I accidentally got on the train heading in the wrong direction. On arrival at Liverpool Street two children had a job getting off the train as my bike and someone’s large bag were blocking the way. They had a little rummage through the bag, and called out ‘who’s animal skins are these?’ A man sitting down replied that they were his; and that they were for covering drums. He had his hood up and looked fairly nondescript initially, as I guess many of us do much of the time, but when I leaned over and asked him about it his face lit up and a number of gourmet chunks of information came bouncing forth.

He is a teacher by profession but loves to make drums, and recently took a piece of sycamore from his parent’s garden for a new base. In general, hard wood is the best because it is strong even when it is very thin, and the thinner it is, i.e. the larger the inside space, the more resonant the sound. He pulled a skin from the bag for me to have a sniff. It smelt distinctly of goat. He said he loves the smell although most people don’t. I rather liked it, sweet-scented and comforting. I imagine it is very intimate and connecting to work with such elemental raw materials; different woods, different animals. His favourite skin is sheepskin although initially the smell is very strong as it has to be wet when it is put on the drum; and takes a couple of weeks to dry. He pulled his phone out to show that he had made an antelope case for it and I had a sniff. I told him it smelt of oranges and he laughed because he had orange peel in his pocket. Nothing too mysterious there. He made a drum using road-kill badger skin once: I had a quiet smile at the unexpected and unusual music of his recycling.

He is proud of the callouses on his hands. They are not the same shape as a carpenter’s but he can always tell a carpenter by the callouses on their hands. If his hands start to soften he does some practical work until they are tough again. We shook hands. They were, indeed, tough. I took his photo and web address: elikemdrums.com. I shall have a peek at it and imagine the smell of the leathery skins and the feel of his leathery skin working with them.

The train ride back to where I had taken off in the wrong direction was a joyful and lively affair; two very young ‘Saga’ ladies who had been to see the latest David Hockney; (they got in to the private view, thanks to Saga Magazine) art created on an iPad. They loved it; artistically and technologically enthused; they were at least as colourful as the pictures they showed me. Glad I took the wrong train. Something of a spangly sunday, all in all.

I asked her about her job, and it turns out that she deals with high level complaints for a big internet and phone company. I couldn’t help smiling; it never ceases to amaze, what people spend their days doing. She was lovely and bright-eyed once we got started, soft Scottish accent and bubbling humour, recounting the experience of having to listen to recordings of calls that come in and giggling with colleagues. I could only imagine, and went back in my mind to working for a company which provided audiences for TV shows. The letters we received from fans were equally ‘interesting’, although generally not complaints.

I blurted out that I work in the business of joy, and then felt a little mean, although she agreed that a blast of laughter yoga is probably just what is needed at her workplace. I asked her what she had to do with the complaints. ‘Solve them.’ I commented that perhaps she was a little like Father Christmas then, dishing out the gifts of solutions. She laughed at my innocence, apparently giving £50 to someone who is looking for £5k isn’t really the ticket. I remarked that the closest I had known to a job like that: of listening to people’s angst all day; was my friend’s husband who was a divorce lawyer. Non-stop acrimony. Although perhaps there was a touch of the Samaritans in her job: providing a space for people to really let go. Judging by her response that was a little closer to the truth. I reflected that it wasn’t so far from what I do after all then, perhaps. It doesn’t really matter where you are; the offering of space and listening and warmth and humour is yours to give, if you want to.

Nandikka points along the front of the concrete square which was once her home and clothes shop. The family’s allocated tent is pitched in the middle of it. ‘He helped me with the sweeping. He lined our shoes up here,’ she says, referring to her four year old son who died in the tsunami.

I was in Sri Lanka for 6 months, working at an elephant sanctuary and teaching English before the tsunami hit. I left before Christmas, but flew back on the 12th of January. I had no specific plan, but a desire to help and some donations from friends and family. I headed to Unawatuna, a tsunami-struck village on the South coast where I knew people.

‘It is because I did something wrong before,’ Nandikka says. She can’t say what it was that she did wrong, only that she must have done something or her son would still be alive. She doesn’t know whether her punishable behaviour occurred in this life or a previous one. Her twelve year old daughter was the one to find his body, where the sea discarded it. I wonder if she also feels a sense of responsibility for her brother’s death. The father doesn’t speak, and won’t meet my eye.

The tsunami seems to be connected in people’s minds with the long-term erosion of the coastline and coral reefs. ‘The beach has got shorter in the last ten years,’ a resident European tells me. ‘The buildings on the beach have changed the tides.’ I ask him in what way this is relevant to the tsunami and he admits that it isn’t directly related, but claims that it is connected, expressing a view that I hear many times afterwards: that nature is taking its revenge for the building on the sand and the sewage dumped into the sea. Another man tells me that in the first few hours after the wave came, the villagers didn’t realise that the damage extended all the way round the coast, and blamed a local guy for opening his disco on a Poya day (full moon day, which is holy to Buddhists).

The government line appears to add credence to the view of moral responsibility for the disaster. Since the tsunami they have introduced a ban on building within 100 metres of the coast. They have been threatening to do so for years but have chosen now to enforce it. Not only have the survivors lost members of their family, their businesses and their houses, they are to lose their land as well. The policy has a feel of ‘I-told-you-so’ as if people invited the disaster upon themselves. It has thrown them into a state of apathy. They do not wish to rebuild their houses if their houses are going to be cleared by the government, but neither do they wish to move; to a proposed inland estate of apartment blocks. As a seafront restaurant owner put it: ‘we were born with our feet in the sand.’

One woman told me that although her family had survived and her house was intact, she wished she had died. The tsunami carried away her cooker and pots and pans. Previously she had run cookery classes for tourists. The next day I tentatively suggested that if I bought her a new cooker, she could teach me to cook. She nearly exploded with gratitude. I was also pleased. I had found a structure for giving aid that was both motivational and productive, healing and effective in the long-term. We went shopping and she became immersed in testing coconut graters and other unusual contraptions that I did not recognise. She was a strict cookery teacher. Her brother offered to provide music as we worked. He and his friend sang and drummed, but I got told off if I gave them any attention because I wasn’t concentrating on cooking. This became a common experience as people embarked on their work again: the tables turned and I was no longer in charge.

In that first month I assisted seventeen businesses back onto their feet. I gave myself some basic guidelines: I would not give cash and I would only help those who were willing to help themselves. This may sound harsh but there seems to be a culture of dependency in Sri Lanka, which got far worse after the tsunami. I was willing to help, but only if there was input from the recipient. A joint effort was far more productive and therapeutic than simple charity: it strengthened people’s confidence and self-respect. My final rule was that anything bought for a business should be portable. No money would be spent on re-building. If necessary, businesses could be run from a moveable structure –for instance a trolley-shop. This was to avoid coming into conflict with the 100-metre rule, and to protect myself from involvement in people’s living situations. I wasn’t there to give pity, but to give respect. There was so much that needed doing. I had to retain a narrow focus in order not to get distracted or depressed, or to find myself at the brunt of people’s anger and distress.

After some groundwork, quietly cross-checking an individual’s apparent situation and means and then ascertaining their willingness to work, I took them shopping. It was necessary to ensure that the money was spent on what we had agreed upon: alcoholism was prevalent in Sri Lanka before the disaster and more so afterwards with such profound shock and grief. Initially I worried that the shopping trips were a waste of my time, preventing me from getting to as many people as I wanted to, but actually they were fundamental. It was each person’s chance to be the focus of someone’s attention, to tell their story and receive some much-needed support. Once their enterprise was open I made sure other volunteers knew of it. The target market was no longer tourists, as there weren’t any. But there was a market in the huge number of volunteers who were now present.

I dropped by each business regularly, expressing how impressed I was at the work they were doing and how good the place was looking. I bought their produce. Eating my way around the village, buying jewellery and clothing was all part of the job. I bought wooden mobiles from a carvings shop, (once they had been cleaned of sand and salt), and donated them to the local orphanage. I commissioned new toys for devastated play-schools from a carpenter. I was given a mucky tsunami-surviving wooden Buddha, which I was instructed not to clean, as a thank you gift. Everything was tsunami. Tsunami jewellery, tsunami cookery. The word tsunami was thrown into music, the way people might shout ‘in the house!’ Someone’s ex-wife was described as a tsunami.

I was warned against helping the owner of a bakery; it was rumoured that he had spent money donated by another tourist on drink. But his business stood a good chance of success: there were a lot of people around who could pay for their lunch and there was nowhere local to get it. He cleaned up the shop and rebuilt the outside wall before I would consider helping him financially. Motivation proved, we bought a cooker and some brightly coloured table cloths. I reflected, somewhat tongue-in-cheek, that helping a drinker was really a positive move. Any money he earned was likely to circulate the local economy, supporting the bar and small shops that were tentatively resurfacing.

I met Nandikka, the seamstress who lost her four year old son, on the evening of the one month anniversary of the tsunami. She had written her son’s name in candles. Bizarrely, his name meant ‘sea’ in Sinhala. I also lit lamps for the anniversary. There were forty thousand laid out across the village. They were floated out to sea in coconut shells and plastic bottles. It was an incredible sight. A local restaurant owner provided the clay pots for the lamps and enough coconut oil to keep them burning all night, but a few villagers took a load of oil up the mountain to sell, so not all the lamps could burn all night. I drifted into philosophical thoughts, wondering whether this could be the reason that some people live and some die- the lamps that stayed alight were the survivors. It had nothing to do with being good or bad, just the randomness of who kept which candles burning. It was difficult to make sense of any of it. It seemed as likely as the randomness of being judged and having your four year old child killed for something he hadn’t done, and perhaps you hadn’t either, or at least not in this life. It seemed a lot of the drug dealers and heroin addicts had survived. The addicts were an asset: they worked harder than anyone else when it came to the cash-for-clearing-sewage-from-the-canal initiative. It seems they needed cash more than anyone else.

I took Nandikka to buy a sewing machine. I wasn’t sure that she was in any state to work, but she came to life in front of a big heavy foot-treadle Singer, the like of which has not been available new in England for a long time. I watched her wringing hands turn to nimble skill. She chose materials, scissors and thread and I commissioned her to make some dolls to go in the doll’s houses which a carpenter was constructing for local schools.

Shortly before I left Sri Lanka I went to Nandikka’s house to buy a sarong, and she showed me her son’s schoolbag and photograph. I was pleased. Her attitude seemed more positive. It seemed that her focus had shifted from her own guilt to remembering the child that her son was. As I was leaving, she told me that she had decided to try for another child.

(Article written to raise funds for Cork Aid to Sri Lanka, an Irish charity started by two other aid workers I met in Sri Lanka).

The only time that the joy of him surfaced was when he talked about what he had studied. He had an undergraduate degree and a masters in geology, which he finds himself unable to use now: it is not recognised as such here in the UK. He reminded me a little of a complex rock, I reflected. Round and stubbly and a little shiny, showing gleaming ends of the threads of different eras, and undoubtedly very well-travelled and somewhat compressed to his core.

New laughter leader meets wibbly wobbly camera

Including:


~ Posture and posturing
~ Laughter as a career? Are you joking?
~ Do teenagers and laughter yoga mix?
~ Forty days to positive change
~ Join the laughter flash mob
~ Lifebulb laughter training in Greece (pictured right)
~ Spectickles




Posture and posturing by Charlotte Eaton

I have been on sabbatical for the past four months due to losing my voice at a festival in the summer and not quite regaining it. It has been a fascinating time. I have lost my voice and gained true expression, but that’s not what this article is about. Sorry.

I am an osteopath

I am inclined to agree, due to shooting pains down my arms and legs at odd times of day and night. So how to fix it? Laughter is fabulous as pain relief, yet what about lifting and carrying? The only thing that seems to bring complete relief is walking around with a book on my head. I am getting very good at it. Sometimes I can bend down to turn the plug on and it stays put until I stand up again. Corker! So posture is clearly the answer. Which is great, until I have to go anywhere with a heavy bag dragging me all out of shape. Tsk. And then, bingo! The answer hit me. Carry the bag on my head! The relief in my body was incredible. It was actually like having a free osteo appointment; everything went into balance. The pleasure at being pain-free and the comments people made are making me giggle as I think of it. One small boy said “mum why has that lady got a bag on her head?” A group of workmen shouted something about “ooh that’s what people do in Africa!” I just smiled as if I were a celebrity and used to such attention. It wasn’t vastly different from wearing my heart-shaped sunglasses. Same amount of mirth in me, same amount of people gawping and pretending not to. And no pain! Perhaps if I keep a book on my head at all times my voice will come back? But joking aside, it has been a saviour. And I have always thought people look very elegant with baskets on their heads. Niche in the market? I’d buy one if anyone can tell me where please! Or is there some kind of cover-up by the Back Specialists’ Union? If you don’t hear from me for a while, you know which mob took me out.

Woo hoo. Is this really my job?

“Don’t be afraid to take a big step if one is indicated. You can’t cross a chasm in two small jumps.”
Vocation, vocation, vocation – I’ve found mine, so after nearly two years admin/reception work at the inspirational Isbourne Holistic Centre, helping to ‘create positive lives through education’, I’m leaving for full time laughter… here’s why!
1. It’s empowering without being earnest
2. It channels my indefatigable positivity
3. It encourages self expression through silliness – marvellous!
4. People laugh with you as a greeting, and share stories of how wonderful laughter is
5. It feels fantastic
6. Laughter is a self generating force, success is communal not egotistical
7. It is flexible and accessible so it can be used everywhere! He he he!

Do teenagers and laughter yoga mix? by Kate Sharp

Three things I enjoy: laughter, a challenge, and working with young people. These synchronised beautifully at Tewkesbury School’s Personal Development Day: a fabulous opportunity to enthuse and mystify years 10 and 11.

The first session was muted with odd pockets of hilarity; I judged that about half engaged with the second session, two thirds in the third and three quarters in the final session, so I benefited from concentrated practice! Girls were much more receptive – great to see knots of four to seven of them giggling together. A minority of students remained entirely disengaged (nearly all boys) – absolutely understandable, they were perplexed not disruptive.

Having a ball

Emphasising the ‘weirdness’ of the Laughter Yoga was important; the first group was unprepared for extreme wackiness! However, surprisingly, lots of students loved the cheesy chant ‘very good, very good, YAY’!

My ‘added value’ comments about how breath affects brainpower/mood were well received. I’d like to experiment with explaining this in more detail at a future session (perhaps as a cross-curricular link with biology/psychology?) and approach the physicality of laughter from a cerebral, not participative, perspective.

I was really impressed by the depth of individual/small group analysis and gratified that some who appeared subdued had actually found it beneficial.

Descriptions of sessions:
“weird” – the almost universal verdict
“absolutely mad but fun” (a year 10)
“funny” (a year 10)
“scary” (a year 10)
“amazing” (a year 11)
“inspiring” (a year 11)

(The photo is not from Tewkesbury School due to privacy laws for vulnerable people. It is still a great photo though, no?)

Forty days to positive change by Charlotte Eaton

It was an immense pleasure to be invited to run a positivity course for Park Avenue Disabilities Resource Centre. It ran over six weeks, which nicely covered the forty days which are recommended in order to make permanent changes to habit. It covered a range of topics and exercises to increase health and wellbeing, connections within the group and to address confidence and motivation.

Participants’ feedback, measured across the six weeks, showed almost uniform improvement in energy levels, ability to communicate and express, more positive thought-patterns, a better ability to generate joy from within, and a decrease in stress, anger and depression.

When asked if she would recommend the course, one of the participants commented: “yes, because when something like a stroke happens your life changes so much and you fall into depression and don’t even realise it for a long time and then suddenly like me you realise you haven’t laughed for a long time and have spent so much time feeling angry and depressed and if I did this more perhaps I could come off the anti-depressants.” I found this particularly humbling. I am never sure who gains more from sessions: myself or the participants.

Does that hare look a tad tense around the shoulders?

Be there for “Ha Ha Hare”: 7pm—7.05pm, Friday 23rd December 2011, Hare & Minotaur statue, Cheltenham Promenade. Bring all your friends, a silly hat and your lovely laughter! Or, if you want to, you can simply Join the Laughter Flash, and Mob Kate. We’re not choosy. Email Kate.Sharp@lifebulb.org for hilarious reassurance, or just to make your hares stand on end.

Lifebulb laughter leader training in Greece 2011 comments by Irene Markou & Kate Sharp

Seven new laughter leaders took part in the lifebulb laughter training at Kalikalos’ eco-community. Two of them were there on their honeymoon, hence the pictures of the laughter wedding. Picture shows the bride and groom and all the miraculously moustachioed groomsmen. Here is what two of the new laughter leaders said about the experience:

“In summary, if I was plain flour before Greece, I reckon I’m self raising now, from all that levity!
Smiles have upgraded to chortles and moderate laughs to tremendous ones, which feels breezy!
In Greece I pondered on intensity, revelled in sanctioned guffawing, understood my singing voice, and wished on a shooting star. The most profound exercise was ‘Everyone’s a Comedian’, where the group laugh at the categorisations (name/ home town/ job title) we earnestly ascribe great significance to – it showed me the irrelevance of social constructs beautifully: counting the beats of music rather than feeling the rhythm (to paraphrase salsa teacher Mauricio).
The funniest moments outside sessions comprised Charlotte’s innovative zigzag photo approaches… he he he! (as pictured at the top of the page, right and below – for real!)
Back home, I felt so completely that I was in The Right Place running a laughter session and have had a huge grin since and a chuckle bubbling over!” Kate Sharp, CLYLT Greece 2011

Irene is Greek Cypriot, her English is fabulous and brings its own quirks, so please do enjoy reading it just as written and… opening your lifebulb!

“I booked the place for the Laughter Yoga leader training in Pilion, Anilio Greece!!! Going somewhere alone, that I knew just few things, my instinct was telling me that I was going to the right place!! And yes it was a truly amazing experience!!! We had six days Laughter Yoga training that we have learned so many things and at the same time we had sooo much fun!!! I had been enjoying every day the morning classes, with a new philosophical way of thinking and also I had a lot of fun with the laughter yoga exercises that were so fantastic and thus the way we were performing!!! It was so amazing and funny with a lot lot of laughter!! Charlotte knows very well how to inspire people and make them open their lifebulb!!! She is so understandable and from the beginning she was close to us that I didn’t feel at all that I would never have known her before!! We had a lot of fun in the classes and also we were enjoying the every single day of the Greek weather with a lot of entertainment and joy!!! It was a real life changing experience!!! After the holidays to Anilio, the Laughter Yoga training and the impact of Charlotte in my life, I am feeling more confident and happy in my life!! She is so adorable and I am wishing to her to keep going like that, giving her positive energy and opening the lifebulb to peoples life!!!” Irene Markou, CLYLT Greece 2011

Since her laughter training in the summer, Irene is exploding laughter into Cyprus! Please check out her laughter page on facebook: http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100003078433808

Spectickles by Charlotte Eaton

Here at lifebulb we have major concerns that people are simply not using their spectacles to the full. You may find them very spec-tickly, so please pay attention whilst watching this latest laughter clip by lifebulb’s very own MD Charlotte Eaton. Here at lifebulb we believe that if you do not wear spectacles yourself, statistics say that it is likely that you know somebody that does.

The Celeriac-Cook wasn’t German. He had nothing to do with Germans. But he did share the fact that he likes to cook with this strange rooty vegetable, either creating a nice light bite with a few nifty and delectable shavings, or a seriously rich dish in which he combines it with bacon and cream. We don’t do either in my family, just lashings of olive oil and raw chopped onion. I didn’t share this with him as our gossipy meanderings took us elsewhere, so I can only hope that one day he happens upon this weighty-yet-not-creamy celeriac concoction and adds it to his repertoire. Once he had stepped off the train his friend confided that some time ago the Celeriac-Cook went ballistic after a long journey with many changes, because at the end of it he realised he no longer had his recently purchased bag of celeriac. I did of course ask the obvious, but was told that no, he hadn’t checked with lost property. We sniggered conspiratorially.

The next bundles of love to seat themselves in our carriage were two Jedward fans with father and brother in tow. Delights that they were, they allowed me to snap their picture, which definitely speaks louder than words. I leave you to surmise the fun of our nonsensical conversation and what appeared to be the long-suffering patience of the two blokes, accompanying these truly Jedward-enlivened ladies.

go ahead and twitter me @rubyjedward

Our impromptu photography session was followed by a woman who had just been to see Gary Barlow live and was delighted that not only were Camilla and Charles in the audience, but that this of course meant the audience stood up and cracked into a sing-song of the National Anthem, a somewhat rare event for most of us (and interestingly strange and magical, the more I think about it. Imagine being accompanied by your own song wherever you go). She said the Albert Hall was full of middle-aged women but I found that highly doubtful, throwing her the ‘most of us will live to at least one hundred years old by conservative estimates’ line. Which prompted her to confess her age, and for both of us to agree that forty is nowhere near middle-age.

When she left, her seat was taken by a Geordie living in Manchester who’d come to London to catch some shows and was fresh from Priscilla Queen of the Desert at the Cambridge, which he happily described as the best show he’s seen. Sounded mouthwatering. We had a good old chinwag for at least ten stops. It was lucky for me that his friend/fella didn’t want to talk to him, because frankly he wouldn’t have had much chance.

Pleasure to meet you

Tonight’s final meet finished me where I’d begun, Walking in a Winter Wonderland with a lively bunch on their way back from working in Hyde Park’s very own WW. When I asked what their jobs are, one told me he runs the basketball stand and is fabulous at shooting baskets, another told me he is the devil and then made a gloriously crazy face, and the woman in their midst told me she roasts chestnuts, after which she proceeded to fill my handbag with some. Warm and blackened, they made me monumentally happy. I didn’t feel right asking them for a photo although I would have liked to; we only shared a couple of stops rather than ten or twenty, but they were all beautiful to look at. I would guess they were Indian but didn’t ask. Their faces were characterful and animated and utterly lit up with a good day’s work and a dose of winter weather, let alone winter wonder.

They got off before me, on their way out for a beer, which had me thinking a drink might be nice. Fortunately at the next stop the train was besieged with happy West Ham fans who had just won away, and sat at the tables with and around me, offering me a game of cards and a lager. I didn’t know the game so I didn’t take a hand, but by the time we reached London I was playing the hand of the bloke next to me. I told him I was feeling lucky as I’d found a penny the day before. He asked me how much it was worth, to the raucous admiration of all of us. We won the pot just as the train pulled in and he gave me half of his winnings. Yay! Up the Hammers!

You can explore some weird and wonderful anthropological adventures alongside the curious experimenter Charlotte Eaton. These are carried out in the interests of exploring the horizons of reality, and come with mild health warnings.

Alternatively, you can meet a few of the people that you may pass by every day and never speak to. Charlotte has meant for a long time to share the wonderful exchanges she has with the colourful characters she talks to as she makes her way across London or the UK. It is rare for her not to talk her way everywhere. This is a blog in deference to that daily beauty.

And you can settle back and catch up on the latest lifebulb news, photos and breakthroughs with our very own broad-sheeted and rustling newsbulb.

He was a journalist in Iran up until three years ago, but has been in London ever since. Talking of Persia and correcting himself. Had he been reporting in England since then? Here he was a little hazy. All his colleagues in Iran are in jail, now. Can you imagine, one hundred journalists in jail? he asked. The image made me laugh; anything but funny yet a playful picture arises of the challenges inherent in keeping a herd of reporters in check. He was a big chunky man, his forehead smooth like a baby’s, puckering a little as he spoke. His face lit up expressing the political situation of his home country. He talked of the movement that is more like reform than revolution; as he described it- a modern event rippling through facebook and twitter. And then he told me his nickname, Arash, and began to tell me the story of that name. He mimed shooting a bow and arrow and I settled back, believing myself to have won a last-train bedtime tale, only for his stop to arrive before he’d begun, his friend rushing him out of the door. I was left with the creaking cliffhanger of the heroic archer’s fame, and a tingle of joy which has brought me finally to start this blog.

I would like, at this moment, to apologise to all the beauty that has gone before and not been noted: so many encounters, so many flavourful characters, bless you all. I have been meaning for a long time to return the favour of your sharing by noting down these meetings: a grateful acknowledgement to the people I meet every day. So I am glad that the first penned here should be he, Arash the Archer, the Persian reporter, who might have been a foe but took his feet from the seats and opened up a box of scents and sights far from London’s autumn. May his arrow track a thousand stories across these pages, a thousand meetings with the world’s magical song-filled citizens laid down in poetry and love. Thank you Arash for opening this blog with the beautiful and evocative symbol that is Persia: held dearly in hearts, souls, and gut-wrenching black-outline drenched eyes even as she peeps from the veil that is Iran.