The art of imaginative vision

This week Ballpoint Arcade has saved me approximately $34985.

Since reading The Art of Non-conformity I’ve been thinking more about how I want to live my life. This quote that features in the book sums up Guillebeau's ethos: 

“Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slave of the ordinary.’ Sir Cecil Beaton

Creativity is of major focus in Guillebeau’s book (amongst other ‘non-conventional ideas’ which I’ll go into more detail in my book review) how to harness it in everyday situations to ensure you live your life to it’s fullest potential. 

An exercise early in the book has you imagine your ideal day – I sat down to complete this exercise in a diligent manner and discovered that my ideal day would be considered to be rather busy. Without going into too much detail I enjoy having tasks at hand. I like to feel productive. My ideal day won’t be just lounging on the couch, rather I get my kicks out of working on a new piece of writing, rushing for deadlines, brainstorming ideas, having heated discussions about literature – over a large mug of coffee of course.

So I’m going to make sure each day is ideal – I’m going to create my own MFA (masters of fine arts). The syllabus is a little bit fluid at the moment, but I have a wealth of resources that I am going to utilise to enrich my skills as a writer as well as create that sense of ‘productivity’ I crave.

You may be wondering why I’m going the DIY approach rather then enrolling in an institution. There are a number of reasons, at the moment I’m a bit of a pauper but I also get so much satisfaction from my job.

I’m also keen to prove that I can live the life of a writer whilst balancing the demands of full-time work. I want to prove that I can handle the rigors of an MFA before I consider signing up to a bona-fide MFA.

How is Ballpoint Arcade significant in my DIY MFA? Ballpoint Arcade will be my Pascal Covici. John Steinbeck inspired me “in writing, East of Eden, (Steinbeck) unblocked himself for the daily stint of writing ahead by writing a “letter” to his close friend and editor, Pascal Covici.” So at the risk of sounding vulgar, I’m going to be using Ballpoint Arcade to unblock myself during my DIY MFA. It’ll be my sounding board, as well as means of communicating with you – I hope that others join me or feel inspired to create their own MFA’s.

I’ll be posting up my purposed syllabus on Wednesday, along with assignments, end of semester ‘exams’ and  blogging schedule. Please feel free to follow along and post suggestions for suitable books to study – be that fiction, non-fiction, novels or writing manuals. As well as ideas for assignments or resources. 

Awake is the new sleep

Good jolly my break from blogging somehow extended for longer then planned! A series of technical difficulties,epic working weeks and delightful distractions (snazzy new roller skates, hilarious housemates, homework, olympic fever) resulted in a rather long hibernation period for Ballpoint Arcade. 

Fear not I'm back with vengeance and perhaps a smidge more structure! 

I've pulled out my pens and paper & brainstormed the future of the blog. I've got ideas galore I wish to explore!

I'm going to post up more details on Sunday about the new posting schedule and how Ballpoint Arcade is going to save me a niffy $34985.

Paleo, Pilates and Physio

I've been dreaming about you...

It's been rather quite at Ballpoint Arcade, however things are firing at all cylinders in every other respect! Coincidently (or not) all these things start with the letter P. Which is ever so pleasing for someone who enjoys alliteration!

I'm into my second week of the whole30 (read more about paleo here). This has been something I've been something I’ve intended to do for ages. I choose to ignore my celiac crippled stomach whilst on the road last year – bread, pasta and noodles are basically the cheapest of food world over. My bank balance was happy for the decision, my poor rumbling stomach not so much!

I've made half-hearted attempts in the past, to get on top of my food intolerances, but this time I seem to be sticking to the no-grains, no-diary guidelines. Well for the most part*.

For a diet that eliminates so much food - it's bloody time consuming figuring out meals for breakfast, lunch and dinner! It doesn't help the fact that I have little to no kitchen finesse.

It took me a better part of two days to make soup (I made stock from scratch) and another two days to make grain-free granola (which incidentally got burnt to a crisp). But it seems like it’s worth the effort. I feel like a fog has been lifted. I’m actually waking up before my alarm and eager to leap into the day. I used to need more sleep than a newborn baby. This can only have a positive affect on my writing – well once I unchain myself from the kitchen stove top!

When I’m not at work, Pilates continues to take over my life - juggling study, personal practice and supervised teaching. I’m literally counting down the days until this diploma is over! I’m enjoying it, but I dread the homework assignments!

Needless to say, not only has the blog been quite, but also my writing desk. I haven’t produced much in the last fortnight. But with this boundless energy I’m planning on squeezing in a few writing sessions. I have some exciting ideas brewing away! And I have a bundle of books to review as well!

*Seeing that I’m laying it all bare at the moment – I did eat some feta on the weekend. Yup, call the paleo police! 

Rules of writing

There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are - Somerset Maugham

I think I learnt one of the three rules today -  constantly save the document you're working on. Every five minutes according to my techie brother, any less and you're a fool apparently.You may risk RSI, but at least your work won't be gone with the wind when your computer crashes! 

How to avoid writers 101

Street art, Berlin

Did it feel like you were being watched today? 

If you were in Sydney it was more than likely you were being scrutinised by professional ‘people watchers’. They would have almost certainly taken notes too. Detailed notes.

So as a public health and safety warning - watch what you say on the streets of Sydney this week – it may just end up on the pages of the next bestseller.

It's the Sydney writers’ festival this week.

Sydneysiders, you may have noticed an influx of tweed & cardigans. Library bags and ink stained fingertips. The plethora of people reading whilst propped by a tree or lounging on a grassy knoll*. Or realized that every bench in the CBD has been commandeered by pen toting types, waxing lyrical about Proust between furiously scribbling notes.

It has been said that you shouldn’t befriend a writer. Not because occupational isolation has left them defunct of rudimentary social skills. Writers are generally affable types - when highly caffeinated and not forced to stand in direct sunlight.

Though they will use you. And more than likely without you even being aware of it. I’m not suggesting that they will fossick through the back of your sofa for loose coins whilst you boil the kettle. But they may just silently extract elements of your personality and graft it into a character in their novel.

This wouldn’t faze most people. In fact it could almost been seen as a compliment if a writer has decided to create a character based on you. You of all people! Think of it as an honour!**

But if you have a particular character foible that you don’t want to have fictionalised, and you reside in Sydney, perhaps it’s best you lay low for the next week. 

Or if you must get out, to buy the milk or insist on topping up your precious vitamin D, here is a quick guide to help you identify writers. It was written for people wanting to look like writers.

Besides the obvious – carrying a notebook, pen or book – there are a few odd pointers. Take a deep nasally whiff of the suspect writer. If they smell “nostalgic” then step away.  Or if they are wearing a used duct tape rolls, step away quickly.  Clearly they are keen on cracking this writing malarkey (why else would they have googled “How to look like a writer”?) so they would be hunger for any stories. Even yours.

*Note the pre-requisite for lumbar support for writers - the hours spent battering away at keys in a dark room results in appalling posture and bones brittle from vitamin D deficiency. So

**Of course as a writer I am somewhat biased and will paint personality pilfering in it’s most positive light – it’s most honour worthy light

Vive la revolution!

I’ve been having an awful day. A day full of straggled sobs and salty tears. I got some sad news regarding my darling Nan*.

Earlier in the week I was actually knocking together a post about happiness. I had come to the realization the more I tried to force creativity, the more I struggled to produce anything. Well nothing other than a set of shoulders knotted with stress.

Whilst I am aiming to make a living from writing, I have inadvertently been sucking the life out of my writing. Extreme expectations, intense workloads, strict deadlines etc.  So it’s almost no wonder that writing was making me feel rather stressed and anxious.

I was feeling so miserable I started reading ‘The Happiness Project’ and this quote hit me like ton of bricks:

“There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.” Robert Louis Stevenson.

Today this seems particularly potent, as I've been painfully reminded about the fragility of life. It makes me even more determined to prioritise happiness.

Last week, after reading that quote, I let go of the self-imposed pressures and just chilled out*. 

Once I stopped forcing myself to produce work that would make O. Henry go “oh my!” - I found that ideas starting popping up faster than corn kernels in a hot pan.

Like they say - a happy worker is a healthy worker.  In fact I stumbled across this report “Making employees happy, healthy and productive”

"First, consider the domino effect. Employees are overworked. This overworked environment encourages stress and stress-inducing behaviors and illnesses, which in turn increase turnover, absenteeism and employee dissatisfaction and ultimately costs employers billions in higher healthcare and labor costs" **

It feels like I’ve just given the one finger salute to a bitch of a boss.  I’m now working in a much healthier (and happier) working environment.

I’m learning to be the nice boss. The one who says things like “my door is always a open“, ”free muffins for all!” and “of course flannelette is appropriate for casual Friday!”

Of course there will still be demands, I won’t allow my writing to slip to just jotting down shopping lists, but I can already see that happiness doesn’t hinder productivity.

Whilst Red Smith famously said “There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein”

I think that would be a dreadfully messy business to engage in on a daily basis. I definitely think experiencing a spectrum of emotions is important to foster a sense of honesty and excitement in writing (I can attest to braving the stormy swell of emotions today). But I think that one needs to establish a happy working environment to ensure that the creative muse turns up and clocks on.

So Vive la revolution! Farwell Fi the dictator! And hello happy little camper!

Every revolution needs a couple of smashed eggs

*She is just the best.  Plain and simply – the best.

The woman herself! [photo taken 3years ago, during a freezing Irish winter!]

** This may have coincided with the discovery of the truly amazing show – Downton Abbey AND the hilarious podcast 'The Minutes'

**Note that this report was written for actual corporations, so perhaps it's prudent I edit out the word 'billions' for - “ultimately cost employers (read: Fi)…a fine button collection, a stack of tatty band posters and her sanity”. I think that this gives a clearer indication of my fiscal relationship with my writing!

By a sneeze

I didn’t anticipate my Madeleine to be so – unpleasant. With a rib-rattling sneeze a wallop of mucus flung from my nose, and I was instantly transported back to the brothel Bucharest.

Hot tea and cake is so much more delightful to yield a relaxing reverie. But I suppose you can’t be picky about sensory stimulus! So here is the result of last week's writing exercise: 

Bucharest

I lay on the floor of my tent in a sweltering fug of fever. Lashing rain drowned out my haggard cough. I fidgeted, fighting to get comfortable. I finally flung off my sleeping bag, only to retreat under it moments later. A platoon of mosquitoes laid siege. We were camping in a poorly drained swamp. Even without a fever the air hung like a soppy, hot towel.

We had pulled into Bucharest earlier in the day. We pitched our tents in a campsite in outskirts of the city. The campsite used to house laborers during the communist era. A handful of original plywood huts still stood. They had since been tarted up with bright paint. We were later told that that wasn’t the only tarty behavior.

Campsites have a less then savory reputation in Romania. After the Iron curtain fell, these types of huts were sold off for private enterprise and turned a fine profit when rented by the hour.

This particular campsite was built on the edge of an industrial estate, a forty-minute bus trip from the city. We eagerly pitched our tents and set to work washing our filthy clothes in the bathroom sinks. Giggling at the strategically placed massage tables in the toilet sheds. Not yet knowing about the campsite’s avenues for revenue.

With everything washed, we negotiated with each other for space in the campgrounds backfield. We hung our wet clothes from fence posts, tent guide ropes and trees branches. The field looked like a launderette had exposed. We were immensely satisfied. Everything was washed. We failed to anticipate the impeding rain.

It wasn’t the rain that broke us. Bucharest broke us. As we eventually drove any from the wretched city we were weary and unwell.  My lungs were still a cesspool of mucus; everyone else had hangovers from a night on the city’s wild side. I suppose I haven’t explained very well why I’ll never return to Bucharest, that’s for another time. I highly doubt anyone else I travelled with would return either. I guess I risk the possibly of returning to it whenever I have a heavily laden sneeze. 

Writing Task #4: Proust it!

I've been reading The Memoir Book by Patti Miller. Her chapter on memory has been greatly influenced by the Proust. Miller defines memory as either being ‘original’ or ‘remembered’. 


‘Remembered’ memory is simply your ability to recall events, ‘this is the extracted idea of the memory’ as it may feel as though you are ‘watching’ the events. Whereas ‘original’ memory is ‘the product of a sensory stimulus’ and you ‘relive the experience’ hence the heavy referencing to Proust.

So this week’s writing task is to find your own madeleines. Try and unlock some original memories by setting up some sensory cues – whether this means going for a slice of cake, sniffing out the spice rack, listening to music, touching silk or corduroy - anything that may trigger of some memories.

According to Miller, Proust said reverie was his favourite emotional state and the one he believed all good writing ought to induce. So allow yourself to slip into "a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream" and record all the words/memories associated with the sensory stimulus you have selected. 

Fuel for thought

Fuel for thought

I’ve been a trifle busy this week – when I haven’t been contorting myself with pilates, I’ve been house hunting*, working insane hours**, studying, attempting to regain running fitness and attend to basic facets of everyday living. Needless to say my writing has once again fallen to the wayside.

Then this made me stop in my tracks and gave  me some fuel for thought. This is perhaps the most poetic press release of the week:

And that the letter of law has no top and no bottom. And everybody in the world knows who is responsible for the wrongdoing of News Corp: Rupert Murdoch. He paid the piper and he called the tune.

This chap sounds like a wordsmith! Perhaps I should start to incorporating some wordsmithery at work. Perhaps I should utilise lovely word images when educating my patients about their various ailments!

Two birds, one stone, eh?

Or I should just get more organised, ugh.

*Note: Word of the (newly) wise, perhaps don’t inspect the cheapest accommodation advertised – I tried that tact this week and found myself in the sleazy surrounds of a derelict squat. Lovely folks living there, somewhat spacey in demeanour, but not lovely enough to convince me to rent a room there. The black mole, damp and lack of a toilet also factored in on the decision!  

** I'm a physiotherapist

Punch drunk for pens and paper

'Alcohol' in Iran

'You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.'  Ray Bradbury

The room in which you sleep

The Result of writing exercise #3:

If I were to die tomorrow and my possessions were pillaged & plundered, what would be found? 

A substantial collection of spare buttons. A bookshelf of dog-eared novels haphazardly arranged like a frustrating game of Tetris. Food stained university lecture notes and anatomy textbooks reeking of formaldehyde. A stack of 90’s sewing magazines and a dusty sewing machine. Unused clusters of crockery, teapots, table runners and Indian cotton quilt sets, strewn between piles of clothes. The space under the bed would reveal unhung art and creepy one-eyed dolls from a reckless youth.

There is no real system of organization. Spare socks plug empty spaces of the bookcase. Books wander into the wardrobe. My room is my home. Many people experience the choke and congestion of clutter. I’m fairly content to live with my things luxuriously lounging about the place.

Did I fare any better living out of a backpack? I can give you a resounding no. In fact I was far worse without four walls to confide my belongings.

That is NOT my suitcase

Travelling in a twenty-ton truck leads to all sorts of false ideas of spaciousness. In fact, travelling light is nonsense when driving around the world. You do tend to forget a minor detail - how much it is humanly possible to carry.

At every border crossing the truck was inspected. We had to be responsible for all our personal possessions. I had to be able to shoulder all my things and walk across the border whilst the truck was separately inspected. Some borders had more thorough inspections then others. I can remember a Nepalese border guard bounding up the steps and calling out a cheery hello before waving the truck on. At the Turkish border the guard was more concerned with a passenger’s “stylish” bandana. We stood in subzero temperatures for hours whilst they tore the truck apart at the Chinese border.

At the Chinese border, after I had posted a 12kg package home from Kathmandu, I still had a 25kg backpack, two overflowing plastic boxes, a day back, a handbag, a jumbo sized environmental plastic bag. The seams of every single bag groaned. But not as loudly as me, as I lumbered through the security checkpoints. Trying not to look suspicious. The only people who would have carried more things travelling would have been the first pioneers. And they were going into the unknown for indefinite durations.

In fact I had so much luggage, at one point I unwittingly became an international smuggler. I slipped whiskey into Malaysia. Why whiskey is contraband is beyond me. I happened to chortle at the sign also outlining eggs, sugar and rice as restricted items. I then confidently crossed the border, assured I was following the letter of every law.

Looking back on it I wonder why I had some much luggage. I suppose it comes back to my panache for cumbersomely shaped or weighty objects. Otherwise known as home wares. Since leaving Australia I developed a raging nesting instinct. After only two months in London I posted home an 18kg package. Of home wares. For a house I do not own. I have an unfailing sense of optimism that I will, one very distant day, own a house. It’ll perhaps be wise to also invest in a garden shed as well, to house my heaving collection of eclectic keepsakes.

I’m still re-discovering all the stuff I bought whilst away. I procured a couple of things “for the house” in every country and mailed a bundle home every so often. ‘Bundle’ may be a misleading word. During the nine months on the road I mailed home five packages totaling a whopping 56kilos. My backpack weighed in at a sterling 24kg at my last border crossing.

I became very friendly with postal staff worldwide

I suppose the only thing I can say is that this future house of mine shall require a good many rooms, as I’m doing a daily decathlon to get out the front door.

Writing Exercise #3 Dropped Dead

Mountains of Rubbish, Glastonbury 2011

I think that this writing prompt from 'Naked, drunk and writing' is particularly poignant given my inability to find things in the roaring rumble and rift-raft that is my room. 


"You dropped dead suddenly and your house is cleared out. What do they find?"


I almost miss just having all my possessions fit into a backpack.But then again I am and always will be a book hoarder. Well that's a half-truth, I hoard many things. From mountains of clothes to broken yo-yo's, christmas cards and CD's that are scratched beyond play. After travelling I have also learnt that I've got quite a penchant for objects of stone or exceptionally fine fragility...

Lessons in how to be dumb

There are seven days in a week. 


Not earth shattering news for most, but it still rocks my world. My weeks are now bookmarked with work, study, coursework, daily commutes and washing my hair*. Free time is fleeting and fought for.

It's been a painful adjustment after almost a year of traveling, when my time was wholly and luxuriously my own. Nap time was mandatory, as was listless daydreaming. I felt a heady sense of accomplishment if I backed up my photos or got a load of laundry done.

Needless to say I have a bit more to pad out my day. I need to push and prod responsibilities around to fit my writing in. I had originally anticipated I would have a first draft of my novel completed by May/June. After all I wrote reams whilst on the road, all I had to do was retype it and add a bit of flowery language, right? I can safely say I think that this sweetly naive and almost laughably so. That's not to say I haven't been working hard to make it happen, but I fear that it will not be enough, so my revised deadline is August.

You can see with my self-imposed deadlines that I'm trying to create goals to ensure I keep writing a priority. Without goals I fall into a slurry of whimsical distractions.  

My current dilemma is how to set goals that set action in motion. I know I need time pressured goals but at the same time I falter if set too firm. My recent attempts of establishing writing goals has left me floundering & overwhelmed.

Just in the past month alone I have oscillated between wild and varied word counts goals - then I abruptly realized I don't really count words. In fact word counts added a sense pressure, not the ra-ra motivating kind, the straggling kind.

I decided to focus on a country/region per week. This worked somewhat well for Tibet and Iran. But found that this approach had me nit picking sections I had already written and didn't propel me into creating new material. It also had me hopping between chapters and leaving some ideas unfleshed. I know if I skip on and leave these ideas half formed, they will become rotten and unworkable by the time I return to them.

I've toyed with fixed durations - two hours per day. Or even setting times of the day - write whilst commuting, but as drool drips onto my iPad and my head lolls towards the shoulder of a stranger most nights I am just too tired.

Basically I have set many goals. Many dumb goals. I need SMART goals. Yup, this is starting to sound like every work related professional-development course ever run - except without the cheap instant coffee and stale biscuits. I offer no biscuits.

So I need to set goals that are Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant and Time-bound.

It hasn't been all miserable failures. I am keeping my goal of completing one writing exercise per week. My inner critic berates me that I should do one a day, but I am firmly ignoring that bitchy whine. I'll review and increase the number of exercises based on what's achievable in the upcoming weeks.

I just need to figure out a series of SMART goals to achieve my August deadline. As that deadline is just like a floating pie in the sky at the moment. For more info on goal setting check out this and this.



* yup, since getting back to Sudney I can safely reassure everyone that I do wash my hair on a regular basis.  Thanks to irregular shower access, irate plumbing and corrosive water, a gnarly matted nest was starting to take hold of my scalp.

Photo inspiration. Prague.

This is what I came up with for writing exercise number 2:

If Europe were a beehive come June 1^st, rain or shine, it gets mercifully hacked open. Everyone is on holidays and keen to get out and about.

Great swarms of people swoop onto anything that has been vaguely labeled as a tourist landmark. The calamity of foreign languages creates a heady hum in cobblestone streets across the continent.

Even if you’ve run marathons, walking five hundred meters saps your stamina. There’s the constant threat of getting sideswiped by a stroller, struck by a wayward elbow or suffocated by a swarm of tourists unexpectedly rounding a bend. The constant stop-start flow of foot traffic burns the calves,buckles the knees and causes cheeks to flush.

Crafty footwork

Big-ticket cities are like this all year round. Even in snowstorms Piccadilly Circus is literally a circus, Paris is packed and Rome is overrun. But there seems to be a round robin of popular alternatives.

Prague

Through the magic of cheap airline tickets, reams of overt and covert advertising, these alternatives sink into the collective conscious as 'The' destination to visit that summer.

This summer it was Prague and we were in the heaving heart of it.

Like any run of the mill travellers, we were keen to capture it all on camera. Though even Olympic level gymnasts would have struggled to contort themselves to obscure strangers from the photo frames. Yet we all valiantly gave it a shot. Ducking, weaving, kneeling, lying down on cobblestones or straddling lampposts, wildly angling the camera lenses.

Random on the Right. Aidan and I posing fountain side.

We gave up. Huffing and puffing we would mutter the now commonly thrown catchphrase 'photoshop. You can definitely erase them all.'

Sounded like a great plan.Yet even if you actually blissfully swipe strangers away with the click of the mouse, you wouldn't to be able to erase the haggard drag of your shoulders and sheen of sweat across your brow. You can’t help but look absolutely spent.

Though you'll get a hundred odd people in your photos, it's worth snapping away, Prague is truly picturesque. Simply stunning. Yet, it's not the Prague I imagined at all. For lack of a better description it was all a bit too...clean.

Through a strict plan of restoration and gentrification that facades are freshly painted and flawless. The cobblestone streets smooth. Even statues appear almost ageless.

Sculpture in Prague

I expected a bohemian ragtag attitude or a poetically caviler indifference. Perhaps an accordion player sitting on a street corner. Soft cap dragged rakishly low. Gypsy music slyly slinking out of bellows. Yet it was all too shiny. Too new looking. And absolutely exhausting.

Writing Exercise # 2 - photos

Cameras on the ready! Prague

I have started flicking photos from when I was aboard, stacking and sorting them for a photobook. A decent share of my photos are out of focus, stark or dim depending on terrible lightening, cluttered with distractions or momentums obscured by hordes of tourists.

Basically I realized most of my photos are crap.

But then I started thinking maybe they aren’t completely terrible after all. Stay with me on this thought, I promise this isn’t me just massaging my fragile ego.

Perhaps my dodgy photos don’t just represent my lack of photography skills but maybe they highlight the atmosphere of each place. It is near on impossible to get a photo of anything in Europe with at least half a dozen people loitering in the frame. Or the out of focus pictures of the fire festival in India was due to the push and crush of the swelling crowd. Or poor lightening in the Vietnamese photos was secondary to monsoonal weather. The off kilter photos of the Himalayans was due to the heady nausea of altitude sickness.

I will heartily admit that someone with skill could easily overcome these challenges, but I intend to make lemonade from these lemons of photos and create a writing exercise:

This week’s writing exercise was to write a short piece based on photos taken on the trip. I wanted to focus less on the obvious aspects of the location and more on the atmosphere captured on lenses.

The quirky photo above inspired me to write about the crowded streets of Prague.

Out of focus (tick), Red eyes (tick), Light Flare (tick). Countless memories of running around Cappadocia (tick). Plus evidence of a Kombi with an attached beatle - seriously too cool for school

Condensation

Fun Fair, Yogakaraka, Indonesia

"Life condenses when you look back on it. Like one long summer's day." DBC Pierre

Death Sentences and Executions

Last night I found myself doing some heavy reading before going to sleep.

I’ve started researching and verifying facts about the political and social situation of Iran during 2011, as I’m writing the Iranian chapter of my book.

Yesterday Amnesty International released their annual report “Death sentences and Executions: 2011”. Within hours all major news outlets where lighting up with stories about Iran – always handy when researching!

Though the things I learnt made my hair stand on end. Whilst travelling through Iran in September 2011, I fell in love with the country and the culture. I got the impression that Iran had a violent past and whilst insular was coming forward with it’s human rights policies.

In fact as you can see from the pictures we became so comfortable in Iran. The first picture is a ‘dress rehearsal’, of us in Istanbul, Turkey.

'Dress Rehearsal', Istanbul, Turkey

We had been informed that as foreigners we must always wear black or dark colours. That not a inch of skin or hair must be showing. Women must always keep their gaze adverted from men. You must not sit next to a man, unless he is your husband, in public. Let alone touch another man, even for a handshake. We were told that there would be government police as well as tourist police on constant patrol. To say we were nervous would be something of an understatement!

But as you can see from photo two, my headscarf is loose and I’m so relaxed.

Esfahan, Iran

Women appeared to be held in equal stead in Iran. The rules certainly appeared more lax than first anticipated. We were never stopped by police, let alone by tourist police except for a friendly hello. Plus we were allowed to engage eye contact with men without repercussions!

Though the statistics give an entirely different picture of Iran. Executions rose from 252 in 2010 to 360 in 2011. Iran is statistically to have the second highest execution rate in the world (second to China) though the exact numbers can be shady many countries with capital punishment policies, including Iran, carry out secret executions. The Amnesty international report states that it has creditable information for a 274 ‘secret’ executions in Iran during 2011. Typically crimes rendering execution include adultery, sodomy and religious offenses such as apostasy or “treason against God”.

Hanging is the most common mode of execution. In fact the number of hangings had risen so dramatically, that the use of cranes has become common, so a Japanese crane manufacturing company has ceased their imports of cranes into Iran.

Whilst the people I met in Iran were the some of the warmest and most genuine people I have ever met, the government’s policies are extreme to say the least and rigorously put in place.

With an Iranian family in Masouleh, Iran [Note Amy Winehouse style hair]