Offensive People

This morning I was out with my dog. We were on our way back home, crossing a busy road. We were almost on the other side when a woman jumped in her car, a few feet away from us and slammed her huge car into reverse, not looking behind her, missing my dog's front paw by about six inches.

I shouted, 'Watch out! At this she got out of her car and told me, 'This is a fucking road!' She was waving her arms around and telling me I wasn't fit to be out on the fucking streets. I said nothing, too shocked to speak and also concerned about my dog, who appeared a little rattled.

At that moment, I noticed a couple, late thirties I'd guess, and they began asking me how I was and how my dog was. At this, the offender started imitating the couple, mocking them in a high baby voice  and saying why wasn't anyone asking her if she was alright. Very calmly and very unexpectedly, the man of the couple turned towards her, and in the most measured tone asked her, 'Why don't you eat shit and die?'

     

Single Women - is there still a stigma about them?

As a pupil at a grammar school in the late sixties/early seventies, my friends and I felt so sorry for the single, unmarried teachers. Our Domestic Science teacher, Miss Scarr, was a very attractive woman, even though she had enough hairspray on her hair, that she, like Mrs. Thatcher, would not have had a hair out of place if she found herself in a force nine gale.

Poor woman! (Miss Scarr I mean, not Margaret Thatcher, never Margaret Thatcher).
'Have you got a boyfriend Miss?' 'Do you want to get married?' Would you like children?' 'Are you in love?' and on and on and on.

There were many Misses at my school. Miss Fry, History, Miss Gaye, Maths, Miss Freeman, Latin and Miss Parry, also Latin. The headmistress was a Miss too, Miss Furtado - though her name suggested it, there was nothing of the exotic about her. Mrs Roberts was our English teacher and she was married. She was beautiful, so therefore she was married. Such was our thinking.

There was then, most definitely, a stigma about being unmarried for women. (I'll leave men out of it for now). Is there still a stigma today? I would say yes -yes, despite feminism, more women than men in university and more women in senior roles in politics and business. Still, even now in 2013, women, if they are honest want the whole marriage and children deal. Why is that? Who,or what is it that makes women buy into this? Given the divorce rate, surely women are not in thrall to the Cornflake family.

More thought required...  
 

Manchester - the London of the North

My youngest child, 23,  has a Christmas job in Harvey Nichols. He's not front of shop but behind the scenes, delivering goods to different departments and loading vans to deliver goods to the homes of the Cheshire set. I received a text from him on his first day - I pad cover, £395! Say What? Yesterday, my niece aged 16 and I (aged much older) went to Manchester for the day and hoped to meet him. It is stunning. The crowds, the decorations, the restaurants, the market, the street entertainment - just as good as any you would find in Covent Garden- are all (almost) up to London standards.

We shopped for a few hours and then decided to try to have lunch, or whatever name you can give to a meal at 3.30 in the afternoon, and went down to The Print-works area, where the high end shops are, including Harvey Nichols and Selfridges. We tried to eat at the Hard Rock cafe, but it would be a 50 minute wait.A real shame as she has a bit of a thing about the Hard Rock cafe. Still, I was able to by her a charm to add to her bracelet of Hard Rock cafe charms of those she has    previously visited.  I had been told 2 days previously that bookings were not taken at the Hard Rock cafe.So we were given a bleeper which would bleep when there was a table ready. We gave it 7 minutes, wandered round and looked at the photos, used the toilets with the almost impossible to use taps until someone, accustomed to a Hard Rock tap, pressed gently where it said Press, and out came the water. The bleeper was handed in and we then headed off to Prezzo - quieter, though still busy, more spacious and probably better food. Lovely it was. Pizza Vesuvius for me and Spaghetti Carbonara for her. My son couldn't meet us; out on a delivery, which was a shame for several reasons, but the one reason that I was particularly concerned about was that my boy is chatty, always has been and he's witty and excellent company. Fond of my niece as I am, she doesn't talk all that much.

Manchester is thriving - 2 very successful universities add to the hoards of young people crowded round the city centre, along with 2 highly successful football teams, which add significant economic benefits to the region.  But it's not just this and the other aspects mentioned. There is an atmosphere, no doubt assisted by the time of year, created by a city centre at the zenith of its success. In the main area of shops there are  no boarded up places as there are on so many high streets, no charity shops, plenty of high-end shops such as Hobbs, Russell and Bromley, Diesel,  and Jigsaw. Confidence abounds, exuded by the many shoppers carrying several smart bags, their purchases within.

Moving towards the station, things get a little more down market. There is a distinct aroma of cannabis in the air, strongly suggesting that the police are turning a blind eye to minor law-breaking. The ubiquitous Pound shop is there and a leather shop, hard leather, biker leather, not the leather of Selfridges coats and bags, which seems to be so processed that ironically it barely looks like leather at all. There's a Gregg's, a Barnado's charity shop and a greasy spoon. There are a few beggars - oh the agony they bring to the middle classes - to give or not to give? - and several drunk people who are tolerated as long as they do not become abusive or unruly.

 But, once inside the station we go upmarket again. Monsoon, an expensive greeting card shop, Thornton's chocolates and enough baristas to form an orchestra. On the upper floor there is a Marks and Spencer's food shop - Simply M+S as it bills itself. The station is well-organised, clean, controlled and generally feels safe.

Manchester has a magnificent town hall and a stunning library too. Compared to  London though, these are very modest boasts as the capital has such a wealth of showstopping sights. Borough Market in Southwark has no competitor from the provinces though and Trafalgar Square, the museums and the galleries, the theatres are world class of course.

That said, Manchester is a good place to be, especially for a young person, especially if the young person is from Yorkshire because Leeds and Sheffield simply cannot compete. Manchester's Primark is huge and packed. We did 40 minutes inside which was far too much for me but, I suspect, not enough for my niece. Again, not as big as the one on Oxford Street in London.

So Manchester wins for the North, is the London of the North, but has a long, long way to go to beat London as so many places have.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          a tolerance, n                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     nce                  

It haunts me still...

What I am about to relate is a description of the scene I encountered when on toilet duty at a school in Sheffield in 1983. The school was in a socially disadvantaged area and staff employed at the school were paid extra, for 'daring' to work there. Rumours were rife as to just how bad it was working there - the staff never walked alone, but in pairs and all the pupils carried weapons.

I absolutely loved working at that school, and at the tender age of 24 I had boundless energy and a genuine belief in working the pupils hard- that way they would fulfil their potential. The department I worked in was great too, the Head of Department leading by example, by means of his inspirational teaching, his relationship with the pupils and his high expectations.

So many changes have taken place since the 80s one change  in particular being people's attitudes to smoking. We had a staff smoking room eventually but in the early 1980s teachers would smoke in their staffrooms with no consideration for their non-smoking colleagues. It was just what it was like.

Staff took it in turns at break and dinner times  to check that our pupils were not smoking in the toilets. It wasn't such a bad experience usually and we got a free school meal for our trouble.

One particular lunchtime when I was on duty, I was fretting a little because I had forgotten that I was on duty and I had planned that I would mark the test I'd set the previous lesson, for the class I was due to teach after the lunch break. Accepting that that would be impossible and starting to relax a little, I heard a muffled sound. Just at that point a colleague came up to me telling me that he was concerned about the behaviour of one of my tutor group. I forgot about the muffled sound until my colleague and I had finished our conversation. Then, I heard it again. I decided to wander into the girls' toilets to see if I could find out what the sound was.

There were seven ordinary sized toilets but at the far end was a cubicle about double the size, which also had a sink. I listened carefully but couldn't hear anything, though I was sure someone was in the large cubicle. 'Hello, is everyone alright in here?' I asked. I then heard a rustling sound and what seemed like a squeak. 'Hello! Is everything OK in there?' I heard a shushing sound. Becoming quite irritated now I said, 'Please answer me. What is going on in there?' While this was going on girls were in and out of the toilet. One girl in particular was hanging around, looking at me, checking her reflection in the bit of the mirror that still gave out an image, but seeming extremely tense. 'Miss,' she said, 'have you seen Donna Mayers this dinnertime?' I hadn't but that wasn't unusual. 'Well Miss, you should open that door at the end because I think she's in there and she's in trouble.' I studied her face and she seemed extremely on edge. 'Miss, for Christ's sake, open that door!'

I pushed hard but couldn't move it. The muffled sounds, the shushing and the rustling were getting louder. 'Open this door immediately,' I shouted. Nothing. So, I climbed onto the toilet of the next cubicle and looked over the top. What I saw I will never forget. There was a girl on the floor, Donna Mayers, and at each of her limbs as she lay spreadeagled on the floor, sat another girl. Four girls sitting on one. Their victim had a scarf tied over her mouth and tears were streaming down her face. One girl was holding a pair of scissors and Donna's long thick chestnut coloured hair was lying in chunks on the toilet floor. Another girl had in her hand a pair of tweezers, another a metal nail file and another a purple lipstick which she was smearing all over Donna, while the others jabbed at her with their makeshift weapons.

I remember yelling as loudly as I could for them to stand up immediately. Soon, other members of staff arrived alerted by the girl who was telling me to open the door.

Parents were called in, exclusions were carried out and other suitable punishments administered. Donna, I never saw again. She was fifteen years old when this happened to her and I wonder just how badly this experience has affected her life. She'll be in her mid-forties now. This incident haunts me still and I'm certain it will still haunt Donna.

(NB Donna is not her real name).      

Lonely but Smiling Old Woman

I decided to commit to some of the madness today and buy some presents for Christmas. I had a list of people and by the side of their names I had written my feeble guess at what they might want, followed by question marks. Why is it so easy to buy something for my 16 year old niece and so difficult to buy something for my 21 year old nephew. For my own children, (they're not children any more, so we need another name. 'Grown up offspring' sounds odd and distancing), they just want money. 'Anything you see that you think you might buy for us, just put the same amount of money that you would have spent into an envelope and give it to us.' Oh well, if that's what they want...

In one shop I was debating with myself as to whether my sister-in -law, my brother's wife, who I really like, would want another necklace. It was lovely and the kind of thing she likes, but for a  third year running? As I dithered I became aware of someone standing quite near me. It was a woman in her, I think, seventies and she was thoroughly decked out for a winter's day; hat, scarf, gloves, furry coat. I looked directly into her eyes and she was smiling to an almost maniacal degree. She was carrying, with both hands, a white plastic washing basket, the likes of which Deirdre Barlow on Coronation Street is always clutching, except that in Deirdre's basket there is fake washing and in this basket was a large, white, fake dog, like a Dulux dog. As I said, it wasn't a real dog, but it might as well have been for all the affection she lavished on him. The elderly smiling woman asked me, 'Do you like him?' I said I did, I liked him very much and asked what his name was. 'Snowy, ' she said, with all the pride a new mother might feel, delighting in her newborn. 'He's lovely,' I said and she seemed thrilled. I stroked the dog for good measure and tried to continue my dithering. I couldn't escape yet. 'Do you want me to get you one? £3.99 from Chesterfield Market.' I turned down her kind offer.

I decided not to buy the necklace, and was slightly annoyed with myself  for considering giving the same gift to someone, three years running. I started to study soaps and cosmetics instead, but became mildly distracted by Snowy and his owner, in my peripheral vision. I was beginning to feel simultaneously irritated with her and sorry for her. I then began to feel annoyed with myself for not giving a few more minutes of my time to someone who was probably lonely. It feels too as if, at this time of year, the build up to Christmas, somebody's loneliness will be exacerbated as they see all the images of happy families coming together at Christmas. We are all, of course, bombarded with advertisements and made aware of how Christmas should be done, and all of us feel that we are falling short. It is especially difficult for women, who often are their own worst enemies, in that they think they have to replicate Heston, Delia or Nigella (maybe not Nigella just now) and put an inordinate amount of effort into the Christmas preparations.

So where does this leave the old woman and Snowy? I don't know, nor really do I want to know because it makes me feel uneasy and guilty. I have too much to do and can't take in every poor soul I meet.

Having at last escaped her, I saw that Snowy's owner was standing by the checkout, not in the queue, but by the side of the queue. Those people were looking directly ahead, ignoring Snowy in his washing basket kennel. Well of course they were - she's obviously nuts and noone has any time, because there are only twenty-four shopping days to Christmas.  

What have we become?  


     

Possessions are a burden?

I'm having a clear-out. I have way too much stuff and it is starting to get me down. Owning so much stuff slows you down, it creates too much choice, which in turn creates dithering and uncertainty and time spent wondering whether I should wear the blue, the black, the grey and so on. Then which shoes would be best and then which bag? There, that's it. I have far too many shoes and bags, some of which I don't much like now and some of the shoes aren't even comfortable. These days, I must have comfort. Tottering and teetering and dying to take the shoes off are aspects of life that I am more than happy to leave in the past.

So, I'm turning to eBay, which I  used quite a lot a few years ago. Come the day when I have sold them all, or got fed up and taken them to the charity shop, I hope I will feel relieved (as well as richer)  that I have got rid of a lot of stuff. Minimalists say how much freer they feel, having gone over to the minimalist side and I can well believe it.

Mahatma Ghandi, along with other philosophers, thought that possessions were binding and that people would live more satisfying lives without possessions.

Try telling that to the floods of people pouring into Meadowhall, Cheshire Oaks, the Trafford Centre, Brent Cross and all the other huge shopping malls, the retail temples where we worship. After all, what would we do if we can't shop? 

Cleaning and Tidying

 Well, it has to be done, but it depends how bothered you are, as to how often you do it. Cleaning, of course. What is fascinating about cleaning, is that people have such a variety of standards and attitudes towards it.

Several people I know have a very relaxed attitude towards cleaning. As you go into one friend's house, unabashedly, she tells you to be careful not to trip. This is because the hall is littered with rolls of carpet, a mop and bucket (both very dry) and several shallow cardboard boxes. The hall has been this way for several weeks. We go into her living room and though it does need cleaning, the more obvious need is to tidy it up. Despite the fact that the living room is large and there is furniture providing seven seats, none of them are free to sit on, because of all the clothes, thrown on every chair, waiting, it seems to be ironed, as the ironing board is up. In addition, newspaper is spread or rather strewn across the floor, plants are waiting to be planted and a huge bag of compost is spilling its contents mainly onto the newspaper, though it is also escaping onto the carpet.

My friend picked up a heap of washing, dropped it on the newspaper on the floor and asked me to sit down and what I would like to drink. She was pleasant, polite and effusive towards me - it was wholly evident that the mess concerned her not one bit.

Someone else I know has an immaculate house. It is clean, tidy and very minimalist. That said, it is soulless. She has a dog too, and the dog's area is so clean, that it would be hard to believe a dog lived there were it not for the fact that I could see the dog, right there in its very clean bed.  While I was there, my friend showed no tendency to clean, polish, scrub or mop but it was evident that she had engaged in much of this before my arrival, though not necessarily for my arrival.

Many years ago now, as a student, I shared a house with eight other young people. Some of us, three to be exact, were working class and the other six were middle class. Of course, nine people is hardly a sufficient number from which to draw a convincing conclusion, but we three were pretty good in terms of cleaning and tidying, whereas the other six were dreadful. Of course, at the time, I put this down to their privileged background and imagined that they might have servants.

In reality, I don't think that tidiness and cleanliness in a house is an accurate indicator of social class. Still, the way in which people look after their homes is fascinating, as is the way people prioritise their spending. In fact most aspects of how people live, is, to my mind, riveting.  
     

November 22 - a Significant Date

It's hard not to notice all the newspaper and television commentary on the subject of the assassination of John F. Kennedy. This week, on Friday, November 22, it will be fifty years since JFK's motorcade arrived in Dallas and when, minutes afterwards, he was assassinated.

It might sound odd, but I feel I have much to thank JFK for. The connection is this - JFK was diagnosed with Addison's Disease, which, if left untreated is a killer. Low blood pressure will lead to a coma and death.  It is rare and the symptoms are rather non-specific. They include, fatigue, nausea, vomiting, breathing difficulties, a general weakness and headaches. JFK was presenting with all these symptoms. Eventually it was diagnosed and JFK was treated using the steroid hydrocortisone. It did the trick.

Addison's disease is a rare chronic condition brought about by the failure of the adrenal glands. which are positioned on top of the kidneys. The adrenal glands are critical in creating numerous hormones. Treatment is lifelong with regular monitoring and health checks.

I have Addison's Disease. I was finally diagnosed in January 2005 and whisked into hospital. Six days later I was out and the symptoms, thanks to the steroid hydrocortisone, had disappeared.

A 'cure' was discovered thanks to JFK - the President of the USA had to be mended, hence the connection I feel. Were it not for him, there might still not be a cure for Addison's Disease and I would not be writing this.

There is still more to say about November 22nd. In 1990, on that day, Margaret Thatcher resigned. Had I been able to, I would have jumped up and down. But I was giving birth on that day and at ten past one my third child, Daniel, was born - a post Thatcher baby.

 

My Brother

He's called David, my brother, and he is 62 years old. The sibling relationship fascinates me so much more than romantic relationships. When you're young, relationships, or those 'together for a few days' things are so ephemeral, whereas a sibling is always there and if you're fortunate enough to get on, not just see each other at Christmas, funerals and weddings, there's probably no other relationship which is so easy.

Another aspect of the sibling relationship is that although you've been brought up by the same parents, some siblings could not be more different. That is the case with my brother and me. The difference between us, especially when we were children, were stark. I was loud, talkative, volatile, whereas my brother was shy, quiet and and easy-going. Although we have veered towards each other's characteristics to some extent, generally we are still the same.

Perhaps he took a little longer than most to find his niche in life, in as far as any of us find our niche. Once found, he excelled. He is a foster father and a superb one. He and his wife began in 2002 and they now teach others about foster caring, as well as continuing to foster themselves. At the moment they have three Slovakian Romany children, aged 9,12 and 13. In total they have fostered twenty children.

You can, if you choose, foster in a kind of 'hands off' way; not my brother and his wife. They really do act as parents. They take the children to places, supervise homework, insist they eat healthily and get enough sleep.

People like my brother and his wife so often go unrecognised which is why I am going to nominate him and my sister-in -law for an OBE. Watch out for them.  

 

Tammi Terrell

I wrote about one of the two of my favourite singers a few days ago, Joni Mitchell, and now it's the turn of Tammi Terrell. Between these two, I don't have a preference.They are very different women and very different singers, but they are contemporaries; Joni was born in November 1943 and Tammi in April 1945. I don't know if they knew each other, but I like to imagine that even if they did not know each other, they would have admired each other's music, their vocals in particular.

Thomasina Winifred Montgomery began performing at an early age; she was a natural on stage. James Brown, the godfather of soul, noticed her and asked her to join his band. She did join but not for long; not because she lacked the talent, but because James Brown became infatuated by Tammi and an affair began, again, not for long. Rumours abounded that James was physically abusing Tammi and her parents came to bring her home.

Soon after, Berry Gordy, the legendary creator of Motown, spotted Thomasina Montgomery performing. He decided straightaway that he would like this charismatic young woman, with a strong and soulful vocal to join the Motown stable. He insisted that she change her name and so she became Tammi Terrell. On joining, Berry's masterstroke was to put Tammi with the prince of Motown, Marvin Gaye, and for them to duet together. It worked. In fact it was magical. Their voices wrapped around each other and their performances were electric; they were more than a man and a woman duetting; they produced live theatre and audiences would believe that they were actually in love.Subtle touches such as Tammi saying,'Hey Marvin' and Marvin saying, 'Talk to me Tammi' succeeded in creating the belief that this was a love affair. Both strenuously denied that this was the case. Marvin was married to Anna Gordy and Tammi was madly in love with David Ruffin, the lead singer of The Temptations.

Their first hit was Ain't No Mountain High Enough followed by Your Precious Love. The duet was riding a wave of success.

But it would be very soon cut short as Tammi collapsed into Marvin's arms on  stage, while performing Your Precious Love. Tammi had been complaining of severe headaches. Very soon after her collapse the headaches were explained. Tammi had a brain tumour. She was twenty-one years old. Eight operations followed, Tammi believing each time that this time, she would be cured. It was not to be and Tammi died in March 1970, one month short of her twenty-fifth birthday.

It is almost too heartrendingly poignant to consider just how successful, this hugely talented singer would have been if she had not lost her life at such young age.  

Joni Mitchell and Tammi Terrell

My two most loved female singers are Joni Mitchell and Tammi Terrell. I'm going to deal with Joni today and Tammi another day.

Joni Mitchell first came to my notice when I was at university in Manchester doing a joint degree in English and French. At first I wasn't keen on her; her voice was very high and a little bit whiny at times. Another reason was that the boy I was with at that time thought she was wonderful and beautiful. Overcoming my jealousy, I decided to give her a good hearing. I was enraptured. The nuances of that voice I had once thought whiny, the range of her vocals and her superb lyrics, that noone, not even Bob Dylan had previously created, were evidence of a musical genius.

Blue, Court and Spark, For the Roses, Hejira, The Hissing of Summer Lawns - I listened to them all with a mixed sense of disbelief and adoration. There wasn't only me adoring Joni, many men were entranced by her including Leonard Cohen, Graham Nash, David Crosby, James Taylor and others.

At the age of 19 she lost her virginity and became pregnant, She did her best to protect her parents from the dreadful scandal, as it was regarded at the time. She was their only child too. Joni gave up her daughter for adoption but in the late nineties she made it public that she wanted to find her daughter. She did find her, Kilaurin Gibb, and for a while the two were happily reunited. But only for a while sadly.

Joni lives alone now, saying she prefers it that way. She will be 70 years old on November 7th, and by that time she will have been smoking for 61 years. She began at age 9 when she became ill with polio. Incredible - and even now, unapologetically, she smokes like a chimney.

You would think that Joni Mitchell would be a feminist, but interestingly she declares herself not to be a feminist. She becomes very exercised by the label and disassociates herself from it wholeheartedly. The reason she gives is that feminists don't like men and they wish to separate themselves from the male of the species. Well, not quite Joni; maybe the radical, lesbian, separatist feminists do, but not the vast majority of feminists. Anyway, who cares that she may be a bit eccentric on this, when she can write lyrics such as - 'I met a woman, she had a mouth like yours, she knew your life, she knew your devils and your deeds.'  What better way to describe the mother of the man she loves. Genius.      

On Benefits and Proud

Did anyone see last night's Channel 5 programme called On Benefits and Proud? Well, if you did, you may understand what I am about to say, which is that the people who were supposedly proud, were, in reality, anything but proud. Of course they blustered and said they didn't care about what anyone said and f*** 'em all' was one woman's attitude, but they didn't really think this. As they blustered and claimed that they couldn't get a job and they were definitely not going to work in McDonald's, KFC, Burger King or any other fast food joint, their lack of self-worth and their vulnerability became fully exposed.

A couple, neither of whom had worked for at least six years, had the look of real poverty about them. I am certain that people will rail against what I think about this and accuse me of being on the loony side of left wing; nevertheless it holds true. They looked unkempt, clearly took no pride in their appearance or the condition of their home. Obviously, it doesn't cost much to buy some soap and with places like Primark, Tesco and George at Asda, clothes can be bought cheaply. But it isn't about soap and cheap clothes, it's about a huge lack of self-belief brought about by a poor education, neglectful parenting and a lack of personal resourcefulness. In other words, many benefit claimants have a mountain to climb. They see people smartly dressed, driving reliable cars, going to restaurants and the cinema, children attending good schools and they realise that those people are at the top of the mountain - a summit that for them is impossible to reach.

Next time you hear people moaning about benefit scroungers, and admittedly there are some, don't believe the bluster and bravado; look closely and see the fear inside.

Language - forever changing

It is undeniable that language changes, otherwise we would be speaking as people did in Shakespeare's or Chaucer's time. The trouble is that people get very het up about language changing, even though they themselves will certainly be using the result of changing language.

What really upsets people is when they hear usage with which they do not agree. Perhaps what they don't realise is that some rules are not really rules at all. People bleat about the use of 'different to' or 'different than' because they were taught that 'different to' is the correct version and horror of horrors Americans say 'different than.' BUT, what people don't realise is that in the 1700s, various individuals of note, Bishop Lowth and Dr. Samuel Johnson to name but two, decided that they, along with other noteworthy influential characters,would make English resemble Latin, in order to give English higher status.

People get angry about split infinitives. In Latin you cannot split an infinitive, because in Latin, an infinitive is just one word- for example 'amare'- to love and 'credere' to think or believe. But in English you CAN split an infinitive because an English infinitive is made up of  two words. This gives you the opportunity to say things like, 'To boldly go' which is probably the most famous split infinitive ever.

Another upsetting 'rule' is that a sentence must not end in a preposition. Ridiculous and made up - so much so that Winston Churchill created a sentence to illustrate how ridiculous it would sound in this particular sentence, 'This is something up with which I will not put.' It is these made up rules that cause people so much anguish.

Real rules  are much more serious in that they affect meaning. Clearly, the subject and object have to be in the right order. 'Emma kicked the dog' is not the same as, 'The dog kicked Emma.' Similarly,
'Help me' is much clearer than 'me help' ( though if you are two years old that's fine).

A further thought is what will happen to the f. word? Young people use it with great frequency when talking to each other, irrespective of social class. Maybe in in 20-25 years it will have no more power than the word 'crap. But what will replace the F word? Do we need a replacement - a word to carry some potency and guts, which would replace the 'f' word. I believe so.

Wimbledon grunters and screechers

I quite enjoy Wimbledon but have little tolerance for those players who shriek, scream and grunt; usually the women. In one match recently Maria Sharapova was shrieking so loudly that the whole of SW19 would have been able to hear her.

What I ask is why on earth doesn't somebody stop her? Don't her opponents find it irritating and off-putting? They must do unless they themselves are screechers. Perhaps the reason people don't complain is that they fear the consequences of complaining about someone as massive in the game a Sharapova. You can't denounce her! Nor can you criticise the racket from Serena Williams, as she hits the ball with her racquet. (You see what I did there!)

Seriously though, what does the new generation of tennis players think? I hope that  both parents and coaches train the young players not to grunt and squeal. It is unsportsmanlike (there's no gender neutral term to use here) and even for the spectators it can be deeply annoying.

At the weekend Sharapova was interviewed in one of the Sunday magazines. The interviewer asked her why she screeched and shrieked. Sharapova's reply was illuminating as to the sort of person she is. So I shriek, she said, it's what I do and people will just have to get over it. Why didn't she just keep it simple and say that people can  f*** off?

Social Class - where on earth do we fit?

Well, the question is, where to begin? I think I'll have to jump straight in. To my mind, money is not the class decider, though perhaps to be truly upper class you need a certain amount of money. Education is what decides class perhaps, but what if you have a PhD and are a postman or a bus driver? Maybe then  it's your birth that decides. What sort of a family were you born into? Rich, titled? Surely that is a clear indicator of class. But what if you renounced your background and possible titles and went to live in a commune, where you were self-sufficient?  And what if you were born in a council house and ended up as a professor in a university? Rare, but possible.

So what exactly defines social class? It could be a person's accent; or at least that might play a part. At university in Manchester in the 1970s, even though Manchester itself was further north than Sheffield, my home city, people, frightfully posh people, asked me to say words like look, duck, cook, put, over and over again, for their amusement at my pronunciation of the 'u' sound. Similarly with bath, path, in order to be entertained by short 'a'. I ask myself now, many years on, why I allowed this to happen. Well, there were two reasons. I wanted to be generally obliging but also the people asking me were posh and you didn't refuse posh people anything, quite simply on the grounds that they were posh and therefore superior. Now, of course, I think how stupid I was. I also do not now believe that posh people are superior.

That said, time and time again, surveys show how we are affected by a person's accent. The closer a person speaks to Received Pronunciation, the more we believe in their authority, their education, their privilege and their entitlement. Accent seems to me to be either a marker of privilege or powerlessness. What strikes me too, is that we are still allowed to mock people's accents and show  clear prejudice for or against a particular accent.  But we can no longer, and rightly so, show prejudice as to race, ethnicity, sexuality, disability or age. So why, still, does prejudice exist against accents.

There is so much to say about social class; is it determined by the goods in your trolley at the supermarket. Organic fruit and vegetables or pork pies and a loaf of white bread? The newspaper you read; The Times, The Guardian, the Daily Mail, The Sun? It's the clothes you wear, the car you drive, the children's names you choose, the films you see, the holidays you take and on and on and on.

I think I'll have to call this Blog One, otherwise I'll be writing a thesis.      

Education, Education, Education.

Of course,when people see education x 3 as written here, they think of Tony Blair. As Labour planned its campaign to oust the Tories, education was placed at the very heart of their manifesto. Education, claimed  Blair would be his top three priorities for government. I, for one, was delighted. When in May 1997, Blair's party became the party of government and Blair himself, Prime Minister, people (except Tories) were euphoric. It felt momentous, a new dawn was upon us. Bambi, as Blair was nicknamed when he first came to prominence, was now our PM. 'Things can only get better', indeed. We were on our way.

And then...It was Iraq that did it for Blair. It began in March 2003, the mission ostensibly being to remove Saddam Hussein from his dictatorship of Iraq. Millions marched in protest in an attempt to change Blair's mind, but, as the story goes, Blair would follow Bush. Nothing and noone would change his mind. To war we went. SHOCK and AWE was the result.We saw millions and millions of pounds used up in weapons that could well have been spent on education.

After health, education is the most important responsibility of government. Without education we are barbarians; uncivilised and ignorant. Education brings about understanding, empathy and tolerance. It is of the greatest importance. If education were truly universal perhaps we would be nearer to world peace.

To illustrate the importance of education, on a very microscopic stage, I would like to use the example of this academic year's evening class. They were a mixed group in terms of ethnic origin. There was a woman from Kenya, one for Malawi and one from Namibia. The men were variously from Nigeria, Angola, Egypt and Zimbabwe. Included in the group was a man of Pakistani origin. The rest were from South Yorkshire, mainly Sheffield. For some of the South Yorkshire people, they were originally a little wary of their 'foreign' counterparts. Not hostile exactly, but just a little on edge. That sense of minor anxiety swiftly evaporated as each person told his/her story. Friendships were formed between people who would never have imagined they would have such a friendship.

One member of the class said he needed the English GCSE qualification but that he was not at all keen on Shakespeare. Shakespeare was our third assignment. The time had come. Romeo and Juliet was our set text.

At the end of the assignment, he actually said he'd enjoyed it and admitted that it was fear that made him unwilling to give it a go.

Now it is the last class. I walked in and there on the teacher's desk was a beautiful miniature rose tree. The ex-Shakespeare cynic came forward and told me the rose was from him.'Thank you very much I said, so kind. Thank you.'
'Nay,' he said, 'Don't you go thanking me. It's me what should be thanking you. So, thank you very  much for opening my mind.' Job done.          

Personalised Registration Plates

All you need is money and a car. That is all you need to buy a personalised registration to put front and back on your vehicle. Oh yes, there is one other major ingredient and that is a massive ego. So massive in fact, that you are willing to pay a ridiculous amount of money to let people know how important you are as you drive around in your vehicle. A personalised registration number shouts out, 'Look at me! Look at me! I'm superior to you because you have only got an ordinary registration plate, but I, more-important-than-you, me, I have distinguished myself by forcing you to see concrete evidence of my ridiculously out of control ego, my  pathetic bid to BE somebody in the eyes of fellow road users. So look at me and look at me again and feel my aura of world significance.'

It's my belief that people who attach personalised registration plates to their cars have pitifully little insight into the way in which they are perceived. In addition there must be a dearth of self-knowlege, if you own a personalised registration, especially if you have any of the following that I have seen.

8OX ER    HU55 LED   P5 YC0    S4 UNA    BO55 AAH    SHA 11OW     R8 ARD

POT US would mean something, though I have never seen this on a car. It is an acronym for President of the United States. I cannot imagine that those with real power, such as Barack Obama and any other world leader with the exception of PUT IN, would ever need this sort of self-affirmation.

This one though, which I've saved for last, must stand alone - PEN 15

What!? Of all the men and boys in the world, why does this one have to advertise the fact that he is in possession of that which all males are? Then a thought struck me. I didn't actually see the driver, I just made an assumption. So it was possible that the driver was not male  which, if so, words fail me ...  



 

        

Shouter or Sulker?

So, that is the question. Which category do you fit into? I know where I fit - I'm a shouter. I fly off the handle quite easily, but have got better as the years have rolled on; better at not flying off the handle, I mean, rather than better at flying off the handle. What a strange expression that is. Whose or what handle are we flying off? Having now googled the expression I learn that it is American in origin. Apparently in pioneering times axes were handmade and it was not rare for an axe head to become detached from its handle. I'm sure people would have been strongly advised to keep a good distance from anyone using an axe.

Yes, I'm a shouter. I get annoyed and people know I'm annoyed because I shout. I only do this with family, trusting that they have enough affection for me to forgive my outburst and to realise that whatever I said was said in anger and so not true. (Well, not wholly true).

Once the shouting is over, and it never lasts for very long, I expect things to be back to normal immediately. Some people think that is unreasonable and maybe it is, but come on, life is short, we've said our piece, so what possible advantage could there be in not making amends straightaway?

Now, this is where the sulker comes in, ready and prepared for either a short, a medium or a loooong sulk. Sulking is powerful. It pervades the room, in fact the sulker's brooding presence permeates the whole house. The sulker knows this and while outwardly subdued, must, surely be metaphorically jumping for joy. The further effect on those around them is that it makes you want to weep in frustration, so in order to end this monstrosity of a sulk, you feel as if you want to beg them to stop. You say you're sorry, ask if you can talk things through; but this only grants the sulker increased turbo-sulk power. It's desperate, truly desperate....

Any thoughts on this topic would be very welcome.        

We're trying for a boy, we're trying for a girl.

In the town centre the other day, I bumped into an ex-neighbour. I hadn't seen her for five years, in fact since she'd moved from our street. She had a one year old daughter when she moved and when I saw her in town she had a toddler in a pushchair and she was also pregnant. 'Ooh,' I said, 'Number three on the way. You're going to have your hands full.'
'Well,' she began, 'we only wanted two, but when this one (pointing to the toddler in the pushchair) wasn't a boy, we thought we'd better try again. God knows what we'll do if this one is another girl.' We had a bit more chat then parted ways.

On the way back to my car I became aware of how quickly I was walking. In my head I was going over the conversation I'd just had and realised why I felt so pent-up. What the hell did she mean, 'When this one wasn't a boy,' and 'God knows what we'll do if this one's another girl.' This wasn't the wrong bus, an unsatisfactory restaurant or a too familiar ending to a film. This was a child, a human being that had been created,  but who, according to her, was the 'wrong' gender. That poor child! Her name was Ellie and she was about two years old. Children of that age can understand a good deal more of  the spoken word than they can verbalise. Even if she didn't understand the actual words, she could no doubt pick up on the tone and the nuances of her mother's words and recognise, in her developing brain, that it wasn't good news for her.  

What was it she'd said about her developing third child? Oh yes, those sweet maternal words, 'God knows what we'll do if this one's another girl.'

I have a few friends who have not been able to have children. One of them has tried IVF but each time the process has failed. Many people believe that IVF is what you do if you can't have a child naturally. It costs a bit but it will be worth it in the end. Some days it seems as if IVF children are born every minute, so frequently do they appear in good news stories. But that's not the case and the number of infertile people who have had their hopes dashed are far more numerous than those who are successful. What, I wonder, would their reaction be to my neighbour's attitude towards the horror of the possibility that her third pregnancy might result in a girl.

Of course, there are people who have two boys and once they have got over that terrible tragedy, 'keep trying' for a girl. What if they 'keep trying' and after five boys or five girls the horror continues and still a child of the 'right' sex doesn't show up?

What effect does this desire to have a particular sex have on the children of the 'wrong' gender who stumble, undesired into a resentful family?  Do they receive the love they have an absolute  birthright to?

It seems to me that when you decide to have a baby, then another, and maybe even another, you love what you get. There is wrongness in representing families in adverts as the perfect four; shiny beautiful, smiley mum, handsome, tall, fixing something dad, pretty, younger of two children female child helping mum bake and older brother coming into the kitchen carrying a football and sporting muddy knees.

A friend of mine who is witty, kind and very stylish, has four boys. Each one is delightful although they are very different. Shortly after her youngest, Patrick, was born, I was at her house doing my bit to help her. Another friend called in and asked my friend in tones of great concern, as if my friend had just been diagnosed with a serious illness, whether she was OK with having had Patrick. 'What do you mean,' asked my friend, who was breast feeding little Patrick, with his mop of curly dark hair. 'Well, you know, I thought that with Sue, (another friend) having just had a girl, it might have put the tin lid on it for you having had another boy when you already have three boys.'
What exactly was my friend supposed to do with Patrick then, according to this woman?

My friend, still feeding baby Patrick and also stroking the head of her two year old who sat next to her, just said, 'I adore this baby. I got lucky because this little sweetheart sleeps through the night too. Bliss.'  No more needed to be said.

       

The way in which people treat waiters.

I heard this yesterday in Pizza Express:-

Waiter: Hello, what can I get you ladies?

Woman 1: We haven't had time to decide. Come back in a bit.

Waiter: No problem. I'll be back in a few minutes.

A few minutes later :-

Waiter: Are you OK ladies? Ready to order?

Woman 2 : Yes, but fetch us some olives and bread first. Oh and we'll have a jug of tap water - with ice.

Waiter: No Problem

A few minutes later-:

Waiter:     There you go. Are you ready for me to take your order now?

Woman 1: Yes. We'll have a green salad and a red onion and tomato salad.

Woman 2: And we'll both have a pizza.

Woman 1: No, I'm going to have lasagne.

Waiter :    What sort of pizza would you like please?

Woman 2 : I'll have a calzone. But make sure the dough is properly cooked.

Well! I was absolutely appalled. These women were dressed up to the nines. They both had big hair, both yellowy blond and enough jewellery between them to stock a shop. They wore thick facial makeup and had deep tans on their bodily flesh, too much of which was on show. They spoke in loud voices, about other women - not a good word for any of them.

Throughout this exchange, the waiter remained unfailingly polite. It occurred to me that you can tell a lot about people by the way in which they treat waiters, shopkeepers or cleaners. To be rude to these people clearly shows a sense of misplaced superiority. These two women had an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, mixed with a large dose of arrogance. What was the point of dressing yourself up like a dog's dinner to behave like a pig in lipstick. (Cheers Barack for that comment). I would like to bet that these two women did not leave a tip.  

Our thoughts on our death bed

I know, not exactly a topic to cheer the soul, but one day it will be us on that bed thinking back over our lives. Of course, the 'death bed' is just a useful metaphor to focus the mind on the end of life and what our assessment of our own lives will be.

It's only in recent years that I've thought about this, but naturally, when more time is behind you than is in front, there appears an urgency as to what needs to be done to make your life count, for it to have been worthwhile and for it to have some value. In writing about the end of life I find that there is a paucity of vocabulary; or at least a real lack of words which are not cliches. The word 'worthwhile' smacks of good deeds; the very words 'good deeds' returning me to the Baptist church I was semi-forced to attend as a child, where a very narrow-minded Sunday school teacher was forever telling the children in her class to do good deeds and worthwhile acts, when what we witnessed weekly from her was cruelty, as she told various children that they were disgusting, that Jesus certainly wouldn't be shining his light on the children who she personally took a dislike to, or, as in one girl's case, was told that she shouldn't be in Sunday school at all as her mother was a ....wait for it....divorcee! Fair enough, times were different in the 1960s and society altogether harsher, but the child being the daughter of a divorcee would carry sufficient stigma as she grew up, without Eileen H. doling out the pitiless treatment. Not quite what Jesus meant by, 'Suffer little children...'

With no real choice then other than to employ these hackneyed words and phrases, it's very interesting to consider what we mean by worthwhile and how we feel we have (or haven't) accomplished or achieved something deserving of the worthwhile stamp.

If you would like to share your views on what you consider a worthwhile life, please do. I have some thoughts about the topic but wouldn't presume to impose them on others.

Just for the record, I am an atheist, but if there were a hell, I know of a certain Sunday school teacher who may well be already there.
        

It's in the Detail

I'm not really interested in where people go on holiday, what car they drive, what sort of house they live in or even what their job is, though to be truthful, I'm much more interested in a person's job than in other aspects of their lives. 

What really arrests my attention is the seemingly trivial details of their lives, the minutiae, if you will. For instance, do you and your family eat breakfast together each morning, all scrubbed and ready for the day? Are the cereal bowls, plates,cups and cutlery all set out the night before? Or does each individual grab what they want, no forward planning involved, and dash out of the door, slice of toast in hand? Who clears up? Who puts the washing in the machine, who takes it out and where does it go to dry? Who irons the clothes and does anyone return them to their owners' wardrobes.Do they put their clothes out ready to slip into the following morning or do they wait until the morning? How many clothes do they own? How many pairs of shoes and handbags? Do people feel any guilt about excesses of clothes, bags or shoes?  Hard to say because  one person's excess may be another's barely adequate.

What people eat is a further source of deep interest to me. If you meet someone you know in the supermarket and they have crisps or chocolate in their trolley, you can guarantee they will, due to embarrassment at having been 'found out' make an excuse as to why the bad foods are in the trolley. So much emphasis is placed on healthy eating nowadays, and obviously the science proves the wisdom of healthy eating, that most people at least claim to eat healthily. So then, where did those sweet wrappers come from, the empty Doritos packet, the ice cream carton? And when do people eat? The women I know are on permanent diets. They skip lunch, but at 4 pm they eat a Crunchie, a Mars bar or a Twix, thereby increasing calorie intake dramatically and defeating the object entirely of the missed lunch.. Do you know anyone who is a secret night eater, that person who gets out of bed in the early hours to munch their way through the contents of the fridge? No, of course you don't because who would confess to this unseemly detail of their life?       

The minutiae of how people spend their money is, to me at least, endlessly fascinating. I have a friend who will spend literally hundreds of pounds on her hair but refuses to buy clothes from anywhere but Primark, except when the sales are in their final stages and there is  at least 70% off. Please be assured that I make no judgement here, none at all. There are some people who will kit themselves out in very expensive clothing when the paint is peeling in their living rooms, the fridge doesn't work and they are defaulting on their mortgage repayments. Again, no judgement.

Fascinating is the way in which people organise their rooms. Late October  November and December, is the best time to see, completely inconspicuously  into people's homes;  homes which you would never otherwise have access to.To pinpoint the time more precisely, it is between 5 and 6 in the afternoon which is best for spying, the reason being that people are coming home from work, school and college and the light goes on, but as yet, the curtains have not been drawn. Perfect to see inside when those inside cannot see you. Walking slowly by is the way to do it, in order to maximise viewing possibilities. Of course, having a dog helps this because in the most unlikely circumstances of anyone spotting you,or even challenging you, you can always blame the dog's need to sniff or do its business. The joy of this is that you can observe people, unobserved, and witness their unobserved behaviour. And for me that is utterly fascinating.

What's in a name?

Many people will recognise this question, and some may know that it comes from Shakespeare's play, Romeo and Juliet. On discovering that Romeo is a Montague, Juliet attempts to convince herself that names are unimportant, as her family, the Capulets, are involved in an 'ancient feud'  with the Montagues.

Despite Juliet's attempts to deny the significance of names, she knows, and so do we, that names are central to a person's identity. I live bang opposite a children's nursery and every day I hear the names of the children. There is an interesting retro choice of names currently. There's a  Mabel, a Martha and an Edith. For the boys, not to be outdone, there's an Arthur, a Humphrey and an Archibald.

Names, like fashion, follow trends and so along with the retro names, there are other very modern names; modern to my ear anyway. Uncertain as to its correct spelling, I notice nevertheless that Diyora attends nursery each day, along with Joshene, whose genders are not apparent, by their names. There are some names which just continue, never fall foul of fashion and in addition succeed in crossing all class boundaries. For girls, the name Sarah fulfils this role. For boys I would suggest that Jack is the one. My father, who was born in November 1918, as The Great War came to a close, was called Jack. In truth. he was christened John, but everybody called him Jack. So congratulations to the Sarahs and the Jacks, whose timelessness and classlessness are unequalled.

As a teacher for thirty years, I can remember when I first started that classes were populated by Dawns, Traceys, Darrens and Waynes. Shockingly, those people will be in their mid thirties now. They are still a way off old age, even middle age, but now that the social commentators are  telling us that fifty is the new  thirty and sixty is the new forty, all very cheering if a little unconvincing, it will be perhaps as much as half a century until those Darrens and Traceys will be occupying  the seats in the old people's homes. But they will be, one day, and it seems odd to my mind that Wayne and Dawn will be occupying the seats as some well-meaning middle class girl or boy, maybe Sarah or Jack, will volunteer to sing on a Wednesday afternoon in a bid to improve their curriculum vitae, in one of the care homes.

Before that though, along will come my generation. There will be Peter, Andrew, Steven, Graham, Roy, John, Colin, Dennis, David and Ian. Their female counterparts will be Mary, Margaret, Susan, Jean, Yvonne, Jacqueline and Valerie. We will oust Edith, Gladys, Rita, Elsie and Evelyn, Albert, Fred, Earnest, Harold and Cyril. They will all have gone to glory and in we'll come, aided by sticks, zimmer-frames or an impatient relative. Then we, in our turn, will be replaced by... well, you get the idea.

Ask any parent how they came to the decision to call their child the name they have attached to him or her and you will, I suspect, receive a huge variety of reasons. That said, it is doubtful that many or even any will say they put no thought at all into their choice. You carry a name with you throughout your life. It is a part of you and though the name you have may suggest your age, it will not wither and wrinkle like the outer-casing, about which we are unable to do very much to prevent. Even Joan Collins and Joan Rivers must know they (both Joans!) are ultimately going to lose the battle they are fighting with such vigour. What's in a name? An awful lot, I'd say.        

     

Time

The other day I tuned in, by chance, to a rather high-brow radio programme in which several philosophers were discussing the concept of time. One philosopher put forward the thesis that there's no such thing as time. I thought about this for a while but couldn't really get a grasp on the idea of time being non-existent. What I am able to get a grip on though, is that time, as I understand it, marked by birthdays, Christmases, fashions, music and improving technology is very much a part of life.

I know this too; the older you get the faster time passes. According to the Bible, we are granted three score and ten years, a mere seventy multiplied by three hundred and sixty five - and that is the number of days due to you - a mere 25,550 days. Terrifying in its brevity! Of course the average lifespan has significantly improved but even so, there are not that many days available to us.

So common place, but nevertheless it bears repeating, that given so few days on this earth, we should value them more than we do. That said, it would be odd and unnatural  to spend our days in a state of gratitude and wonder. Instead it might be an idea to decide what we want to achieve and formulate a plan to work towards that aim.

Whatever the philosophers say as to whether time exists, or what time is, it is an absolute certainty that 'our time is but a shadow' and that it is important that we do something with our time, because it is finite and there's no escaping that. It is  indeed a short trip from the cradle to the grave.

Wigs and Hair

Ever since childhood I have been fascinated by wigs. My first wig was homemade. It consisted of long strands of green wool, crudely held together by a rubber hand and gripped onto my head. I was about nine years old at the time, the late sixties, and forced by my parents to have short hair so that I wouldn't be distracted from my schoolwork. It seems barely credible to me today that they should give that as a reason to have short hair; short hair which I detested.

About a year later, one of my aunts gave me her pony tail attachment. It was dark brown, a good bit darker than my own mid-brown hair, but I didn't mind in the least. The ponytail was gripped securely onto my head. My school beret, turned inside out so as not to reveal the school badge, was strategically placed to hide the rather clumsy join.

Out I went, swishing my ponytail. I was so involved in being a girl with a ponytail that I almost forgot that I was wearing my older brother's coat, which he'd outgrown, the buttons fastening the wrong way.

Where were the wig shops then? I didn't know of any, even in my teens and living in a big city. By then I had grown my hair and there were plenty of other things by then to distract me from my schoolwork, real distractions this time, long hair on me, being the least of their worries. It was long hair on boys that began to worry them greatly. I loved long hair on boys and men. Led Zeppelin, Free, Yes, The Faces, The Small Faces and The Herd - all long-haired and to my mind, brilliant.

There aren't many young men today who have long hair, but there will be again, some time. It's just fashion. It was The Beatles who introduced long hair for men, in the early sixties, causing outrage among the conventional. Looking back it seems ridiculous that The Beatles' hair was classed as long. It just wasn't army short.

I particularly like, on women, long, thick, straight hair, especially dark hair, but I like all colours, apart from some really yellowy blonde hair. I've had lots of different coloured hair, red perhaps for the majority of the time, though currently it's dark brown, I think.

I wish my hair was straighter, though people say to me how lucky I am to have a wave in my hair and how much money they have spent just to get their hair to curl or wave a little. But as numerous people have told me, and as I have told numerous people, you don't want what you've got.  If only there had been hair straighteners when I was younger! It would have saved me loads of time and money spent on sellotape and would have saved me from pain too, removing the sellotape from facial skin.

For a while now I have been looking on the internet at wigs. If only I could have done that in my teens! There are some sensational wigs: full wigs, three quarter wigs, half wigs, hair pieces and extensions. In addition there are clip on fringes in real or artificial hair, just like the wigs, and I have bought three of these. On YouTube there are plenty of instructional videos on fixing them. The prices for all wigs and hair pieces are very reasonable, but I think I prefer the artificial hair as I don't want to think about some poor woman somewhere, having to give her hair away to feed her family.

Tonight I think I will order the three quarter wig that I have had my eye on. But will I be brave enough to wear it, as I was brave enough to wear the pony tail under a beret when I was a child?

   

Sexism - but against men

During  the course of the last few years, or maybe long before, it seems that it is considered perfectly reasonable by most women, to make offensive remarks about men, with absolute impunity. How has this situation come about? My perception is that many women feel that they and their  women friends and colleagues are superior in every way to men, except for brute strength. Men are mocked and derided to such a shocking degree that if for one moment someone attacked women with the same venom, there would be an outcry.

The Nobel prize winner for literature, Doris Lessing, at the start of this new millennium, pointed out that it had somehow become acceptable for the most  stupid and arrogant of women to say the most derogatory, savage and unkind things about the most sensitive, intelligent and kind men. This thought of Lessing's is particularly worthy of contemplation as Lessing for years has been praised for her work in which she argues for women to be treated as and regarded as equal to men. The irony, of course, is that now it seems women are doing exactly what men used to do in saying how useless women are, how their true arena is the domestic one and their only role is to look after men and children. It used to be OK to say how  women were out of their depths driving cars, sitting on boards, being politicians and even going to university. It is certainly not OK now, and rightly so.

Men, it seems, right now, cannot win. If a man doesn't express his emotions he's emotionally retarded. If he does express his emotions, he's weak, pathetic, needs to grow a pair, to man up and to stop being so pathetic. What women want are 'real men'; men with leather tool kits strapped to their chests, chests with no hint of a man-boob who are capable and can fix anything, anywhere. When they get a 'real man' women set about emasculating them. To take as an example people I know in heterosexual relationships, it is the case that the women are the ones who are the bosses. I suspect that is the case in the majority of  these relationships throughout the UK and beyond.



       

Breeding and Feeding

I've been following a programme on television called 'Skint'.It is set in Scunthorpe on a rundown estate. The people the programme focuses on are as you might expect. In some ways I dislike myself for watching these people who have no money, living out their lives, interacting with family and friends, eating, drinking and breeding; which they do at an alarmingly early age. Yes, it's the old cliche, children having children. One girl in particular deeply affected me. She was sixteen and had had her baby daughter taken away from her. The baby-snatchers' as they are known on the estate, are the ones who have taken her baby. - the social workers in other words. This sixteen year old mother dresses as smartly as she can for her court appearance. She reasons that the judge will be persuaded by her smart apparel and will think that if the mother can do herself up nicely then she will  be able to dress her baby well and  so will rule that the sixteen year old mother should be trusted to take care of her baby and the two of them will restart their lives together. It was very hard not to feel sorry for her; really sorry for her.

The main family the programme features are strangely likeable.  There are two adults and seven children living in quite a small house. One of the children is a very young baby. Despite the rows and tensions, which are present in  most families, this family seem to genuinely care about each other.

The patriarch says that after working for more than twenty years at the steel factory which he can see from his house, which shut down and consequently made him redundant, he deserves a hand-out from the state. Nooooo! Not so! The truth is though, that a significant proportion of the population think this way.

If a person needs help from the state then they should have it. But this guy is quite young still, has his health and yet he has no intention of finding a job. It's exactly that attitude that annoys people. It is this sense of entitlement to take that to which you are not entitled that so angers people. This does not mean that you'll be voting for Nigel Farage and his UKIP gang, it just shows that you think taxpayers' money should be reserved for those who can't work.and for those who may not currently be in work but are trying to get a job. That's all.          

Animals, my dog and heat

Essentially, I love dogs and hate heat. I like most animals but dogs and horses are my favourites. My dog is a golden cocker spaniel and she's almost five years old; I've had her since she was nine weeks old. I love her, and here I'm not using the word love in a flippant way, such as when we say I love fruit. No, when I say I love her, that is exactly what I mean.

I don't however, do that ridiculous thing some people do with their pets, in that they treat them like humans and dress them up. Nor do I allow Duffy (good name?) to sleep on my bed. With animals and dogs in particular, you can't do whatever you like and think they will adapt easily. It's necessary to lay down the ground rules early and stick to them so that the the pet feels safe and secure.

It's my belief that the way in which a society treats its animals is a reliable measure as to how compassionate that society is. If I were the one to decide I would ban halal and kosher meat.  For this meat  to qualify as halal for Muslim people or kosher, for Jewish people, it is undeniable that the animals are killed inhumanely. I just find it hard to understand what kind of a God could want this. Why would a good God want the animals that, according to religion, he had created, to be killed in such a cruel way? No deity that I know of, that's for sure. I should perhaps confess (to use a suitably religious word) that I am an atheist. Truth to tell, when I say or write that confession of atheism, I always feel a little anxious, just in case I've got it wrong...

And now to heat. Everyone says, when it's warm and sunny, 'Isn't it lovely today?' Everyone agrees.'Oh yes, it is. I hope it carries on.' What I always wonder is, do they actually mean what they say? I agree myself when it's sunny and hot and someone says that it's lovely. I agree because it would be odd and possibly rude too, to say you don't like it. Imagine. 'No I don't think it is lovely. I prefer biting winds, rain and cold.Snow preferably.' That would be my honest answer. Heat, especially humidity, makes me feel irritable, lethargic and generally unhappy. I like the sun, but I like it when it makes the frost on the grass and the pavements glisten.I like the sun in a clear blue sky when the temperature is below freezing. There must be more people who prefer the cold to the heat. Mustn't there?  

   

Anorexic in Asda

This afternoon in Asda, I found myself on the confectionery aisle, which I usually try to avoid. I say I found myself there because often I go into a sort of trance in a supermarket and wheel the trolley aimlessly and obliviously. Looking at people and watching their behaviour is what I do and in particular I watch people with their children. Generally speaking, the younger the parents the more the child is yelled at. Today a child was told to 'Get 'ere now' or she would be shoved in a  fridge. She was then told that she was a 'little shit'.

Back to the confectionery aisle. Standing very close, so close that she couldn't have got any closer,  was a painfully thin woman, examining the bags of boiled sweets. She was quite tall, had excellent posture but was so, so skinny. She was wearing a striped jumper and a pair of white trousers which would easily have catered for three more people her size. Her hair was long and white and though I could only see her face in profile, it seemed as if the paper-thin skin was about to tear over the hollow cheekbone, on the side I could see. She looked middle-aged, but it's very often the case with anorexics that they look older than they appear to be. I'd have put this woman at about forty-eight, but she might well have been twenty-eight.
On first seeing her,  I was almost rooted to the spot, until I realised how odd my own behaviour was. So, I feigned great interest in a range of boiled sweets, positioning myself so that I could watch her unseen. This woman was picking up various bags of sweets and staring at them intensely. She was holding the packets in both skeletal hands, lifting them closer to her eyes and turning the bags over and over. She was completely focused on each bag of sweets that she picked up. I saw her isolate a single sweet by deft finger movements, find the clearest, most transparent part of the bag and manoeuvre the sweet to that area and stare at it some more. Her concentration was complete, absolute and compelling. I must have been watching her for a good five minutes.

Would she buy any of these sweets? She had a basket on the floor by her feet and of course I had a good look. There were tomatoes, a cucumber, some apples and a newspaper in the wire basket.

All of a sudden, she flung the bag currently under forensic examination back on the shelf, picked up the wire basket and headed off at quite a pace. My mind was crammed with questions.  Who was she?Who did she live with? Did she have family who cared about her? I hope that the answer to the last question was yes. I also hoped she was receiving the help that she so clearly and so desperately needed.

Standing in the queue at the check-out I was wondering what had brought her to this point in her life. My head was so full of her that I barely remember paying. Back in the car park, I realised that I had forgotten to buy the coffee that I had gone in for in the first place.      



     

Made in Chelsea

Recently I have had the dubious pleasure of watching Made in Chelsea. It's on E4 at 10 pm every Monday. Usually I will have just finished writing the double episode review for Coronation Street and will have just posted it in time to watch Made in Chelsea.

Alarmingly, this programme has become my guilty pleasure and I watch each episode at least twice. I'm
trying to work out what its fascination is for me. To some degree I think I understand its power and appeal and there's nothing surprising in the revelation that it is always interesting to gain an insight into other people's lives. Though it has to be the case that to a significant extent the show is contrived, it seems that what the cast do is, again to some extent, natural. The way they speak and interact seems to be unplanned and largely unscripted.

BUT, though these young people are in their early, mid or even late twenties, they are hardly ever seen working, going to work, talking about work or having anything to do with work. They always seem free  to go off on holiday at the drop of a hat too. They decide one day and the next, off they go! So, obviously, this begs the question, where do they get their money from? The most likely source of their income is the bank of mum and dad. Of course, viewers may be infuriated by their apparent good luck, their privileged existence, their good fortune to live in London and frequent expensive and glamorous bars, clubs and restaurants, but I wonder if these apparently fortunate people ever think that it might be an idea to try to stand on their own two feet.