to the Assistant to the Head Chef. Basically, I just ran around like an(organic and free range) headless chicken saying “Yes Chef” a lot. I know it’s hard to believe that anyone would actually entrust me with the preparation of food stuffs, but I actually quite enjoyed our little kitchen team. We would sing along to the radio and tell silly and sexist jokes all day. It was quite sociable, even if the hours were not.

The best part of my mini-promotion was that I got to hire a new potato-peeler. And my first ever employee was Ru – yes that one. The man who would one day become my husband, my soul mate. But for now, dishwasher boy worked for me. To be fair, not much has changed in 16 years. (Only kidding, Baby!)

Ru and I started dating during our Gap Year. We were inseparable. We traveled everywhere together. Took in the sites, the sounds, the enormity of it all. You need someone to share those moments with. Someone to whom you can say, “Wow! Look at that!” You need someone to snog at the Eiffel Tower, someone to eat ice cream with at the Spanish Steps, someone to hold your hair when you vomit in Sri Lanka, someone to hold hands with on a cruise up the Thames. That’s what turns Tourism into Travel. It turns site-seeing into sharing a journey.

I must confess that I am not a hard-core traveller. I hate youth hostels. I hate buses across endless harsh terrain rammed with people and livestock. I hate the frustration of not understanding road signs or not being able to communicate. I hate feeling like everyone is trying to rip me off and I really hate bargaining for everything. Why can’t I just pay you and leave with a tacky Persian carpet under my arm at an agreeable price without it turning into a “my children will starve because of you” drama that could make even Tarantino shed a tear from trauma.

I think it was my two months in Israel that ruined the true traveller experience for me. With the best of intention - to learn about the region even more plagued by conflict than even the one I had grown up in - Ru and I decided to see Israel. But to really live it. And not in that cheesy Kibbutz free-living kind of way. Oh no. We thought we would do it properly. We worked on a Moshav in the En Gedi region. Let me put it another way. We agreed to work for minimum wage for slave-driving Israelis, pruning cherry tomato trees in 50 degree heat in green houses in the middle of the desert.

 We would wake up at 4am, work from 4.30am until 11am, when it would become inhumanely and blisteringly hot so we had to stop until 3pm. We would then go back to our dormitories and be overwhelmed by the smell of fish eye stew thanks to our Thai housemates penchant for fish offal. By 3pm we were back in the baking greenhouses. By 3.05 we were completely soaked as the sweat from the sauna-like environment consumed our bodies. We worked feverishly until 7pm while we were randomly shouted at for working too slowly and that we had to double our efforts to make quotas. if you missed your weekly quota, then you only received half your wages.To this day I refuse to buy Israeli cherry tomatoes from Marks & Spencer, because that is who I was pruning trees for. I used to cry down the phone to my mother every single day. It was hell.

This is the stuff that other people tell you builds character. Personally, I think it builds resentment and it definitely caused some mean looking callouses.  

As much as I think Israel is a beautiful country with a rich and fucked up history, I really disliked the place. There is far too much tension. We were there in 1995 when the Israelis had just handed over the West Bank. There were protests and regular bomb scares. I remember sitting in a lovely cafe one night just outside the old town of Jerusalem having dinner with Ru and his mum, who came over for a couple of weeks to visit us. While we were sitting in the cool evening air, sipping on non-alcoholic beverages, a good-looking Israeli soldier calmly came over to our table and whispered serenely to us. We couldn’t understand him at first and asked him to speak English. With a smile and a soothing voice, he said, “I’m afraid you will need to vacate this square as we believe there is a bomb in the vicinity.” But he said it with such ease and calmness, he could have been telling us that there was a children’s interpretative dance of the birth of Jesus about to happen in the square. Without argument we left in haste.

I have so many really bizarre stories from my time in Israel. Sometimes when I think about them, I simply can’t believe they are real. They seem so unlikely that they would have to be fabricated. Most of them are quite funny to be fair. My favourite story is called “Latte on the Border Line”:

While on the Moshav, we had our usual 4am start. Ru was feeling particularly sluggish one morning. He just couldn’t get going. So he decided that the only way to get through the day was to fill a 2 litre soda bottle with iced coffee that he could drink throughout the day. With the sweat pouring down us by 5am and Ru having sacrificed a water bottle for mouthful after mouthful of high potency caffeine, there was only one inevitable outcome. By 7am the sun was baking us like rising dough. By 8am Ru started to feel really unwell. The iced coffee was having a decidedly bad effect on his stomach. The milk warming in his tummy, beginning to gurgle with every pruning motion. The caffeine moving everything within him in a southerly direction, the sun dehydrating him with every passing second. Then suddenly, it all came to a rather unfortunate point of no return. But there were no toilets nearby. Not for miles. The only place where one could get a little privacy for such a sisemic eruption was a stretch of open land just beyond a scraggy fence.

Unable to hold any longer, Ru dashed out the green house and crossed the fence to relieve himself. We all shouted after him. Not to make him stay, not to make him not go, but to ask him where he was going to well, go. That scraggy little fence was the only thing separating Israel from the demilitarised zone of Jordan. It was laden with land mines and other fun military paraphernalia. As Ru took each step towards the distant bush, he would step, listen for a click, breath a sigh of relief when he didn’t initiate a landmine (if you will excuse the pun), and take another step. By the time he got to the bush, he needed to go for more reasons than just the coffee. That day Ru laid his own land mine.

I am pleased to say, Ru still has all his limbs. Let’s just say that he never took iced coffee to the greenhouse again.

Truly, we learnt some valuable lessons whilst on our travels. I learnt the value of a hard day’s work. I learnt to respect a job. I learnt to appreciate every day. Ru learnt the power of stimulating substances.

Then there were some magical moments that I will treasure forever. Every night when we were in Israel, Ru and I would jump another kind of fence - the one to the public pool. We would take quiet night-time swims, looking up into the perfect Arabian sky where stars hung so low that they felt like fireflies. The cool water engulfing our exhausted bodies. We earned that feeling of satisfaction, that feeling of relief as the goosebumps rise across your whole body like a choo choo train of pleasure.

The greatest lesson I learnt whilst on my Gap Year, was that through the tough times and the good times, it is so important to have a soul mate. A companion with whom to share this journey.  A life of unshared experiences is lonely. And that’s true in any language and in every country. Wherever you go, wherever you are, share it with the one you love. Because I promise that even the harshest places provide a swimming pool for lovers. 

When I was little I always imagined that one day, when I was all grown up, I would have a group of friends with really awesome names like JD, LuLu, Milly, Max. “Let’s go over to Tank’s house” or “God! Did you hear what JoJo got up to on the weekend?” I wanted to be surrounded by people with character - artists, lovers, poets, and there were never going to have names like Mildred or Graham or Peter.

Now I have friends with names like GG, Lola, Mutley, Adi, Nim, Avi, Kat, and I know 3 JoJo’s. I love scanning the names in my iPhone. And yes, they are all as fabulous as their names suggest.

Your name is your brand. It says a lot about you. Most of my friends have tweaked and twizzled their names. Everyone I know seems slightly disenfranchised with the name their parent’s christened them with. I think our parents annointed us with their hopes and dreams, but these don’t necessarily represent our grown up ambitions. So we adjust our projection of ourselves, and how better to do that, than to start with your name? 

My husband comes from a long line of staunch, traditional family name-giving. He is the first born son, given the same name as his dad, and his Dad’s dad, and a 10 generation history of first born sons wit the same name before that. I have to admit, it’s not the name I would choose for anyone. Unless you happened to be one of Santa’s reindeer. Let’s just say there is much hilarity and finger-pointing at my husband’s expense over Christmas. But my husband is also the least traditional man on the planet. So his creative mum decided to take the first syllable of his first name and the second syllable of his middle name and created a new romantic name. This reinvention of his name suits him. It is poetic, idealistic and actually means “kind wolf” in Iranian, apparently. Which is kind of fitting.

I can categorically promise that the family name will stop here. Even in the highly unlikely chance that we decide to sprout a sprog one day, it will definitely not carry on the tradition. In fact, hubby and I have created the most audacious name for a boy, just in case. Not that we are planning to ever have any kids.

There is something quite incredible about naming something. Giving it an identity. Forming something from nothing. It’s very Messianic.I think that’s why a lot of people have children. I was having lunch with a girlfriend the other day and she told me about another friend of hers that named her daughter Tallulah Araminta Truly Scrumptious Honeybee. That is the god honest truth. You can’t make that shit up. I confess I am not that creative.

The most creative I get to be is, as part of my job, I get to name buildings from time to time. It’s a pretty awesome perk. It’s like a giant MiMiVuVu stamp that I get to stencil across cities in the world. Which buildings? Now, you know I can’t tell you that. Actually, I would love to name one of the buildings after myself. How awesome would that be? Now that’s a legacy! It would have to be some decadent den of fabulosity piercing the sky of London, and I would have to live there, reigning over the 24 hour party fostered by the endless river of champagne flowing through the heart of it. My address would be The Penthouse, No 1 MiMiVuVu Towers, MM1 VV. Of course, it would have to be in a golden postcode.

Haha! Sorry. I actually had to stop writing for a second. That made me laugh out loud!

No prize for guessing that MiMiVuVu is not exactly my actual name. Somebody gave it to me in my office last year, It was one of those spontaneous outbursts that just resonated with me. I thought “yes. That’s it. That’s the name I’ve been looking for.” It’s a kind of reinvention of my classic 70s Beatles- track christian name merged with the shortening of my exotic Dutch surname. MiMiVuVu is my alter-ego. My nom de plume. Actually, it is the real me. It is the most honest version of myself. This is the me that I choose to be. The one I define. Nobody else here tells me what to do, or whether I am right or wrong. It’s terrifying and liberating at the same time. I love it.
The great thing about a marginal pseudonym is I that get to be anonymously famous. I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible. I get to write openly and honestly from the safety of relative obscurity. But apparently some people have been reading the blog and loving it.  Which is just so marvellous and such an honour.

In fact, some people have loved the blog so much that  they have generously named a couple of things after me:

1. A bar that I frequent in London has named a rather exotic cocktail  - the MiMiVuVu. Although I confess that I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. The drink has absolutely no champagne in. That can’t be right, surely?

2. But the piece d’ resistance has to be a the gorgeous new MiMiVuVu chair, which, like me,  might ruffle a few feathers. Check it out on:

http://www.frenchbedroomcompany.co.uk/products/seating/chairs_and_armchairs/849.html

How divine is that? I am really honoured. Thanks French Bedroom Company!

I wonder if Boris Johnson would consider naming a London street after me? I might petition the GLA to change Park Lane to MiMiVuVu Drive. If you saw how I put my foot down whenever I’m behind the wheel on that road, you would understand why.
So maybe my relative-obscurity bubble will burst soon, or maybe I’ll just quietly slip away before making too much of a scene. Who knows. Either way, I’m thoroughly enjoying this MiMiVuVuLaLaLand ride, and I’m so grateful to share it with you.

Here’s MiMi’s playlist of those One Hit Wonders who left a mark, even for a moment:

• The One & Only - Chesney Hawkes
• Ice Ice Baby - Vanilla Ice
• I Touch Myself - The Divinyls
• Boys, Boys, Boys - Sabrina
• Whip it- Devo
• Cars - Gary Numan
• Groove is in the heart - Deee-Lite
• Come on Eileen - Dexy’s Midnight Runners
• Tainted Love -Soft Cell
• Who Let the Dogs Out - Baha Men
• Lovefool - The Cardigans
• 99 Luftballons - Nena
• Wiggle It - 2 in a Room
• Barbie Girl - Aqua
• What is Love - Haddaway
• My Sharona - The Knack
• Crazy - Gnarls Barkley
• Rock me Amadeus - Falco
• Video killed the radio star - Buggles
• Round like a record - Dead or Alive
• I’m Too Sexy - Right Said Fred
• Mambo No 5 - Lou Bega
• Teenage Dirtbag - Wheatus
• Bitch - Meredith Brooks
• One of Us - Joan Osbourne
• Bittersweet Symphony - The Verve
• Bang - Gorky Park
• Wherever you will go - The Calling
• Sex & Candy - Marcy Playground
• Don’t Worry Be Happy - Bobby McFerrin
• Relax - Frankie goes to Hollywood
• Because I got High - Afroman
• Eye of the Tiger - Survivor
• Final Countdown - Europe

Listen to the playlist on Spotify: http://open.spotify.com/track/7c5lMuvtz2gddhDyG5MjB6 Europe – The Final Countdown - Single Version