Excuse me if I don’t smile for the next 4 months I’ve just had my face selectively paralysed in the name of beauty, the pursuit of youth, and most importantly because it was something I hadn’t tried before.

Actually I’m joking, not about the Botox, but about being able to smile. I can still smile.

A doctor friend who youth-ens, beautifies, and generally clarifies people’s skin with various laser treatments and skin peels etc told me I looked five years older than I really was – professionally speaking of course. An insult? A sales pitch?

He then told me that he was recently given a trial vial of a new Botox-esque drug called Dysport (which is meant to have a more immediate and longer lasting effect) and was looking for a candidate to test it on. I jumped at the opportunity to shave a few years off my face – if only for a few months.

Up front, I was highly sceptical that a bit of Dysport could make a difference and perhaps even a little nervous when the day came to give it a shot. Now I’m a convert.

When I was a young teenager I contracted Bells Palsy in my face. Essentially a virus that attacked and compromised my facial nerves it left me paralyzed one side of my face. Quite literally, one half of my face didn’t work; was unresponsive to my mental commands. As a result I had a lopsided smile (because the other half of my face wouldn’t join in), a mouth that remained in a constantly relaxed state (partially open so I had to drink through a straw and even then stuff would still dribble out), and an eye that wouldn’t close (so I had to tape it shut at night so it wouldn’t dry out). If that weren’t cruel enough all this occurred just as I was attending my first day of secondary school in a new town. I won’t use names but I’m still haunted by a less than sensitive student yelling across the science classroom for all to hear: “Hey you! What’s wrong with your face?” My fate was sealed.

I thought Dysport would be like that – that I would once again be a prisoner in my own face, egging my muscles on to react but getting no cooperation. But it’s not. In fact I’m completely unaware that I don’t have full facial access; it’s only when I look in the mirror that I realise that all my muscles aren’t onboard.

A number of carefully placed pinpricks – some without any feeling and some that hurt – around the far sides of my eyes and I was promised I’d no longer have crow’s feet extending out to my hairline when I smile.

Disappointingly the results weren’t immediate. I would have to wait three days before I could expect to difference. In the meantime for the first two hours I had to continue to squint, squeeze my eyes, contract my face to somehow work the poison into my muscles that were being paralysed. I also wasn’t allowed to laydown (side or back) or lean forward for fear that the neurotoxin would shift from its intended target.

The before shot. Notice how the crow's feet extend towards my hairline.

That was it …

So I waited …

A few days later, as promised, the muscles along the outside of my eyes were paralyzed and not accruing ‘wrinkle-time’ while they lay dormant. When I squeeze my eyes now, as tightly as possible, the area doesn’t budge. It’s only preventative  but for the moment my crow’s feet have evaded Father Time for roughly four months, taken a forced vacation before the muscles will come back online and engage when I smile.

The after shot. Despite squeezing my eyes shut the wrinkles don't extend beyond my immediate eye area.

Do I look younger? I’m not sure about that but I can see how using it – particularly from a younger age – can minimise the damage done to our skin. I’m hoping to use the next four months to adopt an organic, longer term plan: to break my bad habit of squinting.

My pets come together each morning and bestow their affection on me at the most inopportune of places and times.

My street puppy Cenizo follows me around all the time.

At first I thought it was insecurity. It’s a big world out there and as Dad I offer sense of safety. But then he started to get brave, and now if left off the leash the distance I can walk before he’ll race to catch up to me is getting greater and greater. Then I thought it was curiosity. Inevitably if I was doing something (particularly at ground level) he not only wanted to know what I was up to with sniffing-inquisitiveness, he usually disruptively walked right through the middle of whatever ‘it’ was.

Then I adopted a street kitten, Pepe, and I’m sure I saw jealously in his sad puppy eyes. Everywhere I’d go he’d follow closer than normal in order to keep between myself and the kitten.

Now, he’s settled into affection, of that I’m sure. He’s less obedient on the street and on the leash than he ever was but in the house he’s taken to resting on my feet even if the location isn’t exactly appropriate. For example, taking his cue from the kitten who regularly sits on my lap while I type (he’s here now), Cenizo is resting under my desk his head atop my feet (he’s there now). Less convenient is when I’m at the stove preparing my dinner and he does the same – cementing my feet in place with his weight – but most amusing is the morning ritual both pets have adopted:

It starts with Cenizo launching his upper body at the bed I’m slumbering in and bringing both paws onto the mattress with a vibrating thud. That’s my alarm clock. It used to be 6am on the dot, I’m lucky now that it’s shifted to 7am. (Light blocking curtains work wonders). The kitten who started the night in his basket/bed always ends it on my bed. He too is woken by Cenizo’s weighty pounce, often because he’s the target. The kitten then races over me to the opposing side of the bed, Cenizo races too – around the bed – and pounces again. Pepe clambers back over me and Cenizo follows. Run, repeat, run. This continues until I get up to go to the bathroom.

It’s here, while I am sitting on the toilet wanting nothing more than a bit of privacy, that both cat and dog huddle in for some family time. Cenizo lovingly lays himself across my feet and the kitten walks back and forth along the counter, rubbing himself against my shoulder and purring. A strange place for family time, but every morning that’s where we gather … and every morning I tell them the same thing: “Guys I appreciate the affection and attention but I don’t plan on being here very long.”

Thanks for the insight, for the inspiration … we’ll take it from here.

I just watched the final Oprah episode. (Thanks to a neighbour with Tivo and a television – I have neither).

Her last show was simply Oprah, no guests, standing in front of the camera giving thanks to her audience the world over that have supported her these past 25 years and sharing for the last time all the lessons she had learned from the common threads that she recognised in the more than 30,000 people she had interacted across her 4561 episodes.

Her speech had the intelligence of a lecture, the passion of a sermon, and the tenderness of a caring mother releasing her children out into the world. I loved it – and was honoured and inspired to hear her words born of best intentions and a lot of experience.

I’ve included a transcript of my favourite parts below.

Whatever your opinion of Oprah you’ve got to give the woman her due. As Madonna so eloquently said in the 3^rd to last Oprah episode, a celebrity-soaked love-fest at Chicago’s United Centre “She’s a self-made woman who’s been at the top of her game for over 25 years, and she is still kicking ass. She fights for things she believes in even if it makes her unpopular. She has balls and a wealth of compassion.” I couldn’t agree more.

I first discovered Oprah had balls back in her show’s first national season (1986/87) when she went to Forsyth County to tape a show in a community where no African-American had lived for more than 75 years. I remember how she angered African-Americans at the time by restricting her audience solely to the Caucasians living there. They felt they wouldn’t have a voice, but what they hadn’t counted on was Oprah and her voice. Rather than let it become a mud-slinging match, as the only African-American in the room she proceeded to try and understand their views on African-Americans and when the discussion would skew towards racism and stereotypes she would hold herself up as an example, and the racist remarks were seen for what they were, and stereotypes quickly deflated.

Then, at a time when hysteria and misinformation abounded, she tackled AIDS in a small town in West Virginia after the town panicked when a man with AIDS jumped into the local swimming pool.

Of course, who could forget her bravery in sharing her abuse as a child with her audience? From then on in she was an open book and her audience loved her for it. For her honesty, for her accessibility – something she was able to straddle over the years despite her rapid rise in fame & fortune. She was the woman you’d like to have around for lunch and the billionaire studio owner you admired. “Don’t let anyone tell you that having your own jet plane isn’t fantastic,” she once said. “It is.”

As a writer and avid reader how I could I not love her Book Club and what it did for book sales, intelligent stories and the simple joy of reading in an ever increasingly technologically-distracted society.

Beyond being a devoted watcher of her show (I used to time my lunch breaks in the work day to catch her show) I had two personal encounters with Oprah. I was in Chicago to interview Playboy CEO Christie Hefner when I was invited to watch the taping of her show (Julia Roberts & Mel Gibson were promoting their new film Conspiracy Theory at the time) and met with her after the show for a story I was writing for Australia’s New Woman magazine. The second encounter was when I wrote a heartfelt letter to Oprah that she responded to. (During her last show she told viewers of her new email address – oprah@oprah.com – She said that if you get an email from this address it will be from her. I believe her.)

Her Facebook page is filled with comments from followers/fans that are wondering what they will do without Oprah to fill their afternoon, to guide them. And perhaps that’s what I loved most about Oprah’s final show, it was one last handover of the baton of responsibility, reiterating the message she’s championed for so long: The power is within you, the whispers of what to do with your life are there to direct you, to guide you if you choose to listen. Now, after 25 years of encouragement, of insight, of sharing her lessons learned, and those of countless guests brave enough to say ‘These were my mistakes and this is how I’ve learned from them”, in her last show Oprah summed them up, reminded us of their value and then with a gentle shove has pushed us out into our own world to stand on our own and put those lessons into action. After 25 years of shepherding, we’re on our own.

Personally Selected Transcripts from Oprah’s Final Episode

(This amazed me! From the first show (!) Oprah proclaimed her vision for the show; a vision that stayed true throughout her 25 year run.)

On September 8, 1986, the first national episode of The Oprah Winfrey Show was broadcast into homes across America. “After deliberating for some time, we decided to do what we do best, and that is a show about and with everyday people. This show always allows people, hopefully, to understand the power they have to change their own lives. If there’s one thread running through each show we do, it is the message that you are not alone.

“Two years later, when we went national, I remember at the time, Roger King told me that one station manager said that he’d rather put a potato in a chair in his market than have a big black girl with a funny name. And in spite of that, from Memphis to Macon, from Pittsburgh to Pensacola, from New York to New Orleans, you all let me in.”

“The first week we went national, I remember I got a letter from a woman named Carrie in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Carrie said, ‘Oprah, watching you be yourself makes me want to be more of myself.’ That was and still remains one of the nicest things I ever heard. What Carrie felt is what I wanted for every single one of you. I wanted to encourage you to be more of yourself just as you all encouraged me, and you cheered me on and occasionally complained about my outfits, my big hair and earrings the size of napkins. Now I see you had every reason to.

…

“What I knew for sure from this experience with you is that we are all called. Everybody has a calling, and your real job in life is to figure out what that is and get about the business of doing it. Every time we have seen a person on this stage who is a success in their life, they spoke of the job, and they spoke of the juice that they receive from doing what they knew they were meant to be doing. We saw it in the volunteers who rocked abandoned babies in Atlanta. We saw it with those lovely pie ladies from Cape Cod making those delicious potpies. … We saw it every timeTina Turner, Celine, Bocelli or Lady Gaga lit up the stage with their passion. Because that is what a calling is. It lights you up and it lets you know that you are exactly where you’re supposed to be, doing exactly what you’re supposed to be doing. And that is what I want for all of you and hope that you will take from this show. To live from the heart of yourself. You have to make a living; I understand that. But you also have to know what sparks the light in you so that you, in your own way, can illuminate the world.”

“My great wish for all of you who have allowed me to honor my calling through this show is that you carry whatever you’re supposed to be doing, carry that forward and don’t waste any more time. Start embracing the life that is calling you and use your life to serve the world.”

…

“Nobody but you is responsible for your life. It doesn’t matter what your mama did; it doesn’t matter what your daddy didn’t do. You are responsible for your life. … You are responsible for the energy that you create for yourself, and you’re responsible for the energy that you bring to others.
…

All life is energy and we are transmitting it at every moment. We are all little beaming little signals like radio frequencies, and the world is responding in kind.

…

“Remember physics class? Did you pay attention to Newton’s third law of motion? Let me tell you, that thing is real. It says for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

“I learned from the guests on this show, no need to feel superior to anybody. Because whether it’s heroin addiction or gambling addiction or shopping addiction or food addiction, work addiction, the root is all the same. The show has taught me there is a common thread that runs through all of our pain and all of our suffering, and that is unworthiness. Not feeling worthy enough to own the life you were created for. Even people who believe they deserve to be happy and have nice things often don’t feel worthy once they have them.

“There is a difference, you know, between thinking you deserve to be happy and knowing you are worthy of happiness.

“What I got was we often block our own blessings because we don’t feel inherently good enough or smart enough or pretty enough or worthy enough – the show has taught me you’re worthy because you are born and because you are here. Your being here, your being alive makes worthiness your birthright. You alone are enough.”

“I’ve talked to nearly 30,000 people on this show, and all 30,000 had one thing in common: They all wanted validation. If I could reach through this television and sit on your sofa or sit on a stool in your kitchen right now, I would tell you that every single person you will ever meet shares that common desire. They want to know: ‘Do you see me? Do you hear me? Does what I say mean anything to you?’

“Understanding that one principle, that everybody wants to be heard, has allowed me to hold the microphone for you all these years with the least amount of judgment. Now I can’t say I wasn’t judging some days. Some days, I had to judge just a little bit. But it’s helped me to stand and to try to do that with an open mind and to do it with an open heart. It has worked for this platform, and I guarantee you it will work for yours. Try it with your children, your husband, your wife, your boss, your friends. Validate them. ‘I see you. I hear you. And what you say matters to me.'”

“The only time I’ve ever made mistakes is when I didn’t listen. So what I know is, God is love and God is life, and your life is always speaking to you. First in whispers. … It’s subtle, those whispers. And if you don’t pay attention to the whispers, it gets louder and louder. It’s like getting thumped upside the head, like my grandmother used to do. … You don’t pay attention to that, it’s like getting a brick upside your head. You don’t pay attention to that, the whole brick wall falls down. That’s the pattern I’ve seen in my life, and it’s played out over and over again on this show.”

“You all have been a safe harbor for me for 25 years. It’s strange, I know, but you have been. And what I hope is that you all will be that safe harbor for somebody else—their safe place to fall. Do for them what you all are telling me the show has done for you. Connect. Embrace. Liberate. Love somebody. Just one person. And then spread that to two. And as many as you can. You’ll see the difference it makes.

“I’ve been asked many times during this farewell season, ‘Is ending the show bittersweet?’ Well, I say all sweet. No bitter. And here is why: Many of us have been together for 25 years. We have hooted and hollered together, had our aha! moments, we ugly-cried together and we did our gratitude journals. So I thank you all for your support and your trust in me. I thank you for sharing this yellow brick road of blessings. I thank you for tuning in every day along with your mothers and your sisters and your daughters, your partners, gay and otherwise, your friends and all the husbands who got coaxed into watching Oprah. And I thank you for being as much of a sweet inspiration for me as I’ve tried to be for you.

“I won’t say goodbye. I’ll just say…until we meet again.”

So here I was a couple of months ago humming along quite fine. My life had rhythm, it had structure. I was writing regularly, I was getting to the gym – gaining weight – eating healthily, sleeping well, and challenging myself by learning Spanish here in Guatemala. Most importantly I was content.

That was the last time that most of you would have heard from me.

So much has happened since then. Chaos, sleepless nights, new challenges, adventures – each deserving of a post/story unto themselves – but suddenly I found myself a juggler with too many balls in the air and I had little choice but to let some of them fall to the ground. One such ‘ball’, my regular updates on The Experience Junkie, unfortunately fell to the wayside.

So here I am recognising that despite best intentions, despite deep desire, that when you’re a staff of 1 you can’t always walk a steady path free from interruption. And that sometimes momentum is interrupted when life gets in the way.

So here’s what I’ve been up to in my ‘silent’ few months.

It started innocently enough when I had two dear friends visit independently. I didn’t even notice the distraction from my schedule I was so happy for their company that I treated their visit like a holiday of my own. The first arrived in early March, the second three days after the first departed. If that weren’t exciting and a handful enough, during the second friend’s visit a street puppy walked into my home at 3am in the morning (we’d been out nightclubbing). With a bloated belly (from worms), the barely two month old pup was filthy and had what appeared to be mange-y fur and dry skin more akin to an old elephant than a young pup. After a sleepless night due to the pup’s crying from his incessant scratching I took him to the vet and somehow became a dad. He went everywhere with me; quite content to ride in my mail bag. Within the first 72 hours he’d been to the beach, to the lake – ridden in a car, a bus, on a boat. It took awhile to find the right name for him, but I called him Cenizo. It which means ‘ash’ in Spanish – in reference to all the volcanic ash about Antigua, but more importantly in reference to his unique grey fur. Then he went and turned blonde on me .… but more on the pup another time. (Btw, a future story spoiler, but he’s curled up at my feet as I type this.)

(Shout out to parents: I realise a dog is not a child – at least a dog can be left alone for short periods of time – which makes my newfound admiration of parents even greater! How do you do it?!)

Following my second friend’s departure, I left the now growing pup in the care of a good friend and headed off to tackle a new country, Honduras, in order to fulfil a long held dream of swimming with whale sharks. It was the height of whale shark season and swim with them I did – almost getting whacked by the tail of a 10m whale shark as it turned to avoid the onslaught of a phalanx of divers swimming straight for it. Whale sharks I’ve since learned are incredibly timid – unfortunately it seems no one had told the divers … but more on my whale shark encounter another time.

Honduras also offered up a couple of other discoveries. The Mayan ruins of Copan, not to mention the discovery of the charming adjoining village and a day riding horses through the beautiful countryside on a coffee farm, Finca El Cisne.

Back to Antigua in early April only to discover that my best mate here had decided to pack up his bags to return to Australia due to some persistent health issues. There was much moving and sorting through his life lived in Antigua in order to pack it into two bags. Somewhere along the way, without recalling that I actually said yes, he bequeathed his two English teaching jobs to me so that I might keep them ‘warm’ for him should he be able to return.

He left just as the craziness of Semana Santa or Holy Week started in Antigua. Outside of Seville, Spain, Antigua holds the largest Semana Santa festival in the world. The city was inundated by visitors. Roads gridlocked with cars, sidewalks too full to walk along. All to see the daily (if not twice daily) religious processions that have the pious carrying huge statues of Jesus and Mary in parades that weave around the city for a full day OVER top of meticulously crafted carpets of flowers, dyed sawdust, vegetables etc  that cover the cobblestone streets .… but more on Semana Santa in Antigua another time.

I escaped Semana Santa briefly to go to Rio Dulce in the north of Guatemala with some friends. The trip would have been relatively relaxing and uneventful had it not been for a wild injury-causing ride across rough seas that closed in quickly … and an exploding boat mere meters away from where I was washing my street pup, Cenizo, in the river. The two-level luxury yacht burned for some three hours before it resembled nothing more than a rowboat and then sank.

With Semana Santa over, the crowds returned home and the town quiet again I found myself even more alone in Antigua … my mate and gym partner having returned to Australia. Except now I had a new challenge … teaching.

(Shout out to teachers: You are a breed apart and deserve far more credit and admiration for the job you do in what at times must seem like an uphill battle against students, parents and the administration. And yet you persevere! I bow in awe and admiration.)

I was working not one but two English teaching jobs during the day in addition to writing magazine articles at night. Easter Monday saw the first of the two jobs tackled; working a split shift three days a week at a beautiful five-star hotel here in Antigua teaching the staff English. Tuesday I started working at a high school teaching English Reading, Writing, and Speaking to five different classes (roughly 80 students across the ages of 14 to 18). Talk about jumping in the deep end. By Wednesday I was doing both jobs – getting up at 5am to feed/walk the puppy, get myself ready, then eat breakfast to get to the hotel by 7am. By 8am I was running across town to catch the 8:20am chicken bus to school (it literally had chickens on it the first day) to JUST walk into my 8:45am class as the bell rung. By early afternoon I was back on the bus and running across town again to get back to the hotel to teach two or three afternoon classes. I’d finish by 5pm, get home to walk the dog again, make myself dinner then work on my magazine writing before collapsing into bed. I learned exactly how much you can fit into a day – unfortunately it came at the expense of my gym, proper eating, and restful sleep as well … but more on my teaching escapades another time.

There were a couple of reprieves from my teaching marathon: a Masquerade Birthday Ball, and a energetic football match in which the home team won. I also managed to escape for one weekend: at the invitation of a friend, we went on a driving trip to discover a new country, neighbouring El Salvador. A scenic country as a whole, but there wasn’t really one thing that jumped out with a wow factor. We did discover a lovely waterfall … but the experience was somewhat marred by an hour at the border trying to avoid a hefty fine and five days to leave the region because the border officers felt my valid visa was invalid … but more on my Escape from El Salvador another time.

You can now call me crazy: Upon returning from my morning walk with Cenizo on Mother’s Day, I saw an emaciated kitten of what looked like 3 weeks old (he was actually 5 wks – but so underweight that he looked younger) sitting outside my front door. (Word had obviously gotten out that a sucker lived at this address). I told myself repeatedly – “Michael, just go inside the house, just go inside the house.” And that’s what I did – with the kitten in my arms. (I’m pleased to say some two weeks later he’s gone from 1lb to 2.5lbs). He looks like a skunk so I called him Pepe.

After three weeks of working at the school I politely declined their offer to continue working for them. I had had enough of arguing with students, tired of saying no to repeated requests to go to the bathroom, and tired of asking for quiet only to have it interrupted mere moments later. One student asked me if I was learning anything at the school. Patience I told him, I learn about patience every day.

I still teach English at the hotel three days a week. The people there WANT to learn so the work is rewarding. But now with more time up my sleeve I can turn my attention back to my writing and start thinking about what to do next!

So there you have it, the last 12 weeks of my life. Full, frustrating, rewarding, boundaries pushed, lessons learned, adventures had and experience gained. Apologies again for my delayed correspondence, life got in the way.

Michael

Sometimes life’s curve balls force a temporary timeout but don’t let a slowdown in momentum mean a loss of determination.

Who would have ever thought that playing Ultimate Frisbee would result in a cracked rib? I mean it’s only frisbee, gosh darn it! But that’s exactly what happened to me last week after a giant Thor-like opponent tackled me to the ground as I catapulted into the air to reach for the flying frisbee.

Ok, perhaps I’m being a tad dramatic here. Thor wasn’t so Thor-like (in fact he was shorter than me, but solid!); there wasn’t really a tackle as much as a charge – or in fact maybe we could have just run into each other; BUT with my arm up reaching for the frisbee, the side of ribcage was exposed to his oncoming assault and when we connected he left me winded for a good three minutes.

One week later it still really hurts particularly when I breathe too deeply. Shallow breathing (to avoid the pain) has left me out of breath for the simplest activities, while my body has pretty much shut down and slept a large part of this past week.

A cracked rib? A hairline fracture? It’s hard to tell, although oddly enough there was no external bruising. Of course I of the stubborn-male-mindedness, have yet to get an X-Ray to confirm my self-prognosis, insisting to friends & family that all a doctor is going to tell me is to rest and not stress the area – which I’ve been doing … to the point of lethargy.

I feel like an old man. I am an airplane grounded.

The worst part of this past week has been my inability. A forced rest, JUST when I had been gaining momentum in my routine, developing a rhythm of jogging, and gym-ing, not too mention a regular schedule of working and Spanish class (I had to cancel a couple classes because it hurt too much to concentrate, talking only exacerbating the discomfort.)

Afternoon naps that demanded to be taken, because of sleepless nights trying to find a comfortable position, have resulted in a vicious circle of sleep patterns that are all over the place.

My patience has been tested; my limits discovered. In my male-stubbornness, I’m embarrassed to admit that I did hazard a trip to the gym, but when I couldn’t even bend over to pick up a weight I thought better of it … and left, frustrated, without doing anything. I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid, I realise the danger of further exacerbating an injury and extending my bedrest.

The good news is that I’ve turned my frustration into drive and determination. I’ve already lost a week to this tackle, and realistically will lose another week before I’m up and running at full steam – likely longer! Even so, I’ve promised myself a return to form, a return to rhythm. And while common sense dictates that I’ll be taking it slow at first, I am determined to not let this break in momentum divert me from my goals. My plan is simple:  I won’t cry any further over the weeks lost – there will be no ‘catching up’ – but rather an acceptance of life’s curve ball and a goal to simply get back on track.

When you’ve lost momentum due to a curve ball how have you gotten back on track?

I play a game of golf once a year. I’m not bad for only playing once a year, but let’s be honest I’m not great either.

I once took a golfing lesson from an Australian golf-pro in Vietnam so I know the basics of how to stand, swing, and stay focussed on the ball despite the distraction of the swing and the overriding desire to see where the ball went. Sounds easy right, but it’s actually a lot to remember, not to mention the addition of whatever other pointers your fellow players offer up to further clutter your brain– and trust me they always have advice!

Here are MY lessons gleaned from golf which oddly enough I think can also be applied to life:

Relax. Don’t Over-think.

Golf requires an awkward stance or at least one that does not come naturally: Feet so far apart, weight forward, knees slightly bent, shoulders relaxed, grip firm, little fingers interlocking (or not). It gets far too complicated to get it right – all at once anyway. And yet the times I relaxed into my swing and didn’t try to get everything perfect, to micro-manage by over-thinking … well, somehow that was the swing that connected with the ball and sent it flying down the fairway.

Practice Patience. Employ Forgiveness.

It’s easy to get frustrated when things don’t go right. And yet the times I forgave myself, not taking my grudges into the next stroke, I had a far better outcome then when I tried to make up for the last bad swing.

Don’t Try to Hard. Don’t Try to Impress.

I was playing with my step-father and his chums, all of whom are much better and far more practiced than I. The times I tried to keep up with them were the times I fell short because my focus was on their achievements and not my own.

Don’t Try and Kill the Ball.

Golf is not a game of brute force and I’m guessing life isn’t either. I’m a strong guy, something I thought would be my advantage against my competitors (see lesson above). Yet the times I tried to kill the ball usually led to missed swings that actually hurt my back and injured my pride. Golf is a game of finesse. Swinging from a place of quiet confidence and inner belief achieved far better results than attacking the situation with aggression.

Put your divots back.

As embarrassing as it is to seeing huge pieces of turf flying when it was supposed to be your golf ball soaring through the air, acknowledging those mistakes by righting wrongs and putting your divots back is part of making amends and moving on.

Don’t take your eye off the ball.

Sometimes in my enthusiasm to see how successful I’d been I’d take my eye of the ball and look to the future, forgetting to concentrate on the present. When I stayed focussed on the completion of the task at hand, letting my friends see where the ball went, that’s when I achieved stronger results.

Enjoy the Camaraderie of your Fellow Players.

Golf, like life, is a game best shared. While the challenge of the game might have brought you together it is the camaraderie of your fellow players that enhances the experience: a bad stroke becomes funny; a difficult shot is given additional support; while a great putt is doubly-celebrated.

Every Hole is a Fresh Opportunity.

Every hole offers the opportunity to apply the lessons learned and skills acquired from previous greens. Is this any different than having a bad morning but being determined to turn your day around in the afternoon? At the very least each new hole offers a fresh slate and new challenges to embrace and conquer.

Celebrate your Skills, Whatever They Are.

I discovered I have a keen eye and a straight stroke. Twice I managed, from an impressive distance, to actually hit the flag pole. The stubborn ball bounced off the pole and back onto the putting green instead of into the hole but I didn’t care, I was too excited by a new found skill and ability that I actually didn’t care about the outcome.

And finally ….

Forget About Measuring up to the ‘Pars’ For Each Hole (unless you’re that good!). Concentrate Instead on Just Having Fun.

Here’s a novel suggestion for your next dinner party (particularly if, like me, your cooking skills are limited to making toast and preparing cereal – which I do very well I might add!) : Invite your friends to your house and ask them to cook.

Before you race to judge my dinner invitation as inhospitable and selfish, let me explain:

I’ve never quite understood the traditional dinner party. There’s a lot of racing around the kitchen in stressful preparation for the impending arrival of your guests. There’s the table to set, the courses to prepare, yourself to get ready … all so you can answer the door with an air of belying-calmness as the perfect host – while in the back of your mind you’re worried about the roast burning.

It’s a rare few people who can choreograph a dinner party that flows smoothly in both front and back of house. More often than not, the façade starts to thin a bit when your guests are left at the table for prolonged periods while you single-handedly rescue the meal from one crisis or another in between chiming into the table’s conversation from the kitchen … just to prove that everything is copasetic.

And then at the anti-climatic end: when everyone is served and satiated; when you can finally relax and let down your hair; it’s time for your guests to go. Adding insult to injury, you’ve got a mountain of dishes (for which you’ve politely refused any help) to tend to.

My idea turns all this on its head.

Years ago I started inviting friends over to my house for dinner … and asking them to cook.

The idea was born out of the fact that in my last house, I had a fantastic kitchen, one that deserved to be used, but was sadly ignored by me. I’ve already mentioned my non-existent culinary skills and it’s a well-recognised fact that most parties end up in the kitchen – so why not start there!

The premise is simple: I invite you over. We set a date. You tell me what you’re going to cook/your menu and give me a list of ingredients. I then go out and buy the ingredients – learning as I go. (ie, learning how to buy particular fillets of seafood, or cuts of meat, or discovering foods on shelves I’d never even glanced at before.) On the night that you’re invited over, you arrive, find the ingredients laid out. And me: my hands washed, knife at the ready, your willing sous-chef for the night, ready to follow your every instruction. A willing apprentice, eager to learn. We open a bottle of wine and start to cook together. No stress, no deadline. The journey IS the destination. We get to enjoy each other’s company, catch up on each other’s lives, bonding over the preparation of food – together. And when the meal is complete we sit down and enjoy the tasty result of our shared experience. No stress on the chef’s part, no judgements, no concerns or responsibilities over whether it tastes good enough because we we’re both a part of the preparation at every stage.

I don’t know, but to me this seems a far more sane dinner party, then the ones where the host is manically racing about, aiming for impressive perfection.

And the bonus for me? I’ve learned something new; I’ve broadened my narrow culinary skills with hints and tips gleaned from learned guest. And if I’ve been paying attention then I’ve actually learned how to make a new dish. One that I can then share with another friend in the future.

How do you like to entertain?

I’m not naturally a Bed-Maker. In fact, I’m more the “Defend-My-Right-To-Not-Make-The-Bed” kinda guy. (Or at least I was.)

I lived with a Bed-Maker for some time and without fail whether it was first thing in the morning or what seemed like the last thing at night – just when I’d think I’d been successful in my anti-establishment campaign to leave the sheets and covers askew for the entire day – the bed would always be magically made before, well, bedtime. I never won. We never got into an unmade bed.

Perhaps it was that consistent approach that eventually wore me down, but over the years I’ve mellowed in my vigilant defence of non-bed making and have learned to appreciate the importance of making the bed.

In the morning, it’s a moment of time to be present, meditative almost in the ritual that another day has started and is on an even keel. It’s an investment in yourself, your space and the pride that comes from making it look nice for yourself. And it denotes an orderly existence that says despite the demands of a hectic and harried life I still have control of the few moments it takes to make my bed.

Then of course, there’s the reward in the evening of slipping between sheets pulled taut, blankets evenly distributed and a pillow at the right end of the bed.

Yes, I have mellowed considerably! Perhaps more so because for the first time in a long time I have a bed of my own, in a space of my own to take pride in and making the bed seems like a completely new experience. (PS. I also fold my clothes now too!)

Click here for 8 Tricks to Make Making the Bed a Habit

Do you have a household chore that you see as an important and enjoyable part of your day?

For me, life is always sweetest when it unfolds to reveal a surprising treat that I hadn’t planned on but have the opportunity to savour.

I’m always amazed how often these opportunities present themselves – sometimes it’s a case of stumbling across them, while other times it’s about seeing something in the distance/out of the corner of your eye and altering course to investigate further. Once there, there’s usually a choice whether to engage (or not) and it’s at this juncture that I regularly say ‘yes’!

This happened a couple months back while wandering around London. I stumbled across the Thames Fair while crossing over the fluidly-designed Millennium Bridge (while being treated to a spectacular sunset over the Thames, I might add!) At first it looked like any other fair I’ve wandered through until I followed the trail of tents to the Southwark Bridge.

The bridge had been transformed into a big dining table – two tables actually: the bridge was closed to traffic and a line of trestle tables was along the length of the bridge, as far as the eye could see. Adding a festive feel to an already cool scenario, coloured lights were strung from lamp post to lamp post along the bridge.

Nearby tents advertised everything from free range, organic, and even bio-dynamic food for sale, while the long shared tables engendered an intimate sense of community – strangers getting to know each other – as if it were a country town instead of the center of London. In fact the whole scene was reminiscent of pictures I remember of entire towns celebrating the Queen’s Silver Jubilee with parties and tables lining villages’ main streets.

Of course I sat down to enjoy the shared experience! I mean when’s the last time you can say you sat down on a London Bridge with a few hundred friends for a picnic??

(Yes, I hear you Sydney. For those of you don’t know, once a year Sydney has a Breakfast on the (Harbour) Bridge. Where winners of a lottery (it’s THAT popular!) get to enjoy a picnic on specially-laid fake green turf under the arches of Australia’s most famous bridge.)

I was at my mum’s on a Sunday afternoon late in the summer, when I could hear music from a live band wafting across the backyard.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Oh, they have a live band giving free concerts every weekend throughout the summer. I’ve been meaning to go down and see it,” she said. “Maybe next weekend I’ll remember.”

“What about now?” I countered. “When the band plays, we should go marching in.”

It hadn’t dawned on my mum with her busy lifestyle and long ‘to do’ list of tasks to go without planning and scheduling.

Spontaneously we went; right then. We walked down to the park and caught the tail end of the concert which featured an orchestra playing famous theme songs and show tunes. We sat on a grassy rise and even danced barefoot in the grass to a couple of the catchier tunes.

Surprisingly, my step-father – who would reluctantly attend such things and as such was an excuse my mum might have used to not attend herself – even showed up. Realising we weren’t home he came in search of us and then just like that – without planning or preamble – we were a family enjoying an afternoon concert in the park.