I never really understand meetings. I don't understand the point of sitting round talking about the things you have done, probably to the people that did them with you or knew that you did them and weren't interested when you did them. I don't understand the people who enjoy spending their time in this way.
One Christmas my Dad and my neighbour had a 'who can be Britain's biggest bore' competition. It is one of the defining moments of my childhood and I've always wondered who would win it, if there really were such a competition.
Sometimes at these meetings you are treated to presentations by Gold Medalists.
At this meeting we had three amazing talks about the Maldon Burgh (or lump, as I thought of it), the Bloomers, who could be an offshoot of the Flower Arranging and Gun Violence Club and the Tie Stroking Appreciation Society.
The Man of the year was Father Christmas, who did actually get a framed certificate, rather than the empty brown envelope that I was presented with two years ago because they 'didn't know what to get a woman.' Father Christmas was quite lovely, as you'd expect and blamed his wife, who he said, "arranged everything."
There is a long historical problem with women at meetings. Mary Beard spoke wonderfully about it. http://www.lrb.co.uk/v36/n06/mary-beard/the-public-voice-of-women It is therefore difficult for women to ever feel fully part of democratic processes. They could chose, like the Mayor's wife, to take the supportive role, flitting about with trays of sandwiches and cups of tea, beaming, while telling everyone that they are having, "a simply splendid time," but looking like unpaid caterers or like Mrs Christmas doing all the organising while her husband gets the recognition. Women who try to take part can be ignored and people get irritated with their speaking much sooner. I noticed that there was a lot more chair shuffling for the women in Bloomers than there was for the man with the lump that was derived from -(according to my Time Lord friend)- questionable sources
Sexism and Misogyny still run our local town council.
There are two women on the committee that (I was told privately by a councillor) no one likes but the rest are back patting, weird handshaking men, who love themselves and each other. In a conversation with one of these men he actually turned his back on me and directed his answer to one of the men I was with. These councillors were parading around the hall, dressed in suits and their special ties with a fur and lace trimmed dress over the top. They were particularly proud of their ties, stoking them frequently, and the Mayor assured us that he was wearing his underneath his ruffle, which I managed not to inappropriately touch this year.
The third talk was about the tie. It is blue to represent the sea, with white to represent the sky and has gold stripes on it to represent just how important these men think they are. The men will wear them so that people around the town know they are very important council members and the men will stroke their tie more than is appropriate in public.
"Isn't it wonderful?" they said,"Everyone will look smart and the whole council will be easily identified."
I looked at the two women and wondered where their ties were. The local paper informs me that the women are to get a broach. A BROACH! What era are we living in?
If I were made of stronger stuff I would join the council and insist on a tie, which I would wear tied around my head, Rambo style and I would talk. A lot. I would talk all the time, clearly, concisely, sussinctly. I wouldn't make tea for anyone and I'd get things done. The problem is I'm not made of that stuff. During the meeting I said nothing about the sexist ties, I didn't call out the man who turned his back on me and the last thing I want to do with my evenings is go to mutual back slapping parties.
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