Someone else's nicer doorstep?

"That sea is not blue. It is not clear. It is a little green maybe." Mehmet shakes his head. He is the owner of the hotel we are staying in; an amiable, chilled out guy, who loves the quiet life in the country and talking to people who come from all over the world to visit his beautiful spot on the Black Sea.

To us, it is a stunning blue and when we dive into it and still see our feet and the sandy bottom, it is heavenly clear. It's also warmer than Mehmet's swimming pool.

Some days previously, we had been sitting out on the street on a balmy Istanbul night, talking with Sebastian, the owner of the small restaurant, where mezze kept arriving along with the wine.

"It's wonderful, a beautiful city," we answered when he asked what we thought of his home town.

"Really? You like?"

Why are we always surprised to find that visitors take to that which we know so well with more love, wonder and enthusiasm? While Mehmet was comparing the sea on his doorstep to the even hotter climes in southern Turkey, we had come to it from the often brown and muddy Norfolk Wash, where you would  be pushed to see your hand held just under the surface. To us it was paradise.

Sebastian, who every night stands on the street drinking vodka and trying to get punters to pull up a chair and eat his kebabs probably thinks that with our fine dining in London, why would we be happy with a couple of slices of aubergine?

I remember when Señor George, my father-in-law first went into my bedroom at my parents' house, where he would be staying a couple of days during their visit this March.

"Why would you want to leave here to go to Buenos Aires?" he exclaimed.

We laughed it off, but throughout the next two days showing them slices of north-west Norfolk, I tried to see it all through their eyes: the shining yellow fields, the green mermaid's beds, the great Sunny Hunny sunset, my mum's garden and cooking, the dark wooden inside of our local pub with views across the dunes.

They were right, my in laws: my childhood doorstep is stunning.

Back in Turkey, we marvelled at it all: the calling to mosque five times a day, the fresh fish, the colourful markets and curious streets full of bizarre shops, the dolphins, the strong tea and soup for breakfast.

Because that's what you do on someone else's doorstep - you take back the wonders which you know are the reasons they live there.

Even if they don't know it.

Change

A change could do you good.

This is almost always true. I used to think that constant changes, disruptions to the routine, upsetting the flow, were positive, creative and useful. They would stop us becoming grey beings infested with same-dom. Swapping sides of the bed every now and again would relieve the itch; buying a colour completely unsuitable would make you born again; simple changes or big changes, the thing was to change.

And by doing so, you would never be scared of it.

I remember talking to my then fairly new boyfriend about places to live in the world. "Could you live here, here, there, here?" he asked me, reeling off far flung, inhospitably perceived countries. My reply was always the same.

Yeah, I really think I could.

Being flexible, adaptable is always seen as a good thing as well.

But it also means that whenever the new 'new' comes in, it's put on your desk.

And too much change doesn't let you breathe. There can be change for change's sake which is tiresome and exhausting. When change becomes boring, it is kind of defeating the purpose, isn't it?

I need to rest.

Getting what you need

I am reading a book at the moment and recently read in it that there was nothing worse than the moment when you realise you are your mother.

And I am currently in the process of booking a holiday with mine. Oh dear.

Actually, my mother is no stranger to trips with me. She's been doing it since I popped out 30 thirty years ago and wee-ed on her on the plane to Portugal as a baby. She's done the whole skiing thing at Christmas with me since we learnt to ski as little people; and the camping in France in its various forms (tents with kitchens ready and waiting/taking our own/caravans for adults; tents for children). Nine years ago, she even donned a backpack and we headed to Thailand for a trip around Bangkok, the north, the south and beautiful places in between. She even managed a bungee jump when she's quite scared of heights.

So, she's quite cool, my mum, and does love to travel.

And, those nine years later, there are parts of me which are becoming my mum. I think about what to cook for dinners/lunches/breakfasts during the week; I am trying to grow my own vegetables; I even know what a Busy Lizzy looks like.

Of course, my mum annoys me. As I most certainly do her. Can there even be two people on the planet incapable of ever annoying each other? Anyway, I think we've got it pretty good, and as I've mentioned, we're looking to head off for a week's trip in a month or so.

You can't always get what you want. I know my mum wants to visit Italy with my dad. And she knows I would like to travel with Martin who is now bound to Buenos Aires and his Google desk for the next ten weeks. But we can't have those things, so we've got each other. There's me, who likes walking up hills, swimming in chilly waters and eating lots of eggs. There's my mum who likes beating everyone at Ludo and cards, having an afternoon read and daykip and drinking gin and tonics. Luckily, I can get her up some hills and she can definitely get me chinking some G&Ts. So it works and, wherever we end up, it's going to be fun. I'll know when it isn't because there's a tone every mum uses when the incline is just too steep: "LAU-RAAAAAAAAA"

So, sometimes, you get what you need.

A weak view of the world

You may think this is strange sentence for me to be writing, but last month, I found myself in a church inside a prison with TV cameras turned on. I appeared on the BBC programme Question Time.

For the first time ever, it was filmed inside a prison, in this case Wormword Scrubs. Prisoners as well as guards and prison staff were part of the audience. Ken Clarke was on the panel and, after his rape comments that week, it was lining up to be a very interesting hour of debate. (He is since hitting the headlines again, but only because all that was discussed at that QT is null and void it would seem)

Queuing up for the security prior to the programme, I realised just how well the BBC get a mixed bag of audience members. From sight to snippets of conversations, the diversity of age, race, background and affiliation really struck and pleased me.

Filming flew by and Ken Clarke got away without a ribbing. Obviously, the majority of the debates centred around justice, prisons and rehabilitation. They weren't topics I have burning passions for, but it was interesting to hear the points of views of the prisoners themselves; and the guards who truly wanted the best for their charges once they were released.

The most interesting moment, however, was the question about international aid. Melanie Phillips, a Daily Mail columnist was on the panel (she had actually incurred boos when they all came on, but the cameras don't capture those moments). Her belief is that every penny earned in the UK should stay on these shores. In fact, if she was in charge, she would "shut the whole Department for Internatioanl Development".

Surprisingly, some audience members agreed with her. I didn't and don't.

If there's one thing I would always want to say we can do as a nation, is to help those worse off than us. Money to help farmers in Pakistan with the floods; experts to the Caribbean following earthquakes; support to Japan post tsunami: these actions are not those of someone trying to police the world (though others of our actions could be seen to be). These are actions which show that when our international neighbours need help, regardless of their political banner, we are there. If my neighbour needs help, I will do so. Because, if I needed a hand, I would hope someone would help me.

Treat people, all people, the same. It is not their fault when there is a bad government/natural disaster involved. To ignore their plight when we are in a position to help is a disgusting reaction. To turn your back in the face of genuine suffering is simply nasty.

To say "no" when you can say "yes" is just weak.

'Brooching' the subject

A Sunday or two ago, I was out for brunch mulling over a hilarious extra magazine that came with the FT Weekend: How to spend it. There were pages and pages dedicated to the very finer things in life. I saw beautiful orange dresses for £5000; incredible, unusable vases for a mere £1000, but the page that really got my attention was the one on precious stones and brooches.

I stared at the pictures: butterflies and flowers made up of tiny diamonds, rubies and emeralds, held together by fine strands of metal, shaped perfectly. If I wanted one of those brooches, I could expect to pay £3000. My shock was not that the people who should read How to spend it have so much pocket change for brooches, it was that brooches were featured in the first place.

Brooches. Who wears them?

I even had to look up how to spell the word to write this blog.

A couple of days after the shocking brooch-in-magazine-episode, I was walking to work after my early morning swim. Tea in hand, I got off the train at Hammersmith and whiled my way round the church to the river and our offices. At one straight section of road, a woman was walking towards me and the previous weekend's shock returned: she was wearing a brooch.

I couldn't, in a sense, believe my luck. I had spent twenty years without thinking, seeing, contemplating the use of brooches and here was a lady (let's say around my mum's age), at 8 o'clock in the morning, dolled up and brooched up. It was a lizard, her brooch, and going on Sunday's experience, I'd say it didn't cost around £3000. Still, it sparkled; it looked like a gleaming lizard on her lapel. It was serious brooching.

What occurs to people to wear brooches: trees and petals and animals? Exactly how does it compliment an outfit? I imagine if you're going to a fancy dress party as the ninja rat teacher from the Ninja Turtles, you might want to give them a shout. Of perhaps if you were at the launch for a new Iguana beer. But just generally? I don't get it.

So, now I am on the look out for brooches. I need to find more of them. I need to find a person to whom I can 'brooch' the subject:

"Why do you have an amethyst fish on your jacket?"

The Noble Fish

I am 7 days in on my swimathon (26 miles in 26 days) and by the end of today, I shall have swam 10 miles. I used to run 10 miles in a week, so swimming them does make me think this challenge is getting more and more impressive the further I go into it.

It started well on a Bank Holiday Monday. I nearly had the pool to myself and between the first two miles (I wanted to get ahead early) I could enjoy the massaging bubbles of the jacuzzi. My body is now at the point where it needs slightly more than bubbles, but I am happy to have that and the sauna to use after pounding the... no Laura, you can't pound the pool, like you pound the streets. What would it be? Glide the pool? Front crawl the pool? Hmmm, they don't quite sound as cool or as difficult, do they?

I then decided it was time to get some early swims in. Thank goodness it's May and not November. At 6am, it's light, quiet and, more importantly, hasn't been cold this week. Flip flops on, a brisk walk to the pool, and I am slipping into the water (alone, it's just for me!) at 6.30 once they've turned on the lights.

I did that three days this week: showered and taken a take-away cuppa on the tube, arriving at the office with almost dry hair and a hunger for breakfast. All before 8.30.

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be," one of the sports centre workers said to me as I finished another mile on Wednesday morning. We laughed about it, but then I told her about, when you start so early and get to the office having done some exercise, having (oh, all right then) glided that pool for a mile, you feel like you've already achieved something before being paid to. While everyone else has been dumbing themselves with Daybreak and scoffing rice krispies and they arrive with their heads still fuzzy from the start of a new day, you are there; awake, refreshed, energetic and noble.

"Noble?" she asked. She thought about it. "Yeah, I like it. It is quite noble." And she went off to nobly use the treadmill.

So, now I am the noble fish; still lonely in my endeavours, but getting stronger with each stroke and every length closer to my goal.

To donate please go to www.justgiving.com/Laura-Milsom-Brighton

Perfect words

In a relationship of different nationalities, cultures, education, history and language, the most and least reconcilable I have found is the latter: the words. It is also the most frustrating, interesting, hilarious and surprising of our differences.

Words are the heart and soul of a language and those that use them. I didn't realise the richness of it and how much our identity is bound in our native language until my boyfriend didn't understand that I don't 'give two hoots' or I didn't get what 'living inside a ravioli' implied. Looks, gestures and our body language truly compliment our speech, but the words we actually say and write are the main course, with lashings of meaning on the plate: intrinsic, implied, embedded.

It is obviously a continuous journey. Not only are there words to play with, but new sounds, intonation and rules. One thing that has become clear on this journey, and that both of us have learnt, is that there are words which just stay in one language. This may because they are difficult in the other, not easy to remember or we just like them. For example, the words mattress, drawer, cloth and thermos flask are always spoken in this house in Spanish. These words, in our world, have transcended all barriers: "Pass me the trapo to wipe the table"; "Your money's in your cajón." I can never remember the word for budget in Spanish, so it will always be: "El lugar depende de su budget."

Then there are the words which remain, but for different reasons than the above. These are the perfect words; words which have such a wonderfully exact meaning in their usage that there is, literally, no other word or translation for. Words like ponce and pikey in English, or quilombero in Argentine Spanish: you simply have to use them, there is no other word.

This discovering and use of our two languages means that my boyfriend and I have developed our own lengua. It's going to be interesting when we have children and they grow up speaking both languages far better then either of us. While, as parents, we will no doubt be jealous, I smile with glee when I think about the day my son or daughter comes home from school: "Mum, the teacher told me that globo isn't a word. What lengua have you been teaching me? I thought you said I spoke perfecto."

And though others may not know it, perfecto is exactly what they will speak.