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7th July 2010The Freelance Philosopher
What do freelance philosophers think
about on their day off?
Until I heard one introduced on a radio discussion programme
recently, I didn’t even know there was such a thing.
Unable to hear
the rest of the broadcast, I’ve been wondering ever since what the job
entailed.
I picture the philosopher on the programme in full flow, his meter
running, taxi-like, as he expounds. Then, as the end credits roll, he
flips up the flag to turn his yellow “for hire” light back on. Till
someone hails him for another trip, he’ll be switching off his mind.
When not in receipt of a paycheck, does his overdeveloped mind
transforms from wily processor to passive receiver? Does he sit
expressionless, refusing to extrapolate philosophical theories from his
experiences? Next time I meet a philosopher, I’ll be watching and taking
notes.
Actually, I refuse to accept that there can be such a thing as a
freelance philosopher. Surely, if your mind is of philosophical bent,
you just can’t help yourself. It’s the same with being a writer.
Admittedly, when I ditched my full-time job in February, I did
initially bill myself as a freelance writer to celebrate escaping the
yoke of a salaried employee. But I quickly realised two important
truths.
Firstly, freelance should not be confused with freedom. The
freelance may no longer be enslaved to a single employer, but that
doesn’t make him free. (And slavery has its advantages – security, for
starters).
Secondly, a writer is a writer is a writer. I will always write,
whether or not someone is paying me a fee. All artistic or creative
types should surely be entitled to describe themselves by their vocation
regardless of their income. If you write poetry, you’re a poet; if you
paint pictures you’re an artist. It’s immaterial whether the meter is
running (or should that be metre, for the poet?) Payment is desirable,
of course – but lack of it won’t dry up my pen. Selling only a single
painting in his lifetime did not, I am sure, prevent Van Gogh from
calling himself an artist.
It’s not as if there are specific qualifications for such
occupations. It’s not like the medical profession, where you need years
of training and official registration before you can use the associated
title. I for one would have to be desparate to accept treatment from a
freelance doctor or itinerant dentist.
This tag “freelance” also has a certain implied sadness about it.
Like the label “single” these days, there are overtones of failure, of
waiting for someone to come along and snap you up.
In the end, I felt a little sorry for my mystery freelance
philosopher. I just hope he eventually found someone willing to pay him
to come to terms with his situation.
25th June 2010
Give Me a Wetwipe
and I Will Clean the WorldI am not renowned for the quality of my housework. Until recently, I
could blame my laxity on having a full-time job while also raising a
family, but as I gave up the job in February and my family consists of
just the one husband and child,that excuse doesn't quite pull the same
punch these days.
Since drawing the rheumatoid arthritis card a
few years ago, I have in any case had to be economic with the scrubbing
brush, as my hands can't take the strain. (Well, it was a welcome
excuse, to be honest.)
I've been frightened of vacuum cleaners
since the age of about 2. One of my earliest memories is hiding from
the hoover in horror. (It's called zuigerphobia, as you ask.)
Fortunately the recent trend for laminate flooring and my subsequent
elimination of carpet in my house mitigated in the favour of floor
hygiene.
But now I've discovered the joy of household wetwipes,
the dust and germs are starting to lose their battle in my home.Of
course, as a modern mother, I got through a crate or two of baby wipes
when my daughter was smaller. How did our parents ever manage without
them? When I was a teenager and the environmental debate about
disposable nappies was starting up, I cut out a cartoon from the
newspaper that showed a lady carrying around her baby in a bucket,
saying "On balance it seemed the best solution". It seemed like a
perfectly good idea to me.
Baby wipes stopped being a regular
feature in my shopping trolley some time agoThen when I had to
give notice to my cleaning ladies when I left the job that paid their
fee, I started to linger a little longer in the cleaning products aisle
at the supermarket. There I discovered a fascinating range of wetwipes
for the home. Polish-impregnated wipes to do away with grubby yellow
dusters and icky polising cloths, window wipes, kitchen counter wipes,
bathroom wipes, shower wipes, and now even flushable toilet wipes.
I
trialled them in our camper van, where space is at a premium and their
compact packaging was a distinct advantage. Within ten minutes, I had
the whole interior shiny new.
I'm ignoring my inkling that this
could all be a manufacturing scam. Are all of the wipes actually
exactly the same, just with a slightly different perfume added to put
you off the scent (ho ho) and a different plastic wrapper? I'm not
prepared to testdrive the flushable toilet wipes on my leather sofas to
check this out.
Having just enjoyed cleaning my bathroom with,
yes, the bathroom wipes, I plan to get the polishy ones out in a minute
for my desktop, once I've finished this piece. Then perhaps I'll head
for the Welsh dresser in the kitchen.
I'm on a roll here. Give
me the right wetwipe and I could clean up the world. Global warming
wetwipe, anyone? Pollution polishing cloth? Anti-terrorist tissues?
Go on, Cillit Bang, I'm sure you could do it if you put your minds to
it.
Friday, 18 June 2010
It's So Last Century
My sister-in-law Janet's famed theory ("The best way to get something
done is to do something else") strikes again today as I take my car to
the garage for repairs.
My objective: to cure the car of making
an odd scraping sound that suggests the exhaust might be about to fall
off. While the mechanics try to diagnose the cause, I'm restricted to a
range within walking distance of the garage. So I hit Chipping Sodbury
High Street with nothing to do but keep an eye on my phone for an
update on my car's welfare.
My achievement: one new skirt, one
new waistcoat, one new jacket, one new blouse, plus a bill for £68 (so a
bit of a bargain, then). This is, of course, excluding the garage
costs.
A frequent target for comedians as the ultimate in rural
backwaters, Chipping Sodbury High Street is actually quite a pretty
place, with an old-fashioned marketplace centre and a range of shops
untouched by the global brands that dominate most other high streets.
Until I ran out of cats, my most frequent missions to Sodbury were for
the sake of the veterinary surgery. Until the wonderful Mr Riley
retired a few years ago, he seemed to spend almost as much time with my
menagerie as I did. He particularly looked forward to appointments with
Floyd, whom he pronounced "the most amiable cat I've ever met". Even
when taking an animal on a one-way trip to the vet, I always enjoyed the
fact that Mr Riley's surgery was situated in Horse Street.
Our
house now being a feline-free zone, I spend today's visit meandering
down the High Street. I check out the charity shops, as you do, before
wandering into a clothes shop that I'd never been into before. Having
previously written it off as a shop for old ladies, I soon find myself
enthusiastically trying on half the shop. At one point another
customer asks my permission to try on a dress. I am carrying so many
clothes that she thinks I must work there. I leave with a surprisingly
full carrier bag, trying not to consider the possibility that the chief
reason I now like this shop is that I've evolved into an old lady.
My
car, incidentally, does not get fixed. The required part will not
arrive until Monday. So my sole achievement this morning is to
revitalise my wardrobe.This comes not a moment before time.
Recently I rearranged my clothes. Usually I oscillate between hanging
them in order of colour and pairing them up in outfits, in between the
odd bout of chaos. I flirted with the idea of putting them in order by
date of purchase, until I realised that a shocking proportion of items
were bought before the turn of the millenium. Never mind them being "so
last year" - "so last century" was nearer the mark. Carbon-dating would
not go amiss.
But one thing's for sure: Janet's theory is proven
beyond all doubt.
6th June 2010Doing the Offa's Dyke Walk
When my daughter Laura had just turned two years old, we decided we'd
walk the Offa's Dyke Path - the national trail that runs along the
ancient English-Welsh border.
From the start, on the banks of
the River Severn near Chepstow, we agreed we'd be realistic about our
ambition. Accordingly, each year, we've done just two or three short
segments of the 177 mile long Path. At first she would tire easily and
we'd have to carry her, but lately the problem has not been her energy -
she literally skips up some steep slopes - but her willingness. With
the squeamishness of most seven year olds, she has developed an aversion
to cross country routes due to the presence of animal poo. So we're
developed some handy diversionary strategies to keep her marching on.
Our
first tactic was to let her play with my mobile phone. As it was
loaded with the "Mamma Mia" soundtrack, Laura positively danced past the
sheep that day. On her sixth birthday, this was replaced with a pink
iPod shuffle, featuring all her favourite songs and stories, and
providing the important benefit of earphones. (The sheep had a
whip-round.)
Second, we always load our pockets with snacks,
preferably the kind that can be made to last a long time. As Laura's
diabetic, I always have a packet of LoveHearts to hand in case of hypos.
Not only are these handy for instant inflight refuelling, they also
provide entertainment as we read and discuss the slogan printed on each
one. These have moved with the times since I was a child, now saying
things like "Text Me" and most recently (and bizarrely) "Me Julie".
Thirdly,
we allow a couple of lightweight toys to stow away in our rucksacks.
These are useful for impromptu games along the way. This week, the sight
of Ken helping Barbie courteously over stiles provided excellent
entertainment for us all.
Community singing is a great standby,
especially songs that can be adapted to suit our walks. "The Wheels on
the Bus" easily accomodates "sheep on the bus", "cows on the bus" and so
on, though I wouldn't like to be a passenger on that particular
double-decker. "One Man Went to Mow" proved popular during our Easter
walks, with the dog-mad Laura enthusiastically providing the
"Woof-woofs" for up to 27 men going to mow before the game started to
pall (and Mummy to run out of puff). I'm keeping "10 Green Bottles" up
my sleeve.
But best of all is my latest ploy: to read books as we
walk along. "Multi-tasking at its finest," as a friend described it
when I told her about our Easter trip.
For some reason, Roald
Dahl has become a natural companion on Offa's Dyke. Maybe it's his
Welsh upbringing coming into play. "The Fantastic Mr Fox" saw us out of
Hay-on-Wye and will be forever associated in my mind with the sublime
views from Hergest Ridge. (Though I did manage to finish it in time to
catch Mike Oldfield's glorious eponymous album on my own iPod before we
descended.) "The Giraffe, The Pelly and Me" took us up the steep rise
out of Kington, and "Danny the Champion of the World" saw us down the
other side.
I think I may have discovered a whole new pastime
here. I'm keen to find further books that will take us on appropriate
walks. Some are blindingly obvious: "Three Men in a Boat" along the
Thames towpath, "Cider with Rosie" for the Cotswold Way. But contrasts
would be fun too: the alpine story of "Heidi" in Holland, "Born Free" on
a city break. There'll be a packet of LoveHearts for the sender of the
best suggestion.
30th May 2010Beanhenge
What is it about runner beans that compels the English gardener to grow
them?
They have little flavour, and what there is of it is
pretty uninteresting. Their rough and hairy texture is not generally
sought after in foodstuff, unless you're an owl or suchlike with a
penchant for mice. No matter how carefully you prepare beans for
cooking, they still smuggle stringy bits into your mouth that must be
bravely swallowed or brashly extracted, depending on the company you're
in.
Yet, like a lemming to the cliff-edge, (that gruesome
Disney fabrication - Google "Disney" and "lemming" if you don't know
what I'm talking about), I find myself yet again this spring wrestling
with bamboo canes and wiggly bean seedlings. How to arrange them this
year to net the best yield without losing the lot to strong winds - or
an eye to the cane tips?I've had it with wigwams, where you
arrange the canes in a circle, binding them together at the top, Indian
fashion. All is well when you blow the whistle for the beans to start
growing. They race straight up the sticks happily enough. But as soon
as they converge at the top, there's chaos. The result: a tangled mess,
with far too much bean plant to airspace.
Compared to this, the
bean tent offers obvious advantages: two parallel rows of poles,
inclined to meet at the top. Here you secure a single cane with string
to form the ridge. Each plant enjoys more airspace and the whole makes
for easier picking. But by the time the early autumn winds pick up,
there's enough plant matter to catch the wind like a sail. Before you
know it, the tent is travelling about the garden and felling any other
plants in its way.
But this year, I think I've cracked it. With a
fine collection of weathered bean poles of many different lengths, I
have insufficient matching ones to tackle either classic structure, and
my hand is forced. Without a clear plan of action, I just shove what
sticks I have in the ground, upright in a circle, and plant a seedling
at the foot of each. I slip a plant tie around each one and secure it
to the nearest stick: a hint as to where it should pledge its
allegiance.
Standing back to admire my handiwork, and wondering what to
do next, it occurs to me that I've created a whole new concept: the
runner bean's answer to Stonehenge. It has a cretain timelessness and
dignity about it, and it looks pretty well unshiftable. All I need to
do now to complete the effect is to find a few shorter sticks and place
them across the top of random pairs of canes.
There is ample
space for every plant to flourish and for the would-be picker to find
the beans. No matted canopy of green to catch the wind. Beanhenge is
the perfect solution. All I need do now is await the summer solstice
and see which bean lines up with the sunrise. I'm half expecting a
posse of druids to turn up. Now, where did I put my woad?
24th May 2010Under the Apple Tree
Driving to
Chalford this morning, listening to Start the Week on BBC Radio 4, I am intrigued
by a concept in a book of short stories neuroscientist David Eagleman. In Sum,
one of forty possibilities that he suggests for the afterlife is that when you
die, you may choose your favourite experience from your life, and this becomes
your experience in perpetuity – a kind of Groundhog
Day of your choosing.
What would
mine be? It’s a case of being careful what you wish for. The day my daughter was born might seem an
obvious candidate, but it involved major surgery, and once was more than enough. The following night might be a contender: I
lay awake all night long, gazing with wonder through the clear plastic sides of
her hospital cot, transfixed by the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. But the perpetual crying of other babies
dotted about the ward might get me down after the first decade or two.
Other achievements
that gave me great pleasure, though in a different league, include producing
the village youth group’s fashion show, years ago, and later their talent show,
including what I thought was a sublime sketch, penned by me, called “The
Simpsons Go to the Hawkesbury Show”. The
children’s acting was fabulous and the costumes priceless – who’d have thought
a blue plastic carrier bag could be so cleverly transformed into Marge Simpson’s
big hair? Being on stage myself, in
amateur dramatic shows, was great too –
but even the best shows would pall after endless repeats.
But for an
experience that could be perpetually rerun , I’d be tempted to go for the “happy
place” that I go to in my head whenever I can’t sleep at night: lying under the
apple tree in my back garden, with early summer sunshine filtering through the
blossom. It’s my favourite place in the
world (and I’m pretty well travelled). Birds always sing in the surrounding mass of trees; there’s the occasional
gentle buzz of light aircraft, sometimes doing aerobatics; floral scents waft by on the warm breeze - musky
lavender, sweet lilac, rosy apple blossom, heady crab apple, and later in the
season, intoxicating nicotiana and night-scented stock. It’s a spot I’d never tire of.
Later, on the way home, I plan how best to use the
brief window of time between arriving home and collecting my daughter from
After-School Club. I need to make the most of it. Actually,
there is no decision to be made. I head
for my apple tree. The hammock is still
in place from my daughter’s birthday party yesterday afternoon, as are the old
curtains that we’d suspended from strategic branches to shield us from the
intense sun of the current heatwave. I arm
myself with a few books and magazines, but soon I am dozing in the afternoon
sunshine, swinging very gently in the hammock. Occasionally a petal or two
drifts down from the apple tree and lands on my face. I pick one up to examine in, and discover it
is already tinged with brown at the edge.
Eternity this isn’t. Better seize
the day.
11th May 2010
How to Get
Things Done
On Sunday
afternoon, after months of feeble excuses, I decide to tackle what appears to be an enormous task. I undertake to tidy my dressing table. It is
inches deep in the detritus of dressing and undressing: discarded jewellery,
price labels and hanging tags from new clothes, odd coins and pens and business
cards that have been turned out of jacket or trouser pockets. The Victorian honey-coloured pine surface is
completely hidden from view.
Tidying my dressing table is not
my favourite task, which is why I have ignored it for so long. In the half light of early mornings and the
dimmed lamps of late nights, I never really scrutinise it, so the muddle bothers
me far less than if it were on the kitchen table. The only reason I am bothering to tackle it
now is that otherwise I will have no moral high ground from which to make my
daughter clear up her dressing table, now competing with mine in the untidiness
stakes.
I grit my teeth, put on my Ipod
(that invaluable mental anaesthetic) and wonder how many podcasts it
will take before I’ve completed my task.
I click on my favourite, The News Quiz , and swiftly fall into the
meditative, methodical rhythm of tidying.
I locate lost necklaces, reunite
long parted pairs of earrings, and accumulate quite a stash of beribboned clothing
tags for my cardboard recycling box.
(Can I really have bought so many new clothes lately? Erm, no – it’s just an awfully long time
since I last culled the discarded labels.)
I restore to centre stage a
favourite antique lace mat and a colourful binca mat that my daughter
cross-stitched for me last Mother’s Day under her Grandma’s artistic direction by Grandma. I rearrange
the chipped but beautiful mulberry Bavarian glass dishes that once belonged to my own Grandma. With a neatness bordering on OCD, I align the
numerous necklaces draped over the corners of the hinged mirror. My dressing table
is starting to resemble an exotic shrine – and all before The News Quiz is half
way through. Stepping back to admire the
new order, I feel a sense of calm creeping osmotically from this harmonious little
scene into the depths of my soul.
This tidying business really is
therapeutic. I continue to feel a little glow of satisfaction every time I
walk past the dressing table, even now, two days on. So why did I wait so long to do it? I really must not procrastinate like this
again. Now that I can see the mirror
again, perhaps I ought to write across it a note in lipstick to remind
myself: The best way to get something
done is to do it.
5th May 2010Why Pay a
Grand for a Handbag?
Leafing
through the Sunday supplements, I wonder how many readers actually buy the
extortionately expensive items featured in the fashion pages. £100 for a moisturiser? No thank you!
I expect change from a tenner when I buy a facecream. And how can any handbag be worth £1,000? I
would never pay that much for an item I couldn’t drive away or spend a family
holiday in.
The most I’ve
ever spent on a handbag is just £35, and that was extravagant by my standards.
Admittedly my standards are very low. My handbag collection features far too many bags
that started life as free gifts attached
to women’s magazines.
But I can
certainly justify this relatively lavish purchase. It brought to a satisfactory conclusion my
lifelong quest for the perfect handbag. Pillar
box red, with a scattering of cheery retro flowers over practical
dirt-repellent oilcloth, it has soft leather-trimmed khaki handles that make for
comfortable carrying, even when it’s stuffed full with all that my daughter and
I need for a day out. Its depths are positively Tardis-like.
Strangely,
it also appears to spread joy to those about me. Walking around with this bag on my arm is like
going out with a celebrity. People stop
me to admire it, ask me where I got it, tell me they’re planning to put it on
their Christmas list. I even had a shy-looking
teenager call after me in a superstore toilet yesterday, just as I was leaving,
as if unable to help herself: “I like
your handbag!”
So if you’ve
been tempted by the Sunday supplements to splash out, think again. Nip into Cath Kidston instead and buy a
handbag like mine for £35. Then invest
in a notebook to make a list of how you’re going to spend the £965 you’ve just
saved.
Post Script on 12th May
A whole new take on my Cath Kidston bag yesterday in the supermarket. The check-out assistant, mid-scan, fixes her gaze on my handbag.
"Is that one of those expensive bags?" she asks.
"I suppose it depends what you're comparing it to," I reply.
In the context of a free plastic carrier or a 10p Bag for Life, I suddenly feel positively extravagant.
2nd May 2010
I Wear My
Vote on my Sleeve
Having cast
my vote a week ago via postal ballot, I can now relax and ignore the rest of
the campaign. Indeed, I don’t intend to give
the election much further thought until Thursday night, when the excitement of
the old swingometer will certainly have our household glued to the telly till
dawn. This early decision doesn’t mean
I’m not taking the election seriously. I
knew long ago who I would vote for and that my decision would be completely
unaffected by the antics of the big three slugging it out on the TV
debates. My vote is
my own decision rather than an echo of my parents’ political views. And there
has never been any danger of my failing to vote at all. I truly value my democratic right, and for
this I have my grandmother to thank.
I first became politically aware
– or at least aware of the voting system – when I was still at primary
school. What child could fail to be won
over by the principle of democracy if it meant their school would be closed for
the day to be used as a polling station?
From the ages of 5 to 11, I spent every school dinner time with my
grandmother. I am perpetually grateful
to her for rescuing me from the horrors of school dinners, substituting her proper
home-cooked Lancashire hot pot and gooseberry pie for their compulsory beetroot
and glutinous rice pudding. Grandma was
a huge influence on me, shaping many of my characteristics such as a life-long
love of BBC Radio 4 panel games and a killer skill at Scrabble. She was also a patient fielder of my incessant
questions.
“So who are you going to vote
for, Grandma?” I asked her when the election was brewing.
I was taken aback when my ever
generous, indulgent Grandma refused to tell me. Instead she gave me an
impassioned lecture about it being a woman’s right to make her own decision and
keep it secret. She wasn’t even going to tell Grandpa.
It wasn’t until much later, when
studying early 20th century history at school, that I realised why
Grandma so treasured her vote and the privacy of the polling booth. Born in 1900, she was old enough to be aware
of the Edwardian Suffragette movement. Grandma
was an impressionable 13 when Emily Davison was trampled by the King’s horse during
her infamous pro-suffragette protest at
the Epsom Derby. For Grandma, turning 18
didn’t entitle her to vote: in 1918, only
women aged 30 or over were entitled to vote.
She had to wait until she was 28 for women to gain the right to vote on
the same terms as men. No wonder she guarded
her democratic right so carefully.
I’m pleased to say my six-year-old
daughter is also taking her political rights seriously.
“Can we have a ‘Win with Webb’
sign for our garden too, Mummy?” she asked, as the orange diamonds started to
appear in gardens around the village. (The rather wonderful Steve
Webb is our local MP - and long may he remain so.)
Though I have a feeling that if
there’d been a party with pink as its colour, she might have changed her
allegiance. Now there’s a way to secure
the women’s vote. (Not.)
28 April 2010Introducing
My Edible Friend
I have a
new friend living in my house. Herman is undemanding company and an inexpensive
guest. His appetite is small: I have to
feed him only once every few days, and in between times he sits quietly in a
corner, minding his own business, underneath a tea-towel. Then in about a week he will reward my hospitality
by letting me eat him.
No, I haven’t turned cannibal. It’s just that Herman is actually the
starting point for a cake. Like the
old-fashioned ginger beer plant, he is a yeast-based mixture that you top up
occasionally with nutrients (sugar, milk, flour) to keep the ferment
going. Meanwhile the mixture quietly bubbles
and thickens, an innocuous quicksand.
Little by little, it grows to the point where you have little no option,
unless you are exceptionally greedy, but
to subdivide it and pass a few portions on to friends, not forgetting to include
a sheet of instructions as to how to care for him.
The instructions I received included a request to talk to Herman. What’s the best subject for a discussion with
a cake mix? For once, the price of eggs
does not seem a clichéd topic of conversation.
My own personal Herman was given
to me by a kind colleague a few days ago, and next week I will be passing his
offspring on to my friends and family. Giving Herman his evening stir-up
tonight, I wondered about his pedigree.
How far has he travelled since the very first Herman mixture was
produced? Are there grains of flour within
his depths that come from the other end of the country or is he a true Gloucestershire
lad? Has he metamorphosed like Doctor
Who, leaving only a homeopathic trace of the first ingredients within his
murky depths? Or is he a thoroughbred,
original genes still largely intact? Looking
to his future, where might my Herman’s descendants end up? With a bit of forethought and planning, we
could engineer a Herman for every home in the country, infiltrating the homes
of the rich and famous, even putting a Herman on the Queen’s breakfast
table. If you’d like your own personal Herman, well, you know where to come.
22 April 2010Mineral Water Meltdown
Feeling a complete victim of supermarket manipulation, I submit to a
2-for-1 offer in Waitrose and pick up two multipacks of a kind of
mineral water I've never seen on the shelves before. I've found some
wacky ones there in the past, most memorably the environmentally
friendly one that guaranteed the bottle would biodegrade in six weeks.
(I meant to keep one for seven weeks, to see if it worked.) They must
have to handle their deliveries in a very timely manner.
My
latest purchase is quite the opposite in terms of environmental impact.
I feel positively guilty sneaking it into my trolley, packing it deep
down in a carrier bag at the checkout, so no-one will see. For it
claims to be Norwegian glacial meltwater. A handy new byproduct of
global warming, I wonder? The producer wins top marks for optimism,
with its commendable "if life gives you lemons, make lemonade"
approach.
I wonder what it will taste like? Whatever the
flavour, I'm half-expecting it to remain ice-cool even if I leave it in
the car in the current heatwave, given its frozen origins.
Of
course, I know that really it will be just the same temperature as a
bottle of tropical Fiji water - another shockingly wasteful import. I
was tempted to try that one, too, out of curiosity, but rejected it for
its carbon footprint. Having read recently that it has become a major
export for Fiji, I'm now torn between environmental outrage and the
desire to support a developing nation's industry.
But sadly,
there is an even stronger argument for resisting it than environmental
impact: it is reputedly the only beverage that Paris Hilton will give
her pet dogs. Well, I suppose a bottle of water would fit neatly in her
handbag alongside them.
On second thoughts, make mine a tapwater.
19 April 2010Reverse
Hitchhiking
Last week,
driving back from Yate down a country lane that coincides for part of its
length with the Cotswold Way, I slow down to read a message on the backpack of
a lone walker: “Land’s End to John O’Groats – for Derby Cancer Research”. I’m intrigued to encounter someone on a
rather longer journey than the horseriders and dogwalkers that are commonplace
on this route. And it’s not the most obvious route between the two famous
points, either.
In 20 years of living near the Cotswold
Way, this is only the second time I’ve come across someone who is including it
in an LE-JOG trek. The first time was
when my husband was stopped by a pair of young lads looking for the local
campsite, which had ceased to exist some years before I moved here. We let them camp in our garden instead, rustled
up an impromptu supper, cooked them a hearty breakfast and filled their
backpacks with snacks to keep them going.
We felt like surrogate parents as we sent them on their way.
This time, I slip the lone walker a few quid
for his sponsorship fund and invite him to make a slight detour to my house for
a cup of tea, giving him my card so that he’ll know the address. I realise it would be cheating if I offered
to drive him there. So this is like hitchhiking
in reverse – stopping to refuse him a lift.
All credit to him, he resists temptation
and continues on his planned route, veering away from the village and cutting
across fields to stick with the Cotswold Way.
Over the next day or two, from time to time I wonder idly how he is
getting on. So I am delighted to
receive, a few days later, a cheery postcard from him, thanking me for my
donation and offer of tea, and giving me his web address so that I can follow
his progress.
And here is a snippet of
his blog:
“I'm
dedicating this walk to the memory of my late brother-in-law Michael, who lost
his fight against cancer in October 2004 aged just 51 years. There is a special magic about the phrase
'Lands End to John O'Groats', conjuring up images of challenge and adventure.
My immediate challenges were planning the route, contacting and booking almost
80 B&B stops, and having to cope with my failing eyesight. Having to retire
early from teaching has allowed me to delight in my favourite passion ....
walking. I've walked several long distance trails, on my own and with friends,
but 2010 is the really big one. I will be walking 1,150 miles in 79 days (11
weeks) ... 15 miles per day. I leave Lands End on March 29th and cross the
'finish line' on June 15th (Lucy's birthday, Mike and Jane's eldest daughter).“
What a very special birthday present that will be for
Lucy.
If you’d like to follow Chris’s progress
too, here is his blog address: http://chrisharringtonwalk.blogspot.com. I'm sure any donations would be very welcome too. Well, you can never have too much cancer
research, can you? 
18 April 2010FISHING FOR
VOTES
Throwing
economy to the winds, I decide to take my daughter to the notoriously expensive
new aquarium in Bristol. The Easter
holidays are nearing their end and that is all the excuse we need.
We spend a nice enough couple of hours
strolling past tanks of all shapes and sizes, learning endearingly odd facts
about fish that make me wonder whether I’ll be able to face eating them ever
again.
But the highlight of the visit is
definitely the 3D film shown in the IMAX theatre. For forty five minutes, we don the obligatory
outsized dark glasses and experience the coral reefs at first hand. Shoals of fish swarm about not only on the
screen but, it seems, all through the auditorium. “Finding Nemo” has nothing on the real thing:
it is completely fascinating. My
daughter is not the only child who is reaching out to try to capture a fish as
it apparently swims past her seat or to
pat a friendly dolphin on the nose. We
are totally convinced that we are in the sea with them and again, this makes me
feel much warmer towards sealife than I’d ever have thought possible.
Halfway through, it occurs to me
that the political party leaders, due that day to make history by facing a live
audience together on television, are missing a trick. If they really want to reach out to us in our
homes, they ought to engineer a joint 3D broadcast. The viewer at home on his sofa would feel so
much more politically engaged. And if he
did feel compelled to punch any particular politician on the nose, well, at
least it would get it out of his system.
A word of warning, though: only a couple of days later, I find myself
tucking in heartily to a distinctly piscatorial dinner , delicious squid as a
starter, followed by a succulent moules marinieres. So perhaps this is not such a wise idea for
the politicians after all.
13 April 2010Let the Sunshine In
What a
difference a week of sunshine makes! On
returning home yesterday after our walking holiday in Wales, the first thing I notice
is that my front garden seems to have exploded.
In a good way, I mean. Having suddenly appeared from nowhere is a deep pink curtain of flowering currant blossom,
theatrically suspended above the front
wall from a bush that seemed so much smaller when its branches were bare. Behind the wall, what had before my departure been bare soil is
now festooned with a tangle of deliciously bright lime-green leaves. This blanket of ground cover is dotted with the violet
starbursts of periwinkle flowers.
In
the back garden what first catches my eye is a triffid-like mass of rhubarb
that I swear wasn’t there last week. A mini forest of thick
deep stems, marbled green and pink, underpin a volcanic eruption of sturdy
curling leaves which look far more healthy and vibrant than should be allowed for
something so notoriously poisonous.
Closer to hand, the grassy bank immediately behind the house is peppered
with yellow and russet primroses, little joyous bursts of colour, random as sparks
from fireworks. Nearby, ancient plum,
chestnut and apple trees that looked quite dead just a week ago now bear
thick buds, their fruit apparently under starters’ orders.
Forget the holiday laundry, I
think to myself, abandoning on the utility room floor the armfuls of clothes
that I’ve just brought in from the camper van.
We’d better get straight out into that garden and take charge, before it
gets the wrong idea of who’s in control here.
There’s clearly not a moment to lose.
I stride back through the house
to call my husband who is busy detaching the bikes from the back of the
van. The sun is sending beams as strong
as spotlights through the flowering currant and into the living room, and I suddenly realise
that it’s not only the plants that have multiplied at logarithmic rate while we’ve been away. I
run my finger along the top of the piano.
Yes, the same has happened to the dust.
Oh well, at least I had a rest
on holiday.
30 March 2010Janet’s
Theory Strikes Again
Compelling
further proof today of my sister-in-law’s theory that the best way to get
something done is to do something else. (See
blog entry for March 4th). I take my
car to be valeted. This is not a moment before time, on two counts. Firstly, a journey with me has lately become increasingly
like travelling inside a speeding wheelie bin.
(I was tempted yesterday to pull over by a van offering a wheelie bin
cleaning service.) Secondly, the valet
service is actually a Christmas present from my husband, and in three days’ time
it will be Easter. In keeping with Janet’s
theory, by finally having the car valeted, I manage to complete not one but
five other tasks:
-
I
finally sort out the toys, books and
colouring pens that have been multiplying around my daughter’s car seat
-
I
get to try out two new coffee shops while I wait for the work to be done
-
While
drinking the coffee, I draft article with an imminent deadline (working at home
yesterday, I allowed the ironing to displace my writing plans)
-
Feeling
I’m stretching the goodwill of the coffee shop proprietors, I also visit the nearest
public library and am able to find the
two books that my usual branch was unable to provide last week
-
And
last, but not least in terms of profitability, the mechanic finds two major items of interest down the side of
the seats – a purple fairy doll of my daughter’s and a nearly-new mobile phone
that I thought I’d lost 18 months ago.
This is
particularly good news for my husband.
As luck would have it, I invested in a new mobile for myself just the
other day, so the rediscovered phone will now be passed on to him, replacing his
current ancient handset. This phone cost me rather more than the valet service has cost him, so this
Christmas, at least, he has made a net profit. And of course I benefit by having an immaculately
clean car.
I wonder what I should request for next year’s
Christmas present?
28 March 2010It’s Not
Them,
It’s Me
On a cold, damp morning, I’m waiting
for the London train to whisk me off for a fab day out with my three best
friends, who I’ve known for longer than any of us care to admit. (Can we really be old enough to have known
anyone that long, even our mothers?)
Warming my hands on my paper cup of coffee, I idly wonder why I now seem to
have so many more friends than when I was working full time. For the first time ever, my daughter's playdates are outnumbered by my own.
And my friends have been turning up like buses, never just one at a time. In the last few weeks I’ve had
emails from former colleagues spanning the last three decades. School
friends from even further back have got in touch, though they now live as far afield as Michigan and Malawi. I’ve spent more quality time with friends closer to
home too. The friendships of a lifetime are snowballing.
What’s going on? Has there been a collision in the space-time
continuum, compressing my life, like a scrapped car, into a tiny cube? Have I won the
lottery, been made a Dame, discovered the secret of eternal youth, mastered
alchemy? I’m not aware of any recent achievement
that might have boosted my popularity.
Standing on the chilly station
platform, I resort to a tactic that helped at work whenever I found
myself wondering why everyone except me was wrong/grumpy/stupid. I was
like the proud mother in the old adage, watching the parade: “My boy is so clever, he’s the only one
marching in step”. A little self-examination would always reveal that the fault lay entirely with me. Once I’d spotted the problem, getting back into the beat was easy.
I decide the same rule applies
to friendship. If you’re feeling
friendless, don’t assume others are unfriendly: you may just be sending out the
wrong vibes. Trudge through life with eyes
downcast, mind on your problems, and you don’t even notice those who want to be
your friend. Look up and reach out, and
your world will be transformed.
It’s never been easier than in
our internet age to rebuild old bonds, catch up with old friends or find new ones. Despatch a few emails, get texting, pick up
the phone – it's easy to invest in your preferred currency of social engagement. As my train pulls in, I realise
that I have been doing this on a grand scale since leaving my job last month. Boy, has it paid dividends. I've even had to buy a bigger diary.
As I hop aboard the train, I think
to myself, not for the first time, that if you want to win the lottery, it
really does help if you buy a ticket.
21 March 2010Harbingers
of Spring
So Spring
is late this year, as the weathermen keep telling us – though you hardly need a
degree in meteorology to have worked that one out.
Snowdrops, usually well over by now, are
still going strong, and we’ve yet to witness the cheery yellow splashes of daffodils
that follow, at least in my hilltop Cotswold village. But today is the first official day of Spring. Will that really make a difference? Does Nature take much notice of red tape?
Well, the first
indicator in Spring’s favour is that it’s dry enough to make it worth pegging washing
on the line. Then our next door
neighbour’s children (and their dog) scramble over the garden wall for the
first time this year. They venture with
my daughter into her outdoor playhouse, untouched since the autumn (barring a
quick spider-check by me). The Famous Four then have
a valiant stab at playing with the sand table, still thoroughly waterlogged
with snowmelt.
But for me
the strongest sign that Spring might at
last be on the way materialises as I prepare Hot Cross Buns for tea - an act that will outrage traditionaists this side of Easter, even though the supermarkets have been touting them since
they marked their Christmas mince pies down for quick sale, but I
do like Hot Cross Buns.
I took the lid
off the butter dish ready for the onslaught.
With my right hand I grabbed a knife from the draining board; my left
hand hand gripped the edge of the block of butter, ready for a struggle. To my surprise, the knife slipped gently down
through the butter and I was able to spread it evenly and effortlessly across
the ready-sliced buns. Who needs
thermometers and barometers when you’ve got a butter dish? Perfectly soft butter: now that’s what I call
a harbinger of Spring.
14 March 2010
Father's Day to Follow
Enjoying my
Mother’s Day cup of tea in bed with my small daughter this morning, we discuss
the nature of this event, once I have finished opening all my cards. I have just the one daughter, but she’s made
enough Mother's Day tributes tto serve a set of quins. Never one to travel light, she has also brought
into my bed three large teddy bears. These
go by unusual names. Diabetic Bear was a helpful free gift from drug
manufacturer Bayer to all newly diagnosed diabetic children, complete with
colourful felt patches to indicate insulin injection sites. Romantic Bear sports a smart oriental karate outfit. Glowy lights up in the dark. Being slightly smaller than the other two,
Glowy is introduced as the daughter of Diabetic Bear, who, because she is a wearing a dress,
must be the mummy. I query whether Romantic
Bear is therefore Glowy’s daddy.
“No, not
yet,” replies Laura, introducing a whole new notion of the family dynamic. “But he might get married to Diabetic Bear
this afternoon.”
How many
marriages would be saved if the mummies had the babies first and then recruited
the daddies, appointing only the most compatible candidate for the post? I think she could be on to something.
“When’s
Father’s Day?” she asks. “How many more
days?”
Though
Mother’s Day is an ancient tradition, I have a feeling that Father’s Day was a
twentieth century invention by Hallmark, always keen to create a new card marketing
opportunity. Pleasingly, it was designated
to fall precisely nine months before Mother’s Day.
“It’s in
June,” is all I choose to tell her.
I look down
at the little collection of treasures spread over the duvet: red handprints
made at Rainbows, a card full of hearts and hugs and kisses created at school,
a colouring sheet completed in the changing room at Gym Club, smuggled into her
kit bag so that I wouldn’t see it before the big day. She cuddles
up closer and gives me a long hug.
Hallmark
really ought to start up a Daughters’ Day, too.
Well, I’d be the first in the queue to buy a card.
8 March 2010Laurel and Laura
Tonight I
have the pleasure of introducing my six year old daughter Laura to Laurel and
Hardy, as together we watch a DVD of their short classic film ‘The Music Box’. This
endearingly silly tale of their attempt to deliver a pianola to a house at the
top of a long flight of steps demonstrates their perfect comic timing and chemistry. It also contains ample reminders that the
silent film era had only just ended, with some of the other characters clearly trained before the spoken word was at their disposal.
At first Laura is bemused by the
monochrome footage.
“I wish it was in colours,” she
says, used to bright Disney Pixar animations.
I explain that when the film was
made, nearly 80 years ago, they only had the technology to make films in black
and white.
“No, Mummy, there’s grey in
there too.”
I have a vivid memory of my
grandfather watching the same film on television about 40 years ago, when black
and white television was all we had. He
was in rosy paroxysms of laughter, as he must have been when he’d first watched
it in his youth. Tonight his great-granddaughter
is in much the same state, totally
immersed in the pair's misadventure as she shrieks in delight at their mistakes.
“You don’t need to do that!” she
shouts, as they lug the piano back down the steps, following the postman’s
advice that they could have brought it up more easily by the sloping approach
road. She leaps to her feet to join in
their tapdance, executed as they unpack the pianola from its wooden case.
At the end of the filmshe is clamouring for
more, but bedtime intervenes, and she has to make do with the promise of
another Laurel and Hardy film tomorrow.
I will look out my ancient video of ‘Way Out West’, featuring that
sublime song and dance routine, ‘The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia’. I remember watching it first at the age of
about 10, squirming with pleasure and anticipation as the first notes struck
up.
Will my great grandchildren watch the comedy favourites of my youth? Morecambe and Wise, The Goodies’ giant kitten, Monty Python’s dead
parrot, Tommy Cooper, Mr Bean, Fawlty Towers? I’d rather put my money on the timeless Laurel
and Hardy than on any of them. Matching their achievement is still the ultimate comic
Holy Grail. But the best double acts aren’t only about comedy: for me, my daughter and I are up
there with the greats.
-------------------
4 March 2010How To
Get Things Done
Tomorrow afternoon
a new friend is coming to visit me at my home.
She hasn’t been to my house before.
I hope to get to know her better and to become good friends, and
this will ensure that my house is cleaned and tidied before she arrives.
This is a striking example of my
sister-in-law’s theory that “The best way to get something done is to do
something else”. Over the last few weeks
the house has been getting progressively dustier, because we ended our contract
with a domestic cleaning company when I gave up my salaried job to go freelance.
Every day since then, there have been plenty of excuses for me to avoid
doing any housework. Apart from the
daily dishwasher cycle and the regular loading and unloading of the washing
machine, there has not been a lot of activity on the housework front. But the promise of a visit from a new friend
that I want to impress will guarantee action stations and a shiny, fragrant
welcome.
On the same principle, I’ve
always found that scheduling a garden party round about the end of June is the
best way to ensure the flowerbeds are weeded, vegetable garden planted, and
garden furniture sparkling clean by midsummer.
I’m always on the look-out for similar formulae to take the pain out of
the more tiresome chores.
But I think I’ll draw the line
at my sister-in-law’s favourite, which slipped out in an unguarded moment at a
dinner party.
“The best way to clean your
nails,” she prescribed brightly, “is to make pastry.”
Suddenly the apple pie she’d
made for our pudding lost its appeal.
------------------------------------------------
1 March 2010
Walking on Sunshine
On the
first sunny day of the Spring, I fall into the trap that awaits all
freelancers: distraction from my work. When
my next door neighbour invites me to join her and her dog for a walk, I can’t
resist. Soon we are enjoying a delightful stroll through a local valley. Although we are not exactly exerting
ourselves, it is so warm that we stride
along with our jackets wrapped around our waists, gloves and hats redundant in
our pockets. The cloudless blue sky and
warm sunshine convince us that we’ve skipped a month or two and we half expect to
see blossom on the trees. On our return
home, we lounge on a garden bench, savouring a cup of tea and admiring her newly
laid patio and planning suitable spring planting schemes. Around lunchtime, I slink back
to my desk, muscles tingling, cheeks glowing, but feeling distinctly guilty for
bunking off so early in the week. The
guilt is fuelled by the knowledge that before long I’m due up at my daughter’s
school to attend a talk by the local council’s Play Officer. He delights us all by telling us that Health
and Safety jobsworths have been sent packing, and in a remarkable volte-face, the council will now be
positively encouraging children to take risks at play. Only games that offer a risk of death will be
off limits.
“If a school doesn’t produce a broken
limb every now and again, it probably means they’re not offering the right kind
of play,” he assures us.
And there is better yet to
come.
“It is now scientifically proven
that free play causes the body to release a hormone that stimulates brain
development.”
Now that is good news. I can
scientifically justify having skived off for my sunny morning walk: it was all
in the cause of boosting my creativity. It
might even count as training. I think I like
this man. I just hope it’s not my daughter
that gets to break a leg.
----------------------------
26 February 2010Losing It
It’s the
moment that every supermarket shopper dreads – getting to the checkout, packing all the
scanned groceries into the bags, reaching for the debit card to pay and – oh my
god, where is that debit card?
And so I
manage to bring the queue to a grinding halt in Morrison’s tonight. I
quickly realise that no matter how many times I trawl through my purse full of
plastic, my Smile debit card is not going to materialise.
I change tack and try to negotiate. How about if I phone my husband and he tells
them his credit card number over the phone? The supervisor, who by now has been summoned by the cashier, purses her
lips and shakes her head. For a moment I
ponder how many points I’ve earned yet on my Morrisons Fuel Card, then remember
that last time I filled my car up the cashier said that they’ll tell me when I’ve
reached a fiver’s worth. And the grocery
bill is £85.
Pathetically,
I tip my purse upside down and scrabble together £59 in cash. I consider the contents of my trolley and
realise that I’m in with a chance here.
If I whittle the contents down, I may be able to pay the bill after all.
First to be sacrificed
will have to be the highest value items - the alcohol that I have just carefully assembled to match my Spanish
themed dinner party tomorrow night – 3 bottles of Cerveza, half a dozen of
assorted Catalonian wine. This is annoying on
two counts – firstly, because I have just spent ages in the wine aisle reading
all the labels and choosing the bottles that are most reminiscent of my recent
jaunt to Barcelona, and secondly,
because this is the first time since before Christmas that I have done a
serious amount of wine-buying - we are practically teetotal in our house these
days, and I was really looking forward to a glass of wine this evening.
Amazingly, after the cashier has
reverse-scanned these eight bottles, the bill comes to exactly £59. Reluctantly I trundle off with my much
reduced trolley, admitting defeat. I
think someone up there somewhere is trying to tell me something.
------------------------------------------
25 February 2010
If You Want
Something Done,
Ask a Busy Person
I thought
there were two certainties when I left my job two weeks ago:
1) I would miss the adrenalin-charged
days I was used to at work
2) I would finally have a chance to
catch up on the ironing
So why am I now feeling the need to lie down in a darkened room to recover from a whirlwind of activity? Here is an outline of what I did today:
1) Got
my daughter ready for school and walked her to school
2) Cooked
breakfast for my husband (yes, he is spoiled)
3) Attended
my first ever yoga class
4) Enjoyed
a cup of tea and a chat with my next-door neighbour
5) Savoured
a sociable “Lenten Lunch” at the Methodist Hall
6) Called
in at the village hairdressers to check on the secondhand
books that I left there last month for sale in aid of the PTA
7) Distributed
flyers for next week’s PTA Pledge Auction
8) Cooked
lunch for my husband, working out the carbohydrate content of the meal and advised
him of the right insulin dose
9) Attended
a Parents’ Drop-In Session at the Village School to discuss computer issues
10) Collected
my daughter from her after-school Story Club
11) Emailed
a friend with a string of ideas for a sponsorship campaign for her extremely
gifted son, an Olympic hopeful who is not letting type 1 diabetes stand in the
way of his ambition
12) Booked
tickets for the Blondie concert at the Arboretum as a birthday treat for my
brother
13) Reserved
a place on a creative writing course this Sunday
14) Took
my daughter to her gym club and enjoyed a chat over a cup of tea there with a
friend
15) Met
my sister for dinner at Frankie & Benny’s
16) Put
my daughter to bed and read her two stories
17) Checked
my online bank account and email inbox
18) Phoned
my mum to fill her in on the day’s events
So much for missing adrenalin. And in fact I was wrong on both counts: I still haven’t
done the ironing.
---------------------
17 February 2010The Perfect Job
Strolling
down The Ramblas in Barcelona, the leafy pedestrian thoroughfare that slices
through this great city, we can’t help but fall into the traps that have been
laid for the unwary tourist. Passing by the
many living statues, we toss coins liberally into their collection boxes.
The statues are spectacular and imaginative,
ranging from all-white classical Romans in togas to space-age superheroes. There is a diminutive Charlie Chaplin, a
giant baby in a pram, a man with two heads and another with no head at all,
employing the same clever technique as the invisible man that we (didn’t) see
in the Park Guell. A particular
favourite is what seems at first to be an abandoned fruit stall. As soon as we look at it, a fruit-covered man
emerges from the display where he has been effectively camouflaged, holding out
a fruit-bedecked hat for Laura to wear for a photo.
Laura is entranced, if a little
wary. The more experienced statues know
how to overcome children’s shyness and proffer coloured glass beads and marbles
to encourage them. I find the marble
policy particularly pleasing as Laura is diabetic. In any case, if they were offering sweets, the whole
proposition would seem rather seedy.
We also encounter musicians on
the Metro, to which Laura obligingly dances.
She is hoping for a Spanish flamenco dress as a souvenir and is
certainly meriting one on her performance.
The quality of the music is very high – a delicate rendition of Bach on
a mandolin, cocktail lounge favourites courtesy of duetting guitarists, soothing
Sinatra from a trumpeter. Again, I’m
easily parted from my money.
Soon I am slipping any coins I
receive as change into my trouser pocket, for ease of access whenever we pass
another street performer. When we
encounter any plain common-or-garden beggars, of which there are plenty, I am hardened
to their entreaties.
“Can’t you put a little more
effort into your act?” I want to say to them.
“Show a little creativity, won’t you?
The competition is pretty stiff, you know.”
The sun comes out and we head
for the beach, happy to pass a couple of hours making sandcastles for Laura’s
Polly Pocket dolls. We gather tiny pebbles,
driftwood and sea-smoothed glass to make Gaudi-inspired mosaics as decoration.
Finally, after dipping our toes in the
Mediterranean – still quite cold, despite the 20 degree heat of the day – we head
back along the promenade, passing magnificent sand sculptures, each the work of
a young African man lurking nearby.
There is a wonderful castle with high arches. “How does he get sand to
levitate?” I wonder. And a
waterfall. “A concealed pump,” my
husband surmises. The sculptor has
clearly come well prepared. A giant dog,
very simple but vast, pleases my daughter, though she gives a basking sand
crocodile a wide berth. Cue for more
redistribution of my wealth. I’m all out
of coins by the time we leave the beach.
Laura has fallen into a quiet,
pensive state.
“Perhaps I won’t be an artist or
an inventor when I grow up,” she confides eventually. “I think I know what I want to be now. I’ll be a person who makes a model and people
have to put money in their tin.”
Relaxing in the late afternoon
sunshine, as we stroll back to our hotel, I decide that she is definitely on to
something.
----------------------
16 February 2010Communal
Living
Sharing a
kitchen and bathroom with the other hotel guests in Barcelona turns out to be not so bad after
all. In fact, to my surprise, I rather
like it. It brings back happy memories
from 30 years ago. When I was at university, the communal kitchens encouraged students
to befriend each other and to develop their social skills, although these sometimes
manifested themselves in curious ways.
Most fridges, for example, included at least one bottle that bore the
legend “I have spat in this milk” to discourage unauthorised borrowing.
The shared kitchens brought
out the best in people. If somebody looked
depressed, the others in the kitchen would try to cheer them up. If anyone was too broke to buy groceries, they’d be given a bit of someone else's meal. We’d often sit
up around the kitchen table until the early hours, solving the world’s
problems with the confidence that only youth can bring.
I remember one night, on returning to our
hall of residence, my boyfriend and I thought we’d spotted a suicide in a third
floor kitchen. Neither of us had ever seen a dead body and
our hearts pounded at the thought, but we know where our duty lay. We ran up the four flights of stairs two at a
time. It was an overwhelming relief to
find it was just an empty lab coat hung up in the window, drying in the post-teatime
heat.
In my three
years at university, I had only two truly bad experiences of shared kitchen
living. Once was when my friend Dave went
home for the weekend, leaving a bag of sprouts locked in his kitchen cupboard. They must have been past their best before he’d
even boarded the London coach. As a
chemistry student, he might have anticipated the unutterable stench that would
develop as they decayed. Never mind the
old prawns behind the radiator trick, the urban mythical revenge of wronged
wives against their husband’s mistress - a net of aging sprouts would be my weapon of choice any day. This smell of rotting brussels has a
Proustian Madeleine effect for me even now, though not in a good way.
The second kitchen trauma also left a scar for life. It occurred one December morning in
1980, when I was looking forward to a special breakfast treat. I put my frying pan on the Baby Belling to heat up and crossed the room to the fridge. The
news was playing on the radio in the background. I took no notice of it until an anguished cry
went up from my boyfriend. John Lennon
had been shot dead by a stranger outside his apartment in New York. Only if it had been his favourite Beatle, Paul
McCartney, could Peter have been more devastated. As for me, my tragedy was far greater: some
bastard had stolen my bacon.
--------------------------------
15 February 2010Willkommen,
Bienvenue, Hola
For our
half-term trip to Barcelona, departing on Valentine’s Day, we have booked a low-budget
hotel via the internet. I am slightly
anxious when my husband tells me we must share a bathroom with other guests,
and that on arrival, we are to call a
mobile number when we are 10 minutes away to summon an unnamed person who will meet
us there. Obediently, but with some
trepidation, we put a Euro in a phone box outside the Passeig de Gracia Metro
station and make contact. The stranger tells
us to wait in the doorway and he will be there in 20. So mysterious does he seem, we would not have
been surprised had he asked us to wear a red carnation and carry a copy of
yesterday’s Times.
The red carnation would actually
not have been a problem, as the doorway in which we must loiter is next to a
florists, just closing as we arrive. Trying to avoid the chilly drizzle that has
been falling since our plane touched down, we watch the shopkeeper clear the
pavement of unsold Valentine’s tributes.
Some intriguingly heart-shaped cacti immediately transfix my small
daughter and bemuse me. What kind of
message would it send to your beloved to give her a plant that lives in the
most inhospitable conditions, withstanding freezing nights and scorching days
that would cause most other plants to shrivel and die? I suppose it could be taken to indicate
inextinguishable love, but I, for one, would rather have a nice bunch of roses
any day.
The hotel turns out to be an
ancient, vast second-floor apartment with six rooms leading off a common
hallway. At the far end is a lobby from
which hang two bathrooms, a dining room, a lounge, a sitting room backing onto
vast windows, a kitchen and a large terrace.
The layout, allowing the residents to spy legitimately on their
neighbours’ comings and goings, reminds me very much of the room rented by
Sally Bowles in Cabaret (my favourite film of all time, so the association for
me is a good one). Instead of being filled with dark and heavy
Germanic furniture, it is equipped entirely from Ikea.
The plumbing is equally low budget and the toilets
require careful handling. A certain
rite of passage is experienced by all new residents, who discover that in order
to flush, you must turn on the tap beside the cistern to replenish its water
tank. Otherwise, the cistern remains
empty and no amount of energetic button-pressing will make it work. By day two of our stay, there is an unspoken
agreement by all tenants to leave the cover off the cisterns so that the empty
tank acts as a reminder of the required routine.
However, we are so tired from our journey and so
pleased to be in Barcelona that our spirits remain high. We settle down for a good night’s sleep.
The subsequent cold morning delivers a new revelation
about the flat, when we work out, simultaneously with the Dutch family in the
six-bed room next door, that when we turn on the oil-filled radiator, the
bedside lights go out. We put on another
layer of clothing and leave it to the inevitably multilingual Dutch father to
harangue the landlord on his mobile.
That evening, when we return after a rainy day’s
sightseeing, the Dutch family are valiantly playing cards around the dining
room table under which they have placed their room’s oil-filled radiator. They’ve spread a blanket over the table to
trap the heat around their legs. A resourceful
nation, the Dutch, but they do not look
very happy.
Later in the
evening, a loose pipe disconnects itself from the toilet as I assist my small
daughter, sending a fountain of water across the room and drenching the flat’s
entire stock of toilet rolls. I’m
tempted to call in the Dutch contingent to fix the leak like the little boy who
put his finger in the dyke to save his country, but I think they are not in the
right frame of mind to be teased. Next
morning they cheer up considerably with the arrival of an electrician and a
large pile of blankets. Even better, the
sun begins to shine.
-----------------------
12 February 2010
Debbie Young Has Left the Building
Well,that's that. After 13 years, I've finally leapt off the treadmill of my salaried job and jumped on to the rollercoaster of life as a freelance. Time now to reboot my brain, erase the files that are surplus to requirements and make space to record all that my new status will bring. It's time to break all those habits, from the 6.30am alarm to the 6.30pm restorative glass of wine, and to go where my fancy takes me. I might even throw away my watch.
There will be no updates to this blog for the next week, then I'll be back and raring to go - so please do come back to visit. In the meantime, happy half term, everyone. Oh, I forgot - I don't need to think in terms anymore. This rebooting may take a little longer than I had anticipated .
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11 February 2010
On the Eve
of My Last Day at Work
Dr Who and
I have a lot in common. Every now
and again, we can’t help it, we just have to regenerate. I’ve reinvented myself
several times during my adult life: I’ve been married, widowed, married again,
then become a mother. In career
terms too: a journalist, a PR consultant, a marketeer. All along, it’s been the same old me
underneath, but I've just added another layer, an extra dimension. I’ve just evolved a little bit further.
I feel
quite a lot like Mary Poppins, too. No matter
how much I’ve loved my current job – I’ve danced on the rooftops, fed the
birds, tidied the nursery, ridden the carousel – I know in my heart that it’s time
to slip away and move on. And while Jane and Michael Banks might think they can’t
function without me, not only will they manage, but soon they won’t miss me at all. I’ve
imparted sufficient wisdom. My work here is done.
I’ve had a sign in my office for some years
that says “When your heart speaks, take good notes”. (Not far from the one that says “The Romans
didn’t build an empire by having meetings – they did it by killing everyone who
opposed them.”)
The thing is, no matter how much you
enjoy the carousel ride, sometimes you just want to get off and have a go on
the dodgems. And in a few hours’ time, I’m going to climb
aboard.
--------------
10 February 2010Dressing
Down
Two days
to go before I leave my job and I cast a critical eye over my wardrobe, earmarking
my dark green suit for the charity shop.
I’ve vowed never again to have a job for which I have to power-dress, so
a suit will definitely be surplus to requirements.
I’m planning to go through my whole wardrobe next
week and prune it down. It’s too full of
dull black tops and brown jumpers, crowding out the things I really love to
wear: soft, comfortable vests and cuddly, yielding cord or denim skirts in
lush, lively colours – watermelon, lime, sky blue. When I’m my own person, after Friday, I’m
going to dress just for me. So charity
shop here I come.
I’ve always
fancied a capsule wardrobe, but in its present state, a warehouse would be more
appropriate. Reducing my clothes on the
old 80:20 principle will make getting dressed so much simpler and quicker. Actually,
it’s probably more like 95:5 in my case – a tiny 5% of my clothes certainly get
95% of the action.
This streamlining won’t
solve all my sartorial problems, though: I’ve just discovered I’ve been wearing
my brown jumper back to front all day.
Never mind, at my current rate of progress, getting progressively more
casual as my day of departure approaches, by Friday I’ll be pitching up at work
in my pyjamas. Well, that will certainly
brighten up the office.
-------------------
7 February 2010A TWO-SHEET
SOLUTION
With just a
week to go before I leave my salaried job, my thoughts have turned to our
household economy. I will have to find
ways of saving money.
This idea does not upset me. In fact I am looking forward to the
challenge. Ever the optimist, I
anticipate that I will find an upside to enforced frugality. Already I have become addicted to a certain
cut-price supermarket chain whose cheap goods have an appealing exoticism. My
weekly shop now feels like a lightning tour of mainland Europe. It is exciting
to pick up a product which lists its ingredients in 20 different languages. It is refreshing to see that the manufacturer
has not assumed that English is more important than the other, showing a sort
of inverse imperialism.
Poring over the supermarket till receipt, I am
reminded of a conversation with my grandmother who, in preparation for my
grandfather’s retirement, was rehearsing aloud to me one day the economies that
she planned to make.
“I will use two sheets of lavatory paper
instead of three,” she confided.
Even then, at the age of 8, I was impressed by
the elegant simplicity of this solution.
At a stroke, Grandma had sliced a third off her future toilet tissue budget. This logic could be rolled out right across
her storecupboard. Sharing a teabag between two mugs instead of allocating one each will halve your tea costs. A level teaspoon of sugar instead of a rounded cuts a quarter off. Substitute sherbet pips for sherbet lemons –
my goodness, on a one-to-or one basis, you are
talking about an 80% saving at least.
This system would work equally well with fuel. Instead of keeping the usual three lamps on
in the dining room, turn on only two – hey presto, a third off your dinner-time lighting bill. Use an inch less water in the bath, and you've got a 10% cut but you'll still be just as clean.
I have always wondered why climate campaigners
don’t adopt this sensible system for saving energy. If only everyone would just use less power, there’d be no need to do battle over controversial
wind turbines or nuclear power plants. It just takes a little effort and
imagination. There would be unexpected
benefits too. Turn off the lights while
you’re watching television, for example, and you'd gain the atmosphere and
excitement of a cinema. Add a box of
popcorn (home- made, of course, for a matter of pence – and healthy into the bargain), and you’re
set up for a very cheap and environmentally-friendly evening in.
I am therefore ready to embrace this economy
business wholeheartedly. At least, until my husband emerges from the
bathroom that I’ve just stocked with multilingually-labelled toilet paper (10
rolls for £1, what a bargain!)
“I hope you’re not economising on toilet paper?”
he pleads, a pained look on his face.
And I haven’t even told him yet that he’s only
allowed two sheets.
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4 February 2010
To Thine
Own Self Be True
In
preparation for an imminent city break, I dig out my passport to make sure it’s
still in date. I know it’s due to expire
sometime this year and I hope it wasn’t last month. Relieved to find I can roam the world till October
if I want to, I go on to check other details.
To my surprise, I discover there‘s no space marked “Occupation”. Shouldn’t there be one?
Or is it an
urban myth that you once had to state your
job on your passport? I’m sure I’ve
heard of business travellers who had to maintain two passports, one to enter Israel, the
other for Palestine, and of journalists treated like spies at certain
borders, even if they worked for Knitting
Monthly. (“A cunning disguise, Mr
Bond.”)
There used to
be a space for “distinguishing features”, too.
A friend was mercilessly teased on a school exchange trip because his father
had put down “freckles” on his - hardly the stuff of wanted posters. But no more. So I won’t have the opportunity to draw attention to the impressive scar
I recently acquired on my wrist going down a
helter-skelter with my daughter. But I do mourn the
fact that I won’t have the chance to put “Writer” on my new passport – so much
more exciting than all my previous job
titles put together.
Until now, I
have resented the fact that your paid occupation was often taken as shorthand for
your whole person, as if it was the most important thing about you: as immovable
as the letters on a stick of rock. Why
should you list yourself as a dustman if you’re a poet at heart? There may be more demand for empty bins than
rhyming couplets, but that doesn’t make it the more important occupation.
But now
that my passion and my day job will be one and the same, and I’m about to become
what I always wanted to be when I grew up, I’d even wear my occupation as a tattoo if I
had to (and I really, really don’t like tattoos).
From now on,
whenever I’m filling in forms, I’ll be completely at one with the word I put in
the occupation box. I’ve
come out of the closet at last. I’ve revealed
the secret that has been hidden for so long, like Superman’s red and yellow logo,
beneath my shirt - except mine begins with a W, not an S.
So what occupation is
in your closet? Go on, take a look. You know you want to.
---------------------
2 February 2010
Garden Birds: The Perfect Pets
We are not
doing well with pets in our household. The sudden death of Ginger the guinea pig halved our pet population two weeks ago. The day before Christmas Eve, Grace had to be
put to sleep. She was the last of six cats that I’ve had in this house. Actually I’ve
had 7 cats here, if you count Fluffy.
This sweet-natured grey moved in one winter, a tangle of grubby fur with
runny eyes. He lived in the utility room while the resident cats got used to
him. We nursed him through cat flu, clipped
and combed his matted coat, and had him neutered. And then we discovered he belonged to a
neighbour.
Needless to
say, she wasn’t the ideal pet owner. She
had once given us two tabby and white kittens from her cat’s litter. Then a few
days later she bought a ginger one. Apparently she had rejected the others because they were the wrong colour. I'd never come across apartheid in cats before.
She’d once
had a cage of budgies and left them to fend for themselves while she went on
holiday to Spain. Budgies not being
renowned for their self-sufficiency, there are no prizes for guessing how many of
them were still alive to admire her souvenir straw donkey. (Now, that was
an ideal pet for her.)
So, as you can
see, my experiences have rather put me off the acquisition of further pets,
despite my small daughter’s requests. (Strange
how often “a dog” appears on my shopping list when I’m not looking.)
But during
the recent snow, it struck me that the
answer was on my doorstep.
Literally. Outside the back door
there would gather every day a little assortment of garden birds. Not many at first, in these freezing conditions, but when I began to
throw out a few daily scraps, they started to show a bit of loyalty. They’d pop back
to visit every day, bringing a friend or
two or three.
This
started to become a habit.
As time went
by, I added a few treats for variety.
A few brazils and walnuts (well, it was Christmas), some scraps of bacon, the fat from the drip tray of what my sister-in-law memorably referred to
as a George Formby grill. (For a split second
I was impressed that the great banjo player could also cook.) Soon I was starting to cut the crusts off my
daughter’s toast a little wider, to give my friends the birds a bigger
share.
During the Second
World War, it was illegal to feed scraps to birds. Only traitors wasted food – in the days of
rations, the threat of starvation seemed far too close to home. Anyone caught slipping the odd crust to birds would be prosecuted and fined. But now I could see why they’d have taken the
risk. I’d have ended up hungry and broke.
Three
additional great things about feeding garden birds. Firstly, you get to feel really virtuous in
return for practically no effort or expense. Secondly, within their species, for the most part, they all look
alike. So if five sparrows turn up one day,
and five the next, you assume they are the same five come back to visit you,
as loyal friends. Really, you’ll never know the difference.
(We probably all look alike to them too.) All five could have died, and you won't need to mourn them. And
if they do all die, you are fairly safe that another five – or more – will
quickly come along to take their place, free of charge. And third, you won't find a puppy dog anywhere that will sing you a better song.
What better household pet can there be? Adopt
the garden birds as your pets, and you’ll never find yourself in a pet shop trying to
match your child's dead blackbird's markings with those of a live one. There’ll be no small grave to dig if one bird bites
the dust; no silk scarf to provide for its funeral. No more cages to clean, no litter trays to empty, no dubious smells, no fur on the sofa. And there’s more or less an endless supply of them.
Now all I have to do is think of an infinite
number of names.
-----------------------
31January 2010I Could Have Been That Gangster's Moll
My ex-boyfriend is wanted by
Interpol. The FBI would also like to catch up with him. And there
are a few thousand investors who would like to do more than shake him by the
hand.
I find this extremely
gratifying. Not so long ago, I was sorting out some newspapers with which
to line my cat’s litter tray. A broadsheet
fluttered open to reveal a face and a name that I knew. Under the banner “Business Big Shot” was the
name and photo of this old high school boyfriend.
I'd dated him briefly, never seen him once since leaving school, and suddenly, here he
was, a Business Big Shot, large as life (which was pretty large, at 6’6”) and with a
fortune to match.
His parents had been pretty wealthy
too. My father jokes that one night when
he came to pick me up from their house, he made the mistake of parking at the
wrong end: it was a long walk to the
front door.
Big Shot’s father was self-made,
a plumber by trade, and expected his sons to be successful too.
“It doesn’t matter that he
doesn’t write well, he’ll have a secretary to do that for him,” he remarked to a
teacher who had criticized his son’s homework.
And sadly, he was right. Big Shot had gone on to set up and run a
successful investment company, gaining the trust of many clients. He had married, bought himself a smart island
home in the Med, and was now, according to the newspaper report, being sued for
a sumptuous divorce settlement .
“I could have been that
ex-wife!” I thought with a sudden pang of regret.
And Big Shot he was in more
ways than one. He had recently been gunned down in South
America, supposedly for refusing to part with his Rolex. Well, at his size, he’d be an easy target.
But since the newspaper report appeared, I've had an update from a mutual friend, the teacher who has
never forgiven Big Shot’s father’s misogyny.
It seems Big Shot is a target once more, this time for the police. He pulled the rug from his company overnight, fled with his clients’ millions in his pocket and has never been seen
again. He has left many lives and many fortunes in ruins.
So I'm now very pleased that
I gave my cat the opportunity to express its own opinion on the newspaper
article about him.
----------------------------------------
28 January 2010
In Defence of My Pyjamas
A great news item on the Today progamme this morning about a Tesco store in Cardiff banning customers who are wearing their pyjamas, "in case it offends other customers". Apparently there is a trend among young mums to wear pyjamas all day. On the evening news, a lady makes an eloquent tribute to pyjamas as comfortable, well-made, easy to launder, cheap, colourful, appealing to the wearer's children and so on. By the end of the article, it is hard to resist the argument and one begins to understand why young mums are spending all day in them, not bothering to change if they have to pop out for a pint of milk.
I am particularly gratified by this article because I spent a large part of the Christmas holidays in mine (and not only because I had two rather smart pairs as gifts). Having been snug and warm in them all night, and intending to do nothing more energetic than a bit of gentle pottering around the house, hiding from the snow, there seemed no good reason for getting dressed. It drove my husband mad. (So there' s a further justification for keeping them on.)
Of course, just wearing pyjamas is not in itself a sign of indolence. Despite being on two weeks' holiday, I'd be up every day by 8am, make hot drinks for us all, empty the dishwasher, load the washing machine, tidy up, write a letter or two, check my emails, feed the guinea pigs, break the ice on the birdbath, putout scraps for the birds - all before my husband and daughter were out of bed. As I was just about to sit down to catch my breath, my husband would trudge downstairs, having done nothing more strenuous than drink the tea I'd made, and claim the moral high ground because he was dressed.
What is it about pyjamas that makes people brand the wearer lazy? They would have to be an excellent disguise for a spy. No-one would think for a moment that they might be on active service. Perhaps those Tesco store detectives had better look out.
-------------------------------
25 January 2010
Virtual Giving
Sorting through my daughter's toys to find things for her school's Haiti benefit sale, I make a mental note to invite fewer children to her next birthday party. The last one was in May, but there is still a shelf full of presents that she hasn't yet played with. I surreptitiously drop a few items into an opaque carrier bag, hoping she won't notice. Not that I mind the parties. I will happily host a couple of dozen children, organise races in the garden, and serve up a hearty tea, but I dislike the obligatory present that serves as an uofficial entry fee to every child's party. It would be unthinkable to turn up without one. And I would have to be a heartless mother indeed to put on the invitations "no presents please".
It would be so much tidier, easier and cheaper if we could persuade our children to exchange cyber-presents instead of the real thing, as is currently the vogue on Facebook. I haven't yet got the hang of it myself, but it seems that if you play certain online games, you can win gifts to forward to your friends. A kitten, some freshly baked cookies, a bunch of forget-me-nots, a share of some buried treasure, a heart - I have received all of these things lately. They are touching gifts and are particularly welcome because they bring with them no responsibiity. I can enjoy my kitten without having to clean out cat litter. The cookies won't trouble my conscience or my waistline. And I don't need to find a transplant surgeon to make sure the heart doesn't go to waste.
If only we could apply the same technology to the tradition of children's party gifts. It would save an awful lot of time, trouble and wrapping paper. And children would come up with much more imaginative gifts than on Facebook. My daughter would give things like a unicorn, a flying carpet and a pink kitten. I'd like to add the Wishing Chair from the Enid Byton books - how cool a present would that be?
If everyone adapted this virtual giving, the whole birthday thing would be so much less fraught.
But then, the Haiti sale would not have done anywhere near as well.
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24 January 2010Crocs R Us
One of the things I am most looking forward to about going freelance is wearing Crocs every day if I feel like it.
I've never been fond of trainers, and before the arrival of Crocs, I alternated between boots and sandals, according to the time of year. But Crocs (and the numerous cheap imitations) could have been invented especially for me: liberating, comfortable, practical in all weathers, not requiring socks, and available in every colour, from camouflage to brash.
It's not just the feel or the look of them that I like. There's also something very levelling about them that appeals to my left-wing leanings. Go into a hospital and you will find them on the feet of all kinds of people, from the lowliest porter to a top surgeon, all of them hooked on their comfort.
You can also use Crocs to express a certain rebelliousness against conformity and expectation. A school lab technican I know chooses to offset his crisp white coat and top pocketful of pens with a wildly mismatched pair: one orange, one lime green (and yes, before you ask, he does have another pair at home just like them). From the ankles up he's sensible; lower down, he's mad as a box of frogs that have just been disected by Year 9.
Crocs are an antidote to snobbery and a welcome escape from the tyranny of the business suit and sensible shoes. They put two fingers up (or should that be toes?) to the pain and challenge of balancing on spiky fashion stilettos. I bet Germaine Greer likes Crocs. If footbinding is at one extreme of podiatral fashion, Crocs are at the other. With my size 8s having rather missed the small-is-beautiful boat of fashion, it's no wonder that I'm hooked on Crocs. My only footwear decision each morning from now on will be which of my many pairs of Crocs to choose - scarlet, lime, navy, black, orange... Or, like my lab technician friend, perhaps I'll just ring the changes. They say that doing something different every day fuels creative thinking. Even if it does frighten the horses in the streets.
Footnote: this blog has not been sponsored by Crocs. Other holey plastic shoes are available. No feet were harmed in the writing of this blog.
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23 January 2010
A Good Excuse to Eat Maltesers
Every winter, the same discussion:Me: "When I came home today, there were 6 lights left on around the house. Why can't you ever turn off a light? The electricity bill is quite high enough without wasting it."
Him: "Don't waste your time worrying about the lights. Why do you keep leaving heaters on?"
Me: "To stop it getting cold. To keep the house aired. To prevent those black spots growing in cold corners."
Him: "If you want to keep the electricity bill down, turn off the heaters. These low energy lights cost next to nothing to run. It's keeping the heaters on that costs the money."
Me:"Yes, but if you leave enough lights on, that will cost a lot too."
Him: "Nowhere near as much as the heaters."
And so on... These discussions in themselves must be energy saving, because we both feel quite heated by the end of them (though I have yet to find a way of making them generate light as well).
But it occurs to me later, (and far too late to count as a witty, argument-winning riposte), that if you follow his logic, you can create a convincing reason for not worrying about eating small chocolates. Because it's only the jumbo Toblerones that are going to make me fat. The odd Malteser is as nothing - as are five, or six, or seven...
A delayed, but a worthwhile, victory.
-------------------------------------------------
22 January 2010 What's Going on
in my Wardrobe?
Something is happening to my clothes. Ever since I made the decision to quit my day job to concentrate on my writing, all the dark colours seem to have disappeared, and I am stepping out in ever brighter and cheerier clothes. It can't be the effect of spring. It's still very definitely winter, even though the snow has gone. My lightweight clothes are still in their annual hibernation, under the bed, and several layers each day are essential. A couple of months ago, all I could find in my wardrobe to wear was black, brown and, when feeling relatively frivolous, perhaps I'd go mad and add a touch of grey. Now, all the acid greens and watermelon pinks are somehow leaping off the hangers at me. And today I felt the need to dust off my sunglasses. It's got to be a good omen.
---------------------
21 January 2010The Emoticon Is Not Mightier
than the Sword
Intrigued to hear an academic state on the radio this morning that 80% of communication in any conversation is non-verbal. The actual words used apparently account for only 20% of the message. Body language, intonation, volume, speed of delivery - all of these can make a substantial difference to how the message is perceived. What a handicap this presents for any writer. How can the written word compete? Especially these days, when virtually all letters are typed or emailed.
In the golden day of the handwritten letter, when a postcard sent at breakfast time could be read by the recipient over lunch, the style of writing could add much to the words. Neatness, pressure on the page, slant - all of these would indicate to the reader the mood and tone of the writer. Before emails supplanted my regular exchange of letters with friends, I could tell just by looking at the envelope of one friend's letters whether he was happy or sad when he wrote it.
Not so with emailed updates. It's not that there aren't expressive options available, but most people just don't think to use them. Most software packages provide a wide enough range of typefaces to allow one to assume all kinds of personalities and moods. Comic Sans for the affectedly childlike, Impact for the attention-seeker; Curlz MT for the zany - the list is endless.
Of all the many typefaces, I
rather favour Courier - a good old-fashioned typewriter font, retro and
romantic (just like me). You will see it on the left menu here, if your
computer is up for it. But this body copy is in Arial - a clean, crisp
sans serif face that's easier on the eye for lengthier text, and also
dependable for consistent display on different kinds of monitors.
At the touch of a button, you can also choose your point size - 18 for the extrovert, 8 for the profoundly depressed. Weight, too, speaks volumes - extra bold is for Angry of Tunbridge Wells. And then of course there is the ever-growing selection of the dreaded emoticons, which distil human feeling down to mindless caricatures. You won't find any more on this website. (Oh, and I almost forgot - there's underlining.) Where will it all end? (Ed: Here.)
--------------------------
20 January 2010If it's Wednesday,
it must be snowing
Rather startled this morning to find when I open the wooden shutters in my bedroom that the world has turned white once again. I cannot remember any other time in my life in which it would have been possible to say by this stage in January "It's snowed every Wednesday this year". If I had the vaguest notion of how to go about it, I would be tempted to dash down to the nearest betting shop and put a wager on next Wednesday's weather. The odds against it snowing again would have to be tremendous and therefore the potential winnings vast. If only I'd thought of this last week
I wonder whether it's a new and unexpected pattern of global warming emerging. Wintry every Wednesday, thunderstorms on Thursdays, frost on Fridays, sunshine for Saturdays. That degree of predictability would be dead handy.
"If it's snowing, it must be Wednesday." There's something very comforting about sweeping statements, and it strikes me that January is rather a good month for them. Plenty of people would be able to say, hand on heart, a week or two into the month, that they have been completely sober all year long. Ask them again on, say, Valentine's Day, and you would hear barely a murmur. On January 3rd, I was able to complain with conviction "This year has been awful so far, we've had to make an emergency dash to the doctor's every single day", thanks to a virus that sent my daughter's temperature high enough to melt any snow within a substantial radius. Glad that particular sweeping statement soon ceased to be valid.
-----------------------------
19 January 2010 Orderly Conduct
This evening I decide to go public and announce my new employment status on Facebook. Spend some time responding to jolly birthday messages sent to me yesterday. I wallow in the surprised comments of those who thought that if my birthday ended in a 0 (as announced the day before), it must have started with a 4. Share the news with them that one colleague assumed I was leaving work to have a baby. Only later do I realise that this particular colleague does not wear glasses. Yet. Resolve to keep a wide berth if I spot her at the wheel of a car.
Also notice properly for the first time that as all my Facebook friends are listed in alphabetical order by Christian name, my best friend from my last school, Aaren, will always be ranked at the top, unless I suddenly befriend an aardvark (and one that has a Facebook account, at that). So glad I decided not to name my daughter Zoe.
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18 January 2010Birthday Thoughts & Diabetes
I've got a big birthday with a 0 on the end of it today, and happy it certainly is.
Working on the embryonic links page of this website, I realise that if I add all those that are currently floating around in my head, I will soon give the game away that I have a complete butterfly mind. So I think I had better prioritise.
At the top of this list of priorities will be the JDRF website. (Note to self: don't forget to let them know, just in case they want to add a hotlink to mine - inbound links are so good for raising your profile on search engines.)
What's JDRF? It's a fabulous charity with a global network raising money to find a cure for juvenile diabetes. This lifelong illness is becoming an epidemic among children, requiring invasive, daily administration of the hormone insulin by multiple injections or a permanently connected pump infusion. Every Type 1 diabetic child must also draw blood umpteen times a day to check that they have not overdosed or underdosed and to help them hit the right balance of blood sugar so that they neither pass out (or worse) or fur up their blood vessels, causing long-time serious organ damage. This balance is particularly hard to strike in babies diagnosed (and there are plenty of diabetics whose age is represented only by a 0 at the end) and in children going through growth spurts and adolescents.
My small and otherwise perfect daughter acquired this incurable disease a few days before her fourth birthday, and so began our 24/7 battle with this unpredictable and unruly condition. Why did she get it? No-one knows. It's not to be confused with Type 2 diabetes, generally associated (rather unfairly) with poor lifestyle choice, to which some people and certain media have taken a "serve you right" stance. Type 1 diabetes is just one of life's many lotteries, the prize being the kind that no-one wants to win.
Asked to describe herself in a single word, my daughter would say "diabetic" - and no child should have to give that answer.
Ever since I was her age, my reply for myself would be "writer", and I am grateful for that. I'm grateful for the talents I have been given, but I'd trade them all in tomorrow for a cure for diabetes. That will be my wish when I blow out the candles on my cake today, but that alone is not going to make it happen. In the meantime, I vow to do something that absolutely is in my power to help the cause: I will offer the JDRF my writing services free of charge and I will also tithe all commissions I get from here on it to benefit their invaluable work.
So - no presents, please - but if you want to make a donation to JDRF, please click on my brand new link. ----------------------------
17 January 2010
Red is the Colour
Spend the day reorganising my study, adding more and more items coloured the bright red of a certain fast-food outlet which I'm not naming here for fear that I might then have to raise my rates to cover legal fees.
I know that it is an energising colour and surrounding yourself with it is meant to speed up all your activities, including the demolition of fast food in their case, so I'm hoping it will work with my writing assignments too. (Or at least give me the energy to change out of my pyjamas on the right side of lunchtime each day.)
On my most recent trip to said fast-food outlet, made at the insistence of my small daughter, I discovered it is now offering free Wi-Fi. A smart executive type sat discreetly in one corner tapping away at her laptop, apparently undisturbed by the sound of numerous small children enjoying their tea and rather bigger children seeing how much they could swear before being threatened with eviction by the manager.
This new development must surely increase the average dwell-time of the customer, against all the usual business principles of such places. I suppose the one thing that can be guaranteed is that it must be a very high-speed broadband connection.
Oh well, when my rural exchange goes on one its frequent go-slows, I suppose I can always jump in the car and head down to the burger bar. Note to self: better slip a pack of wetwipes in my laptop bag first. There's only so much I want to oil the wheels of my writing career.
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16 January 2010
A New Beginning
After 29 years of constant employment, I decide it's time to move my work-life balance a bit closer to home. Well, actually, into my home... so I hand in my notice, set up a retro website (can a website be retro?), order some pretty business cards with a cutesy message on the back saying "Don't forget to write", to remind myself as much as anyone else, and hey presto, here I am! It is the antidote to selling my soul: I have restored it to its original ownership and it feels very good indeed.
