Jet-lag May Interfere With Your Castle Love

As it’s practically 100 degrees in London (comparatively, you know with LA and hot places) this weekend, we’re all dreaming of ice cream and castles. Castles, because my sister is visiting and we’re driving out to Leeds Castle to see a CASTLE.

Here’s how the dialogue went last night when we broke the exciting news to my sister, bearing in mind that she may have been jetlagged:

Me: So, do you have any plans?

Shari: Well, it depends. I mean, did you guys want to hang out with me?

P: Of course.

Shari: That’s great! What did you have in mind?

Farnaz: We hired a car and are going to see a CASTLE.

Shari: A CASTLE?

Farnaz: A CASTLE.

Shari: Um, as in a castle?

Farnaz: Yes, a CASTLE.

Shari: What castle?

Farnaz: Leeds Castle.

Shari:  Is it in Leeds?

P: No.

Farnaz: It’s in Kent.

Shari: I mean, it’s just a castle?

Farnaz: It’s a CASTLE. Not just a castle. P, I think she doesn’t get castles.

P: Well, we’ll have to show her. 

In Which TV Teaches Me to be a Better Person

This morning I was just hoping to survive. I was curled up in bed, under layers of fleecy robe and full togged duvet and yet, I simply couldn't stop my teeth chattering. My skin actually hurt--like, it actually hurt to be in my skin. Even in my awkward teen years, never did I feel so uncomfortable in my own skin. This would have made young findingmoxienager seem like Beyoncé on a bad hair year. Pretty confident, considering!

I lay there, trying all the breathing exercises I had unintentionally absorbed during 5 years of yoga and hoped that achieving a 'meditative' state would ease the chattering and set my body at ease. Not so much. It was certainly worth a try. After a good while, I realized that sleep was not coming back for me and hauled my cookies, fleecy robe, duvet cover and all into the lounge where I threw all my hard luck onto our ginormous orange bean bag. I flipped on the television in the time-honored tradition of sick days and waited for something to give.

And it did. Maybe it was the power of distraction, of being pulled away from fretting over oneself and being given an alternative reality. Or maybe it was just the cure-all of teenage drama. Oh yes. What took away my aches and shivers? Nothing but a heavy dosing of juicy US teen dramas. I started with a strong hit of Gossip Girl (in Paris!) and felt an easing. By the time, One Tree Hill was on, I felt lighter. I cannot even convey how amazing the change was. I mean, one minute I was lying in bed, alternating between moaning and clicking my teeth, and the next, I was reclined on a bean bag, chuckling and rolling my eyes (in a good way!) at Blair's typically grandiose expectations and Chuck Bass' shellacked hair. And wishing someone would give Serena a haircut with some life. Oh and that that they would stop calling each other B and S. I mean, honestly. Not. Buying. It. And since we're all girlfriends here, secretly, ever so secretly, crushing on Chuck Bass, shellacked hair and all. Don't know what that boy has that speaks to me, mojo, charisma, whatnot, but whatever it is, he has it in spades.

Lolling on the bean bag, I got ambitious. I turned to House and hoped that while I had little interest in watching it as a series when hale and hearty, it might be worth a sickie one-off. And then this happened:

It was a gift. I won't lie. It made my day. I found myself smiling as if I hadn't a care in the world. Though it won't make me rush out and buy a box set of House, to catch up on all I've missed out on, I doff my hat to you, House. But if House suddenly becomes all about handsome, stubbled men singing 70s soul music, drop me a line and I'll be on it! I tell you what, it was strangely hot watching suited men sing karaoke. I know, I could get that any weeknight at the Silver Cloud in the Marina, but not in London, friends. Not in London.

So this here is a proper journey in my restoration and I ended the day with some truly hilarious Benidorm (British sitcom about an inclusive holiday resort in Spain). It's mostly laughs and me well onto my way of feeling myself again. But what's this? Thong wearing (abusing, more like) old gent, Mel, nearly drowns after knocking his head on the bottom of the pool in an effort to teach belly-flopping Geoff how to dive correctly. It was funny, I promise. But then Mel, moved by his near death experience (his whole life flashed before his eyes and it was blurry because he didn't have his glasses on), proposes to tiny old Madge, because 'life isn't a rehearsal. This is all you get.' BOOM. The words drop like a bell tolling the hour. Portentous, resonant, striking home.

This is all we get, kiddos. I definitely need to get cracking. Tomorrow, when I'm back on my feet, that is.