Tangent of Death

Can we cheat death? What exactly takes place in one single nanosecond between walking across and staying put, turning left and turning right, life and death? Where is the exact tangent of life and how many times in a life time do we pass a nanosecond close to it?

I ponder this question every now and again.

I asked myself this question after seeing ‘Final Destination’, the psychological thriller about a group of teenagers cheating death by stepping out of a plane minutes before take off due as a result of a premonition and yet get caught one by one in freak accidents. The movie made me ponder the issues of fate, life, death and divinity. If our time has come, can we really cheat death? Or do we merely postpone it for a while, not knowing it is just around the corner, sniggering at our mortal folly?

I asked myself this question when a van cut into my lane, denting my car, on a February morning. What if I had left the house a little earlier? What if I had not stopped at the gas station to get the morning paper? What if I had left something home and had to go back for it? Or is contemplating all the ‘what ifs’ we may come to find in everyday situations futile and foolish? Will all that is meant to be really be, regardless of how many things we could have done differently?

I asked myself this question once again, while in Turkey, after an early morning phone call from one of my aunties, informing us of the accident my cousin had been in. She had been out for dinner with friends, enjoying herself until she got a headache. Thinking it would be best to go home and sleep it off; she announced that she’d call it a night and call a cab. A friend told her it was pointless to get a cab when his chauffeur driven Jaguar was waiting outside. As she got into the car, little did she know that on the way the car would be crashed into from behind, fly off the road and into a tree and come crushing down and she would suffer serious injuries to her head and her spine. If she had, she would have done her seatbelt. She was sitting in the back; as the car came crushing down, she hit her head on the roof and almost broke her back, falling back on the seat. Horribly battered and bruised, she was rushed into emergency, critically injured.

She has since gone through four operations and spent two weeks in intensive care. She still cannot move her legs and it will take a long time before she will fully recover and get any feeling back in her legs. What if she had called a cab? What if she had done her seatbelt? What if she had got the headache a nanosecond earlier or later? Or if she hadn’t got it at all? Or is ‘what if’ a mere synonym for hindsight?

And I ask myself this question once again as I watch United 93, the story of the plane that did not hit its target on 9/11 and its passengers that fought back… What if the delay in take off from Boston was a little longer? What if the officials had realised the gravity of the situation after the first crash at the WTC and cleared the air space? There are so many ‘what ifs’, or are ‘what ifs’ the only way we humans know how to deal with the aftermath of tragedy? And what about the survivors? The stories we heard time and time again in the first few days after the attacks, of people who had taken the day off, or missed the train because they had to rush back home to change the shirt they had spilled coffee on, or didn’t get to the office in time because they’d ignored the alarm clock just a little longer… Mark Wahlberg, who was apparently a scheduled passenger on United 93 but decided, at the last minute, to visit a friend in Toronto instead…

How many times in a lifetime do we get a nanosecond close to that tangent between life and death? Just how many times in a life time do we miss it by a nanosecond?

If at First You Don't Succeed...

‘Get a (New) Life’ read the headline of the feature tagged as ‘virtual living’ in the September issue of Marie Claire. The avatars placed underneath the photographs of their real life owners, they had a remote resemblance to, captured my attention first. Leafing through the four pages of the article, reading the captions underneath the photos, I was incredulous to find out that there were so many people whom one would consider as ‘ordinary’ and ‘normal’ living ‘extraordinary’ and sometimes ‘abnormal’ lives on cyberspace.

Then I read on… about this bizarre world hidden beyond the keyboards and cables, with its population of 7,5 million people, its own currency of Linden dollars, its own high-profile celebrities like Anshe Chung (Ailin Graef to us in the real world) who has become a real life millionaire last November from her business, developing, renting and selling virtual land. Virtual Land, I hear you ask…So did I… alongside a hundred other questions about this bizarre world. And before long, I was a new resident of Orientation Island, Second Life.

Second Life is a rapidly growing computer generated, three-dimensional, virtual universe. Once you visit the website to register your details for a free account and download the programme, you’re given a basic avatar of your choice which you can upgrade within an hour of arriving at Orientation Island. According to Marie Claire, half the Second Life population is female, and the typical user is aged between 25 and 34, with a full time job. Not the game for your average geek then!

As I arrive at Orientation Island, I stumble past other new arrivals, all trying to figure out the finer art of flying in all directions. It takes me about twenty minutes to figure out how to modify my avatar and within minutes, I realise I am surrounded by numerous half-naked avatars in quest of the perfect form: bulging biceps, thinning waist lines, gravity-defying double D boobs abound – mere proof that in second life, you can be everything you wished you were and aren’t in your first. So I saunter off with a sleek bob, razor sharp cheekbones, turquoise eyes, boobs I can only dream of and a bootylicious Beyonce derriere.

Within minutes, I am chased down the steps by Nikolai, a butt naked avatar which seems to showcase the sleazy darker side of this virtual world the MC article focuses on (In May a German TV programme revealed that paedophiles were buying and selling child porn in Second Life and adult avatars were paying to have sex with child avatars which resulted in the expulsion of a 54 year old man and a 27 year old woman.). Since I do not yet own Matrix type moves, available for a decent amount of Linden dollars, I ward off my unwelcome admirer by flying off in another direction. Up up and away…

Two hours on. I have so far had random chats with a Slovakian girl, a 26 year old from Argentina whose avatar goes by the name of Franco and another male avatar, whose owner from Bangladesh seems really keen to chat me up. Franco sounds decent and is easy on the eye with his well-defined muscles; for all I know he might be a lanky, spotty fifteen year in real life, for all I know. Another two hours of brainless exploration and I finally find the way out to Help Island, the ticket to the real LaLa Land of Second Life where all the fun begins. Marie Claire says, and I quote, ‘you can visit New York’s Time Square or the Louvre in Paris, and see bands like Gnarls Barkley and Razorlight playing live, all in one evening.’ No such luck as yet, but I do bump into Franco again who is quick on his game and asks me for my e-mail and pictures. Oh, men are all the same after all, even in Second Life!

I then hit the dance floor for a bit, go to the Freebie Island to adorn myself with numerous frocks, get some more body parts, including a set of nipples, and gestures for my avatar, furniture for a house I do not yet own, and a house for a land I have not yet purchased (Land prices start from L$ 2250, equivalent of $5), blag a freebie yacht and a Lamborghini. Following the other half’s suggestion I should check out the seedy part of town, I land with a thud into a sex shop where I meet Kenshin, an avatar clad all in black, who then teleports me (Yup, levitation and teleportation are no alien concepts in Second Life) to Winged Isle where he takes roughly an hour to pick the perfect pair of wings and pays for them. Genrous as he is, he offers to buy me a pair as well which I kindly decline. He says he will then buy a six-pack – no he is not going to Tesco’s to stock up on booze, it’s for chest definition, as I stare, wide-eyed.

I depart, with a promise from Kenshin he will give me a house once he buys his land on the condition I help him find tenants for the other houses. Well, well, making cash in Second Life may not just be a dream after all! I may one day join the ranks of Simone Stern, the 45 year old Second Life fashion designer from Indianapolis who owns a clothing shop in Second Life where she sells anything from 200 to 550L$ (35-90p) and who made more than £30,000 last year from selling her collection.

As I leave Second Life, after ten hours, on and off, of exploration and a taste of what (second) life has to offer and I can see why it can become addictive. What is scary about Second Life is the vast world of possibilities it offers for its residents. You can own your own land, get on the property ladder, have the coolest, richest, best-looking set of friends, go out clubbing every night with no hangovers to fight off the next morning, go out on the pull and have cyber-sex with stranger without any scruples or the shadow of an STI, you can be/become anything you want to be, you wished you were, you aren’t. Isn’t it uncanny that there are only good-looking avatars in Second Life, like a new race of tall, well-sculpted, irresistibly sexy superhumans?

Second Life defies real life, in doing so it defies reality. The dreamscape Second Life would offer the dorky loner next door whose life revolves around his monitor or the shy chubby girl in the office whom no one invites out to the pub on a Friday is far too immense – the number of emotionally incompetent or socially ostracised people dependent on the computers for survival and stimulation is high as it is, and the possibility of becoming a spot-free, muscular or curvaceous, charming, intelligent individual who is attractive to the other sex, with copious amounts of riches can only tie them more tightly to their computer and pull them further into a world of make-believe.

Sex offered and exchanged in Second Life that is free and readily available, is the allure for some married women who do not see anything wrong or amoral about a sizzling encounter with a cyber stranger. How healthy is it to think that some extra-marital dalliance is good for you just because it is a computer-generated image of yourself going on the pull and exchanging bodily fluids with random strangers? How many cyber-men is too many before a woman can admit she is running away into a dreamscape rather than tackling the problems in her real relationship with a real man in the real world?

As fun as it is for a while to flaunt one’s Beyonce curves with a sexy avatar strut, lounging on a tropical beach watching the sunset, cutting some smooth moves on the floor as the heart and soul of the party, there are times one has to log off and get back to real life when the day is dreary, and your bank account is in the red, and your boss wants that all important report by tomorrow, and your booty has already succumbed to gravity. Then again, if at first you don’t succeed…

THE EX FILES

Yesterday, after seven whole years, I bumped into an ex-boyfriend, at a most unlikely time at a most unlikely location. Seven whole years later... The chance encounter, which was awkward to say the least, catapulted me back to seven years ago for a while as I contemplated the magical mending power of time.

Seven years ago, I met a man on a chance encounter at Leicester Square and fell in what I thought was love, but was actually infatuation, at first sight and we had a a whirlwind of three weeks which ended in a bitter showdown after I cheated on him with another ex. As loving and caring as he was on the first few days of our three weeks, soon I had started seeing sides to him I did not really like much, macho arrogance, narcissistic vanity, spoiled stubbornness, just to name a few – not that I am using any of these as justification for what I did at the end of those three weeks. He, on the other hand, had heard rumours about me being a ‘playeress’, very much a result of falling for the wrong guys, then going desperately on the rebound; yet he had stuck it out to prove the gossip mongers wrong. In the end, at a time I was feeling vulnerable, a phone call from an ex I had always held out a torch for, I did something that proved the gossip mongers right.

After a period of cooling down, and much begging from a desperate twenty one year old me who was thinking she had lost the best thing that had ever happened to her, we tried to give it another go… As you may have guessed, a man whose ego has been damaged so badly and a clueless girl who was foolish enough to think this man was the love of her life after only three weeks, the second try was doomed. This time I had to do all the work, all the chasing around, all the compromise; and I was foolish enough to think I deserved it because of my betrayal, even at times I was not so foolish, I got reminded of what I had done to him an awful many times. In the end, he called up out of the blue, a night in November, to call it a day, saying he’d not be able to trust me ever again.

I took off the next few days, shut myself in my room, cried my eyes out, talked to friends, cried some more. I went out, got drunk, I made teary-eyed, drunken phone calls in the early hours of the morning; I regretted teary-eyed, drunken phone calls in the early hours of the morning; I got dissuaded by good friends from making teary-eyed, drunken phone calls in the early hours of the morning. I blabbered to flatmates, to friends, to pretty much anyone who would listen. Then when I thought it was all over, I cried more. I did all sorts of foolish things women do when they think they are in love (Indeed I now know they are not, and I was not because I now know love is the last thing to make you an emotional wreck). Most of all, and worst of all, I blamed myself for everything that had gone wrong.

Like any good player out there, this man had not just left me – but he had left me with hope; maybe it was cowardice or pity or mere heartless player’s game, but at every ill-advised phone conversation we had over the next few months, he always said something that would light up my day like a ray of light – he still liked me, he said, but wasn’t sure if he’d be able to trust me again; we could get back together, he’d say but remind me there were other girls out there and I had to compete, I had to convince him he could trust me again. Foolish as I was, I bought that.

Then there were ill-advised meetings after which I felt used, betrayed, and more fragile than the last time. Yet the next time he would call, I would still go weak at the knees and give in. Deep inside, I was hoping he’d take me back; I was hoping, if I showed him I was ready to do anything he’d ask of me, that one day he’d forgive me and trust me again. Now I know you cannot convince someone to forget the past and give you the trust you have thrown in their face; only they themselves can decide to let go of the past and make the conscious decision to trust someone. Back then, I was twenty one, none the wiser. Twenty-two, none the wiser.

This game of cat-and-mouse went on for over a year, if you’d believe it. In the mean time, there were days I broke down completely, nights I thought I’d lost the plot, times I’d have sobbing fits outside night clubs at three in the morning. Looking back, oh how I wasted a whole year of my youth, drowning in self-hate, guilt and negativity. My self-pity was a bottomless pit that threatened to engulf me completely. It took one final enormous act of humiliation and a good hard talking to by a good friend to finally give me a kick up the backside and get a move on towards healing, of heart and soul.

Is it a coincidence that it was only after I forgave myself and let go of all the pain that I was able to stand on my own two feet and face whatever life had in store for me? Is it a coincidence that it was only after I was ready for life that life had true love in store for me with a man who was my friend, my number one support, who loved me for all the right reasons and had trust and faith in me knowing I had cheated on someone before, a man whom I was not just infatuated with but had gradually fallen in love with over months of warm fuzzy friendship?

Today, after that chance encounter yesterday, these were the thoughts that went through my mind. On departure, I turned to my ex and wished him well. For whatever has gone down between us, however hurtful it was for both of us; in the end, it was seven years ago. Seven years is as long time to recover, grow up, grow wiser and look on your exes for what they really are: stepping stones, learning curves, milestones on the way to learning about relationships, yourself, and true love. In the end, they are all there neatly filed up in the memory bank of our dusty remembrance; occasionally we come across them, reminisce, congratulate ourselves on how far we have come on this journey of life, and wish them well for making us taller, stronger, wiser.

Friday Fun

A fun post for some Friday fun. Suby and I spent Monday in London. We set out for business meeting which was scheduled for 11.00 am and decided to walk around the West End afterwards in search of some street photography opportunities. Alas, no such luck due to the miserable weather which has come to be a consistent fixture of our lives this summer.

We met up with our friend Jide Alakija in Leicester Square and spent a good hour shooting in Soho as Jide was desperately fighting with a cash machine in HSBC that had swallowed up his cheque without giving back a receipt. It was not to last, however, as rain started pouring down without relent and we had to pack up and make our way first to the National Gallery to wonder at those who had had the good fortune of getting their images displayed in the portrait gallery and dreaming of a time in the future where we have the same good fortune. Then we met up with a lovely friend of Jide's, Zsofia and made our way to Burger King to take shelter from the foul weather and feed Jide what Zsofia calls 'processed rubbish', where Jide had a quick meeting with his PA, Kaffy as Suby, Zsofia and I were fooling around with the camera. As you may have guessed, three SLR cameras to five people is quite a good cameras to people ratio hence most eyes were upon us. Before long some of the BK waiters were asking me to take a couple of shots and having voluntary victims to 'shoot' I gladly obliged with a few shots until Jide butted into the least shot, hence you've got this shot a a cuckoo man posing with a cup of drink and two traumatised BK workers trying to keep straight faces.

A great day was had by all, except maybe the two guys in the shot who may have regretted ever having asked for a picture together. Hanging out with Jide, in Suby's loving words, the Alakija fellow, is always fun and eventful. Meeting Zsofia and Kaffy, such lovely, beautiful, soulful people with such great positive energy was definitely a pleasure.

Coming home on Monday, I realised, in the last two years, through photography and blogging I have met such lovely people and still continue to meet many more. It is wonderful to meet and get to surround myself with such positive people determined to succeed in the world in their own way, be it through photography, writing or simple sharing stories, memories and inspiration, so today's Friday fun picture is for all those new friends out there I have met and am yet to meet on my journey in cyberspace. Enjoy your Friday and have a great weekend, folks!
x
Sin

Monday Muse: Moi

Thursday evening… Leicester Square… As I walk through the early evening crowd in London, under the dusky azure skies of my spiritual hometown, there is only one word to describe the feeling deep inside of me, scattering in a million shades of firecrackers and light as a butterfly’s wings: Contentment.

I don’t know how many times I have walked down the same trail from King’s College at Strand down to Charing Cross then up towards Leicester Square. There was the very first time as a fresh PhD candidate, full of hopes and dreams, having stepped off the train from Egham, armed only with her ideas for a research which she didn’t know would take her a good part of early twenties. Then there was the disengaged girl who would have much rather scampered in her heels down to Oxford Street for a spell of shopping than go over the same chapters of tedious writing with her supervisor. Then there was the teary-eyed girl who trod the same walk with feet of lead and a sunken heart, determined to prove them wrong yet too exhausted to go on. Now a twenty-eight year old woman, willing to take criticism she does not necessarily agree with, determined to give her writing her best shot, resolute to complete what she has set her heart on doing a long time ago.

In the recent years I have suffered every single thing you would expect a PhD student to suffer: hours of isolation cooped up amidst the dusty shelves of a dingy library, threads that promise heaps of information ending in dead ends, writer’s block, frustration, reluctance or inability to constantly revise and redraft, midnight shifts spent reading, taking notes and writing away into the small hours of the morning, low cash flow, exhaustion… You name it, I’ve been through it, which resulted in two years spent fooling myself into thinking I was getting on with things when in reality I wasn’t, and another two years of interruption after I realised my subconscious reluctance to do any work on my dissertation and decided to take time out to focus on my career without the pressure of a PhD dissertation that needed consistent work, effort and drive without any distractions.

Now with renewed vigour, I am ready to throw myself back into it. I walk down the same trail I have walked down so many times, filled with so many different emotions and realise I have so much to be thankful for. I have spent a good part of the last four years berating myself for not pushing myself hard enough. At times I have felt like a failure. On a mild, languorous Thursday evening under the azure skies of London, I look back, take stock and realise I am anything but.

I arrived in the UK at the age of twenty one, fresh and green. In London, I found my feet, friends, and my identity. Over the course of the last eight years, I completed an MA, survived in a metropolitan on my own two feet, on a £600 per month budget, on a wing and a prayer. I made my way through a range of crappy house shares and a range of crappier men. Within seven months of each other, my dad and my grandma passed away.

Then I moved to MK and got my first full-time job: teaching, with no formal teacher training and no teaching experience. With next to no support at work, a bully of a department head, a syllabus I couldn’t get my head around, I would come home and cry my eyes out every evening, then get back up, wipe away the tears and stay up well beyond midnight planning my lessons. Two years later, I took up another job; half-way through my formal teacher training year, I had to take three whole months off work due to a range of illnesses which later delayed my training and caused adversities at work with some students and colleagues. At one point, I was on the verge of serious depression.

Now I am a qualified teacher, respected by my colleagues and appreciated by many of my students. I have recently started writing for a fashion magazine and am now pushing myself more in freelancing. People tell me I have a way with words, and for once, I actually almost believe them. It has been just over a year since I picked up an SLR camera for the first time to go out shooting on a beautiful April day. A year on, people say I take amazing photographs and I am a part of Team Suby and Sin What is more, for the first time in my life, I actually have the confidence to almost believe I do indeed take amazing photographs.

Walking under the calm azure skies on a Thursday evening, my heart light like a butterfly’s wings, my steps matching the easy summer rhythms of languorous London, I look back and take stock, I look back and realise just how far I have walked, I look back and realise just how little credit I sometimes give myself.

For as long as I have known myself, self-doubt and low self esteem have always been inherent parts of my personality. Most days I still wake up thinking I suck or I am a failure, especially when things are not going my way. Most days, I need my other half, frustrated by just how blind I can be to my own talents, to remind me of how much I have achieved and how much I am set to achieve. For today though, as I walk down on my path, I don’t need reminding. I know there’ll be harder days when the dusky azure skies will turn dark and gray, and I know there will be dips on the path and steep hills, I know there is a huge possibility something may go wrong tomorrow and knock the wind from my sail; but for today, I will enjoy my accomplishments, my talents, my life.

For today, I will celebrate myself and the journey I have made so far.

Midweek Moan: Mind Your Language

I have spent a good part of the last few hours effing and blinding and cussing like a sailor. And the reason for all the foul language? The very word itself: Language.

Mid last week I realised, halfway through my early evening snooze I had completely forgotten to renew my Turkish passport. It was a matter of urgency, considering I had already booked my ticket for 29 July. Hence, I jumped off the couch to run around the house like a headless chicken to gather all the required bits to send off to the Turkish Consulate in London and sat down to write a letter, which was not one of the requirements. I just thought it was courtesy you see rather than just sending the postal order and the passport. The letter printed, documents ready, I made my way to the post office the next day to send my passport off via special delivery. I was not worried about time constraint as I had been through the procedure about three years ago and it had taken them only a few days to stamp my passport and post it back to me.

When I got home today and found the special delivery envelope that the other half signed for, I was much pleased with the fast service on the part of an office of the Turkish government whose generous application of the red tape would make a civilian want to tear their hair out at the best of times and want to jump off the tallest building in town in an exasperated desperate bid to end all the suffering and waiting. Then I opened the envelope. It didn’t even cross my mind to check the passport until the other half picked it up, found a letter from the Turkish Consulate folded inside passport and announced that my passport had not been renewed. Not a speaker of the beautiful Turkish language, he handed the letter to me to read the lame excuse of their refusal to renew: On the proforma letter, they had actually inserted a hand-written condition stating they did not accept letters written in English. You can imagine the amount of ‘French’ that came out of my mouth, let alone the English…

Now these people are employed by the Turkish government as a select few who are well-educated and well-spoken, able to communicate in at least one language other than their native one. They are extremely able to decode any form of written or spoken English. Believe me, I know, I applied with a letter written English three years ago and my request was promptly resolved. Three years on, the employees of the Turkish Consulate in London must either have regressed in their language skills or must have lost a huge number of grey matter in their heads. I have sent my passport, my Turkish I.D. and a postal order which is written to the amount quoted for a two year passport extension. Whether my letter, which I remind you was only an act of courtesy on my part (Woe be me for actually showing manners and courtesy!), is written in English or Turkish, is irrelevant as far as I am concerned. For someone who lives in the U.K. and works at one of the most coveted posts available only to a select well-educated few, they are equipped with the skills to decipher the nature of my request, regardless of whether my letter was written in Urdu, Sanskrit or Yoruba… It is the act of extreme pro-nationalism that makes their own nationals suffer which frustrates me…

I have since voiced the very same request in Turkish in a letter that surprisingly contains no expletives which I think is a generous courtesy on my part. I will need to retrace my steps back to the post office and post the same documents once again and hope that this time they renew my passport before the 29th. Mind, I did include the words ‘Royal Mail’ in stating that I was enclosing a self-addressed Royal Mail envelope. If they send my passport back with another lame excuse, they will be hearing from me. And this time it’ll be all ‘French’.

On Marriage

Where does love begin, where does it end? Is it at first sight, first kiss or the very first time after weeks, months, years, you look at a special someone and realise they are the very person you want to wake up next to every morning and want to say good night to before you turn off the light at night?
Where does love end? At what point do you go from the dress, the cake, the tender kiss on the forehead, the passionate gaze across the room, to fighting over who gets to keep the house, the car, the kitchen sink and the family dog?
Most importantly, maybe, how do we let love mature through the weeks, the months and the years without turning sour? As reiterated time and time again, in poetry, music and wedding speeches; the formula to the elixir of long-lasting love seems to be mutual trust, respect and honesty, maybe most important of all, compromise – 'Give a little, take a little,' as the father of the bride declared three weeks ago on Saturday, advising the newly wed couple on the journey that lies ahead.
I have been to three weddings in the last month and seen photographs from a fourth. Every single one of these weddings have made me experience a range of different emotions, from joyful exuberance at the newly wed couples' union to misty-eyed reminiscence about my own wedding a year ago; from admiration of the unprecedented acceptance of families to welcome another as their own to curious queries on the very nature of the union called marriage.
Marriage is a union of two different, however compatible, individuals from two different families, backgrounds, at times different cultures or even continents; such a union has its challenges as well as the enrichment and joy it gives. Most of all, it provides a couple the opportunity to grow in unison, working through their differences, embracing those very differences that make them unique, nurturing the similarities that draw them closer and at times of crisis, finding common ground in similarities. Marriage is a game of understanding. In fact, maybe my analogy is completely incongruous; marriage is not a game. It is work. Hard work, at times. Marriage is a pact between two people, which requires just more than a careless stumble with eyes closed. There is no point thinking that there won't be days where dinner plates won't be flying in the air, alongside threats and hurtful words; where doors will be slammed shut, alongside hearts, banning entry to the other party; that there will not be tears, tantrums, fights, misunderstandings. When you do manage to come out at the other end though, that pact will be much stronger for every tear shed or every dinner plate broken.
'Marriages don't fail, people do,' said a reading in one of the weddings I attended in the last month. My conviction is marriages fail when people fail. When people fail to listen, or to understand or even fail to work through issues that turn bright-eyed, 'butterflied' love turn sour and miserable. That is when marriage packs up and fails even before one gets to consider packing up their suitcase and starting the bitter battle over the house and dinner plates, cracked, chipped and broken.
'Give a little, take a little,' I have learnt, should be the motto of every couple, whether they have shared just five weeks or twenty five years together. 'Give a little' teaches one to let go of their ego and self-interest, 'take a little' allows us to appreciate all the times that special someone stands by us to love, cherish and honour. 'Give a little, take a little' helps a couple grow in a marriage where hopefully all that is chipped, broken or cracked is the dinner plates, not our fragile hearts or fine china marriages.