Is It Just Me?

To which I can confidently reply: no, Miranda, it is not 'just you'. It's me too.

Miranda and I have very similar facial expressions, actually.

So hello! And welcome to my first book review of this year. Yes, I am aware that I sound more than uncannily like Miranda when I say that. I recently expressed my desire to be half as brilliant as the televisual Miranda [TM] (as opposed to Miranda Hart [MH], authoress and portrayer of Chummy in 'Call the Midwife') and my sister N merely regarded me and said, "Well, you're halfway there" little expecting the joyful hug and bark of delight she received in response. It's true - I have been known to sing Beyonce ("To the left, to the left...") as a directional statement. It works brilliantly.

Perhaps I am not the most objective reviewer in this case, but I can say that I did really enjoy this book. As a matter of fact I raced my way through it today, making it the first out of (hopefully) two hundred that I will read this year (actually a fairly doable NYResolution, considering I read 133 last year without really going for it) and then had a whole hour in the swimming pool to think about it and start mentally drafting this review.

During that hour or so I did this

Warm up:
200m freestyle, 100m backstroke, 100m breaststroke

Main set:
200m free off 3mins*
100m I.M. off 1.50
300m free off 4.45
100m I.M. off 1.50
200m free off 3
(set repeated x 3)

Sprint set:
10x25 Belugas - so named as they give you the lung capacity of a small beluga whale. Swim underwater for half a length, emerge from water, sprint polo frontcrawl (head up, elbows high) to end. Breathe clinging to side for between 5-8 seconds. Rinse and repeat 10 times.

Warm down:
100m free. 100m backstroke.

Leg set**:
20 seconds at elbows out
30 seconds at hands on head
1 minute at arms out
30 seconds at hands on head
20 seconds at elbows out
9 jumps (right hand, left hand, both hands)
(set repeated x 5)

So safe to say I had plenty of time to think about 'Is It Just Me?' This is made more relevant by the fact that I had a serious case of lane rage due to the exceedingly slow male swimmer in front of me refusing to abide by swimming etiquette and let me overtake when necessary. 'Yes, Miranda, it's not just you,' I thought. 'It's definitely me too. It's not normal to contemplate swimming underneath someone just to get in front of them and really irritate them in the process. It's just not.'

See, the book may well be called 'Is It Just Me?' but the problem lies in the paradox of that title. Do I mean paradox? I think I do. Someone correct me if I'm wrong. The whole point is for us, as readers, to agree with Miranda - an authorial Miranda who appears to be a curious mix of TM and MH (see above) - that it is not, actually, just her, and that all of us experience those awkward moments where, as Hart says, one needs a 'manual. A Miranual!' to get through unscathed. Yet although these moments do occur, there are in fact several jarring incidences, which I refuse to believe are 100% true as they resemble her sitcom more than anything I have ever known to be actual life such as when she traps her skirt under the wheels of a swivel chair and is left pantsless in front of a panel of interviewers, where the reader thinks: 'No, Miranda - in this case it really is just you.'

I feel terrible saying that. Anyone who knows me well will know that I am not the most graceful of ladies. I have a tendency to embarrass myself incredibly well when libations have been taken. Often I am known to cackle loudly at awkward situations and sometimes even ensure they happen just so I can make 'hilarious' hand gestures - awkward turtle, anyone? But I just could not imagine some of these situations happening.

I was also not entirely enamoured with the constant popping up of LM, Little Miranda, a stylised 18 year old version of Hart, who dialogues with the present-day Miranda about incidents old and new. At times this felt a little stilted and I could not entirely get into it; but at other times, such as in the chapters about dogs, relationships, and beauty, I really thought it worked. Same goes for the dramatic script interludes - better in the small doses.

What Hart does really well, though, is a list. Oh, I love a good hilarious list. My tastes are simple, and were easily pleased when the ten best things about being tall were EXACTLY THE SAME as the ten worst things about being tall. And a pun. There are some excellent, unashamedly barefaced puns in this book, and a great sense of the jolly hockey sticks vibe that Hart has become known for.

Yet the best moments, the altogether shining lights, were when TM took a back seat and MH came out properly. The sincere and lovely writing in beauty, especially, was much more understated and the simple touches of humour rather than full-frontal assault was much appreciated. Miranda (for I feel I can call her that. I am altogether her imaginary best friend) really knows how to get down to the nub and gist of an idea without being rudely blunt about it, which I admire as a skill and as a writing technique.

As you can tell from this overly long blog post I have not yet mastered it myself.

On balance, the book is probably rated 7/10 for me. A bit too confused in its authorial sense, it seeks to fill gaps with humour which would serve better if it simply highlighted the all-round loveliness of Miranda's meaning, rather than being the meat of the writing. It did make me laugh rather a lot, and I did emerge thinking - 'No. It's not just you. I do love stationery...'

I promise the reviews will get better, I'm a little out of practice. Next one comes out on Saturday!

S xx

*um...so for non-swimmers, this means that you have 3 minutes to swim the 8 lengths and recover. Then you set off on the next thing.

**for non water-polo players, we spend a lot of time trying to strengthen our legs so that we can get out of the water higher to pass, catch and defend better. This means we have to kick like this, and doing leg sets with your hands/arms out of the water tends to make you better. But I'm still a rubbish player however many leg sets I do.

First run of the year

Ah, breathe that scent. Breathe it deeply. Ahhhhhh, I hear you cry. Yes! That's right! It's the new year! 2013 is come upon us my friends.

I spent a very pleasant NYE at a potluck dinner party reunion with the Brightsiders, my crew from my schooldays, returning home at about 11 to see in the new year with my parents' infinitely more tasty prosecco stash and another viewing of 'A Knight's Tale'. Yeh, I'm boring. I know.

Perhaps I consumed too much prosecco (this is a definite) because I was really not keen on going out for a run today. It felt like I was the last survivor of a zombie apocalypse when I got up this morning, awoken very early after I kicked the wall very hard in my sleep, and staggered to the kitchen for life-restoring orange juice.

Yet drag myself out I did, especially when I realised I would have to blog guiltily tonight if I didn't go. So I recruited my tall ginger brother so that I would feel accountable, and set off.

Oh it was horrible. It was terrible. I had to face my mid-run nemesis of the Hill. I hate the Hill. It mars the middle of my lovely 5k route with a desperate sense of being unfit. Oh, Hill.

Today the Hill meant that I felt incredibly ill all the way up it, as the challenge is to get up at the same pace as running the previous downhill section, regretting that final glass of Chablis last night. Yet after that, for the second half of the route, and after the run itself I did feel much better, testament to the recuperative powers of exercise. And smug. Very smug.

Alright, it may have been a mere three miles ish, but I still felt that lovely sense you get when running of being somehow so intensely in the moment that you are in fact out of yourself, where you zone into something altogether bigger and everything clicks. It's nice when that happens, and it is often when you push yourself through a barrier of discomfort that you get that sensation.

Mo' running mo' miles tomorrow. See when I see you, Hill.

Mile count: 3