Life Lessons From Mrs Doubtfire

I guess everyone was just looking for a good bit of news in between the wars that are ripping people, families and countries apart. But, this wasn't it.

Mrs Doubtfire was such a massive part of my childhood and is still a massive part of my life now. It is one of my favourite films ever, and so when I heard that Robin Williams had died this morning, it felt like a piece of my life had shattered.

Without Mrs Doubtfire I wouldn't have half of my vocabulary. In fact, we'd just spent our summer holiday a couple of weeks ago quoting the film in various places.

I actually remember watching 'Mrs Doubtfire' for the first time. We were in a hotel in France eating pizza. It was also the first time we'd ordered room service. 

I was about 8 - the age I was picking famous role models and beginning to understand films. 

Nothing compared to Mrs Doubtfire, in my mind, for a very long time. And that film gave me my representation of Robin Williams for every subsequent film that I saw him in. That's who I believed he really was. He wasn't an actor. He was Mrs Doubtfire.

I'm finding it really hard to say what I mean. Usually that's because I've been over-blogging. Or I'm too tired. But this time I think it's just because I'm at a loss. 

So I've decided to create a list of lessons that I've learnt from Robin Williams using my favourite quotes from my favourite film of them all. 

Life Lessons from Mrs Doubtfire

1) Don't let anyone destroy who you are

2) Make sure no one gets in the way of your family

3) In every tricky situation, there is always a solution

4) Opportunities that change your life, come at the strangest of times

I spent much of my time trekking the Indian Himalaya singing: "James Brontasaurus! I eat wood, danah, danah, danah, dun ..."

5) Stop at nothing to get what you need

6) You only get once chance at life, make sure you have a good time! 

Send Me On My Way

To go anywhere, you always have to leave the place before. That's the hardest part for me. 

I'm a bit of a baby. I cry pretty easily and think that my life (and the world) is ending way before its time and at the smallest of situations. 

Every time I leave Dubai I can't help myself from crying and every time I go back to Dubai from England, I am hit with a wave of sadness at leaving. It probably doesn't help that I listen to songs like Let me love you by Mario (which used to make me upset as a child) and then a repeat of the Titanic theme song will resound without my calling on it. 

But I hope this time that some Pharell Williams will get stuck in my head this time!! :D

I didn't expect to be as upset about leaving my job as I was today. I had already been reeling of letters of appreciation in my head for weeks and finally putting into action my earlier preparation was sad. 

To be truthful, I didn't think that I warranted a leaving do or even a card. I had only been working there since March and viewed myself as a bit of a rusty spoon in the grand scheme of things; I had the potential to be useful but I probably wasn't the first choice implement for dinner service. 

So when I got hugs and loads of little letter written in a card, I was over the moon. 

Cards are some of my favourite things. 

I often think of places that it would be nice to be homeless in, as though they exist! When I walk round town or visit a new place and see a dry, cosy place , I make a mental note. 

If I'm ever homeless, that's where I'll go.

I pack for this unfortunate journey in my head, thinking of what things I would take. As well as a haversack stuffed with all my money and warn clothes and blankets, the other things getting shoved in there are my favourite selection of cards that others have written to me. I'd take my 16th and 18th birthday cards from my parents and brothers, leaving cards and my mini books of notes from college in Dubai when I graduated last year. (Is it weird that I've planned this so thoroughly?) 

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A couple of days ago, I spat out the most spontaneously philosophical sentence that I've ever thought of. To be honest somebody most probably had already got there before me but the concept was still novel to me and I prided myself on the fact that I had thought of it. 

I am a huge fan of the Humans of New York blog. I check it twice daily and especially in the morning to get some inspiration to kick start the day. One of the distinct photos I remember was a little girl posing in the street. She was asked: 

"What do you want to be when you're older?" 

To which she replied: 

"A person." 

Such a spontaneous nugget of her mind held such philosophical connotations for the entire human race. It encapsulated me. What is it, I thought, to be a person? Does anyone actually want to be what we now see as a person? 

It's such a conundrum! 

My auntie took me to Wimbledon last week. Everything was all a bit easy going and so when we came out the wrong exit we were unfazed to go back and correct our error. We were heading for Wimbledon station - not the one we had arrived from - and it was taking a while to walk up this hill and all through the town. 

After a while, my auntie said: 

"I hope we're going the right way." 

I replied: 

"I don't think it matters where you're going, as long as you know where you've come from."

Bam!!

I meant it as a comforting thought that f we did get lost, we could always retrace our steps and go back the way we were meant to go. 

As long as you know where you've come from. How clever of me! Ahaha! 

As I walked out of work today, my last ever shift, nothing rang more true than this statement. It didn't matter where I was going. I ought to remind myself of that. 

I know this statement isn't always true. Career-wise it's nice to know how high you can go, and probably for life, having some kind of plan is desirable. 

I have no idea where I am going now. I'm going back to Dubai, that's a given. But I what's next? I could do anything, go anywhere without another thought. I know what I've got in my back pocket: the experiences that I've learnt from work. I have the knowledge of where I've been. 

Unemployment is a scary limbo. Almost as scary as living under a bridge outside Macdonald's with your 16th birthday cards. 

I quite like spontaneity, it stops you from hindering yourself. If you have no plans, then you can accept everything. But not knowing when the next pay slip will come in when your running up a tally in rent and bills isn't something that I want to really think about. 

 

For me, it now doesn't matter where I'm going, so long as I go somewhere. I've come from a lack of experience to being accepted in a company that believed in me more so than I believed in myself. 

Nothing describes my time at work like the word: "lovely" - a word that I use all to often but that can do justice to the passion of happiness and delight. That or "sterling". 

So, no, when I find myself in a panicky rut (which I do quite often) I'll remember my own little quote: it doesn't matter where you're going, so long as you remember exactly where you came from. :D 

 

Santa in the sun and super sad Christmas films

I love Christmas and when it comes, whether it be in the torrential rains of England or the blistering sun of Dubai, it is always special. And even when it doesn't feel like Christmas, the sentiment of the event is ever-present. 

This year didn't, at all, feel like Christmas. There is no limit during the festive period to the amount of times one plays 'Last Christmas' or 'Carol of Bells' but there is the sense of understanding that once they are played over and over, it may still not seem like Christmas Day. 

I came over to Dubai for Christmas this year and so when I told everyone at Uni that I was "going home for Christmas", the fact that I was home meant that I had already reached Christmas a week and a bit before the 25th of December. 

Nevertheless, the presents, mood and food could only be counted as a Christmas Day. 

Unlike every other year, this time we went out for lunch at an Italian buffet restaurant complete with a white-bearded "ho-ho-ho"-ing Father Christmas.  Despite my initial reaction of "I'll try it out" to mask the gravity of the chane, the meal was absolutely delicious. 

Crackers were laid about the table ready to pull. Silver trays of vegetables, potatoes, pastas, alternative Christmas dinners and then the authentic version were plated up. Starters were offered as crab salad, tiger prawn and mango salad, cold meats, shellfish and beef and bean mix. Desserts, reserved in a room of their own, included Christmas pudding, cheesecake, chocolate pots, crème caramel, chocolate fudge cake and small tarts. 

It wasn't as traditional as our family meal but a welcome change I'd like to do once more :D 

After eating, Christmas films are always a must. There's our favourites; Home Alone, which we watch repeatedly every year, and Elf. But with an array if differing tastes in the household, we chose something different. Browsing Netflix we found a film with a cute, animated bunny wrapped in multi-coloured lights and rated 'U'. 

I thought it would be a quick film; light-hearted and cartoon. Instead it was the most depressing Christmas pick of ALL TIME! It was called: the Christmas Bunny - cute right? No. No, no, no, no, no.

The story line was good; commendable and undeniably emotive, but it wasn't right for the 8-12 year old target market to which it was broadcasting. It was about a psychologically disturbed girl who was fostered and was looking after the bunny which her brother shot with a BB gun. 

It had the desired effect of the script - moving and thought-provoking - but it wasn't exactly the light-hearted Christmas themed film we needed to watch at the end of our Christmas Day. 

But it didn't over-shadow it at all. It provided a balance, a way to act against the elation of being with family to be centred in a world where your family doesn't love you or doesn't exist. 

It played the part of the Church at Christmas time and put all the meaning back in! 

Our Little Miracle - a few hours spent in paediatrics

There is something miraculous about hospitals. They save people, breathe new life into people and allow people another chance. But there is something even more magical about the paediatrics department.

I had been quite excited - bizarrely. I loved London, so I suppose that had something to do with it. But I hadn't been in a hospital for years beyond which I could count. And I had never been in a hospital in London - particularly one of such stature as 'The Royal Brompton'.

It's a sad scene to see poorly children. The rainbows and butterflies on the walls seem to lose their vibrancy just that little bit. The building blocks in the play area you know have most probably been thoroughly sterilised. And the sharp, jagged colourings of pirates and fairies pasted upon the walls seem to scream; LIFE'S TOO SHORT!! - certainly too short to worry about colouring within the lines.

But you can make your own fun and there's no such test to optimism as in a paediatrics department.

Of course, as an 11 year old, table football was always going to be the pot of gold amongst the train sets and over-sized building blocks scattered upon the floor. And, of course, as an 18 year old with a strong aversion to football, horrendously poor judgement and a set of lanky limbs, table football was never going to be my forte.

Regardless, between appointments, my cousin and I set about a match with the chocolate figure players.

My heart was racing; a sudden, burning competitiveness shining through. It was to no avail however because it wasn't long before I was beaten. Hardly surprising. But it had been good fun, so I sat in anticipation for when my cousin would return and we could duel once more.

We were into our third game before a young girl stood as a spectator, first leaning over the sides and directing my awkward movements and, later, as half of my team. Despite being in charge of just 3 players ball after ball continued to fling itself through my control and into the back of our net. It was, therefore, a rare and joyous occasion when we could enjoy a goal.

"YES!" cheered my little partner as our first went in.

I smiled. For all my earlier apathy and general lack of competitiveness, scoring each goal felt good and wholly deserved.

She lifted her hand, her fingers splayed just above my chest and I clapped mine against hers.

That tiny boned, slender, warm hand of the young girl cushioned by my strangely large and utterly unfeminine man-hand.

In that moment of connection, I realised what life meant for the children of this ward. All these children in the ward who made multiple visits per month and even per week for another appointment, the next consultation and further treatment. That little hand, swallowed by my whole palm, was part of a body that had experienced more than I had. She had seen far more than I had. She knew more that I did, despite being at least 8 years younger. Whilst my head was in books, thinking very highly of myself as I sat and churned out essays, this little girl and many others like her already had more knowledge than I could ever study for. Their misfortune, in many ways, had lead them to fortune.

Whilst making them better and curing them, the hospital and its staff were educating them. Strengthening their emotions. Improving their perceptions. They could walk into that waiting area and not be saddened to the core, as I had, by the sight of little boys walking around wired to tubes. They could be amongst these children without any other feeling than what was normal and indifferent. They could demand that their daddy's not walk them to their next treatment in the room down the hall because they could go with the nurses on their own. They weren't scared.

It's not only hospitals that are miraculous but, also, these brave little soldiers who carry on with life - day in, day out. Hospital is just a different way of them living their life. And that is truly what they do.

Dear Ol' England

Why is it that everyone walks with a stern brow? A pouted mouth? A chip on their shoulder that's big enough to make them waddle? 

  I agree; cleaning the bins in front of Morrisons isn't any fun. Talking people through banking accounts, having to pay 10p for a bag at the Hospice shop, seeing the sun eclipsed by the clouds, advising people on the best SIM card at Phones4U aren't all that fun or exciting either - but they could be. 

  For me, there's a fundamental difference between living in Dubai and living in England; the amount of people who seem to want to live. There was but one man, a kind gentleman in Nationwide, who seemed happy. He was interested to hear about the perks of Dubai and was forever questioning, happy to answer and polite. 

It's a generalisation I know but I'd forgotten. This sadness. This glum. This stubborn detest for everything. A smile, dare I say it, seldom seems acceptable here but is such a desperate necessity. 

A frown won't stop you hating your job. Moaning won't make a sun appear. Berating the driver in front of you because they're driving too slowly won't persuade them otherwise. But neither will a smile - but it might do. And even if it doesn't, it will make the day alot better.