New Shoes

 When I was little the end of August was marked with that dreaded trip to the shoe shop. Back to school meant new shoes and I hated it. I liked school but the anxiety would build up towards the end of August, knowing that shopping needed to be done. 

“Can’t we just go in the bookshop? What about Smiths? I’m sure I need new pens.” 

After. It was always, after. 

Supposedly, women like shoe shopping but they probably didn’t have my back to school footwear experience.

The shop was always really busy. There were lots of people having lots of conversations that were impossible to listen to all at once. You had to take a ticket and wait your turn.

“Sixty six,” the assistant shouted, as she manually changed the number. We looked at the salmon-pink triangle in Mum’s hand. 

“Oh, seventy nine!”  My dad could hear the collective sigh from work, ten miles away. None of us were good at waiting. Why we never thought to bring a book, still baffles me but I never remembered, even when getting my own kids shoes. 

Eventually it would be my turn. They would measure and suck their teeth. 

“Gosh, that’s narrow. Triple A.”

Then there would be an act of visibly pulling themselves together and slapping the game face back on. Huge exaggerated smile.

“So, have you looked at this year’s range? What shoe would you like?”

For a few years, I fell into this trap, choosing a shiny black pair with a butterfly on the clasp, or daring to be different with a blue pair with a strap across the top. However, it wasn’t long before I learnt and Mum would just snap back, “Why don’t you just bring us the shoe you have in her size.”

Because it usually was just one shoe. And it was the ugliest shoe in the shop. Also, it wasn’t really the right size. 

I would leave the shop with a pair of shoes I hated, that gave mean kids even more of an excuse to laugh at me, that rubbed the back of my heels to bloody blisters or cramped my toes to the point of needing painful surgery in my twenties. We would then rush to the proper (JH) Clarkes shop for sanctuary.

This was a big shop on the corner with a blue sign and was the best shop in the whole wide world.  Mum would stay downstairs and collect art supplies and I would go upstairs where the books, pencils and notepads lived. I would grab a fistful of pencils and breathe in deeply, sucking the comforting soft graphite smell into my nose. I always liked writing with a pencil. Less permanent, easier to erase, not so much commitment. This was in the days when you could choose the softness of lead you used. 2B has always been my favourite as it has the best smell and as you write you can quote Shakespeare.

“2B or not 2B, that is the question. Will I keep this sentence or rub it out?”

It doesn’t matter how old you get, or how many years you’ve been teaching, the back to school anxiety is real. Teachers will be struggling to sleep well. They might dream about going to get new shoes, standing in front of 30 children, naked and unable to speak, clocks melting while sitting exams in a Dali-esque  fashion. They may take comfort in their stationary, checking their pens, marking up a new notebook or sniffing their pencils. 

I’m sure children and parents have their own anxieties and the wonderful thing is that it’s all misplaced. It’s going to be fine. Six weeks of no school won’t mean I’ve forgotten how to teach (I hope)

I just need to go and get myself some new shoes. 

Reading the signs

 Scene: Government building Whitehall.

Junior Officer (A): Sir, we could have a problem.

Senior Officer(H): Arlington, my dear boy, of course we have a problem, don’t you read the news? 

Arlington: Well yes, I know, Sir Hugo . Brexit and Afghanistan but we need to talk about Covid.

Hugo: What? Covid? Didn’t you get the memo? Covid is over. 

A: It’s not over.

H: Well yes, I know but we are learning to live with it, which is the same thing.

A: Not quite the same thing. I was just wondering what the threshold is?

H: Threashold?

A: You know? How many deaths can we live with?

H: Just so long as it’s not too many to make the health service an unattractive prospect for the buyers we’ve lined up.

A: In that case, Sir, we might have a problem.You know that the vaccines aren’t quite as good as we hoped?

H: Really? (Starts the do the jab-jab song and dance routine)

A: (looks awkward) People are still catching it and a few are going into hospital. The staff are on their knees, loads have gone home because, well, we told them to and the new hospitals are just coffee shops in existing buildings.

H: (laughs) Genius! Don’t you think? What a wheeze! I wasn’t sure about Saj but you have to hand it to him. 

A: Yes I know but schools.

H: They’re Gav’s problem.

A: Well, yes but no. I meant the virus is spread in schools.

H: It’s not

A: It is

H: (slaps thigh) Oh no it’s not.

A: (Sighs) It’s not panto. Bugs always spread in schools. Kids are horrible germy creatures and schools are a giant Petri dish. They lick things too.

H: I know that but Covid is different.

A: (rolls eyes) The data from Scotland is suggesting that there’s a problem.

H: Scotland? That’s not our problem. That wee lassie can deal with that but what does that to do with schools?

A: Scottish kids are back in schools.

H: They shortened the school holidays? That’s interesting. We’ve been trying to do that for years. I mean why should those lazy teachers get such long holidays?

A: No, no. They broke up earlier. You know the drop in Covid figures in June?

H: They we’re good, weren’t they? It’s how we knew the vaccines were working.

A: I don’t think you are understanding me. If we don’t do something to stop the spread in schools we could end up having to lock down again at Christmas.

H: Hmm. That might solve the pigs in blankets problem.

A: You wouldn’t be able to kiss your mistress.

H: Ah yes, right. Can we jab the kids. (Goes back into the jab-jab song and dance routine)

A: JVCI aren’t too keen. It’s such a mild illness in kids that the risk of the jab feels immoral.

H: Right. Kids don’t get it. See, I told you.

A: No. Kids do get it, they just don’t die of it.

H: So,  no problem.

A: But they pass it onto their grandparents. 

H: Well if their grandparents haven’t been (starts the dance)

A: (interrupts) It’s getting round the vaccine. 

H: So, we can’t stop it. We have to live with it. It doesn’t matter much if a few old people die. 

A: Thank you for the invitation to your 70th birthday celebrations by the way. Portia and I would be delighted.

H: So, who can we blame?

A: Young people?

H: Genius. They don’t vote. Now, let’s think, how do we do that?

A: (Thinks for a while) Reading. Let’s blame Reading. It’s perfect. Great timing. And it’s got music. We managed to convince most people that singing was responsible to Covid. 

H: But it’s outside and it’s no different to a football match.

A: Leave it with me. I’ve got a mate at ITV news.

H: Good chap Arlington. I knew I could rely on you.

Abs of tin foil and other progress

 In life, it can be easy to think you are making no progress but it’s the little wins that count. I’m someone that doesn’t have life sussed. I’m not on a march to great things but I am a plodder who takes small regular steady steps. Unfortunately life has a way of making you realise you are in the most difficult game of snakes and ladders and frequently slides you back to square one but if you keep plodding you get back, maybe not to the square you started on but sometimes somewhere completely different.

I like to think I’m a positive person with a hearty dose of sarcasm and realism. I’m not a great fan of the positive memes and often add an extra bracketed line in my head.  Eg “People are about as happy as they make up their minds to be,” Abraham Lincoln (“And their circumstances allow,” Me)

This summer holiday has flown by and I was thinking that I hadn’t achieved very much. I discussed this with a friend as we sat outside a coffee shop for a two hour catch up. When I got home I turned on my computer and was about to get cross about my laziness.  “Fancy taking such a long time out when there are words to write,” I told myself. Then I looked at the word count and saw it had topped twenty thousand words and thought that it was at least progress. My inner voice was obviously more critical. “Twenty thousand shit words, you might as well not having bothered written.” But I’m trying to ignore her. She’s such a Debbie Downer. 

I’m not a brave person. I still haven’t got the courage to shop in Silo because it looks intimidating. I might have to talk to people but I did get the courage to get a candle refilled at Miss Rachael and I was brave. Not, get on a plane and fly to Afghanistan to be a war correspondent, brave but brave enough to surprise the sales assistant. 

“Can I refill this?” I asked.

“The owner isn’t here. She does them but I can leave a message if that ok?”

“Oh yes that’s fine. I’ll come back Wednesday. Can you just tell her to put whatever she wants in - surprise me.”

The girl looked terrified. She held the pen over the pad and I could see it had started to shake. 

“It’s alright. I’m not brave with many things but what’s the worst that can happen? I might have a smell I don’t like or I might find something lovely that I wouldn’t have chosen for myself.”

She wasn’t sure.

When I went to collect it the owner laughed about how much the idea of a surprise had terrified her assistant. Luckily, my surprise smell was the scent of Summer, which didn’t include any blocked drains or cow pats. 

I know it’s not much but it felt like a win to think that I was brave in my purchasing of a smelly candle.

Then, this morning, there was another small win. I have been doing Adrienne’s yoga every morning for over two years without missing a single day. On her 30 day challenges, day six is an ab day. I have abs of jelly and have never been able to do the whole thing, usually spending more time than strictly necessary in a nice calming child pose. Today, however, I did it all. All the poses. All the repetitions. I texted my daughter to brag about my abs of steel, even though they’re not exactly steel - more like tin foil. 

So, I might not have done much this holiday but I have written some words, helped to build half a shed, developed abs of tin foil and risked my nostrils. I hope your Summer has gone at least  half as well as that.

Dear Liz Truss

 Dear Liz Truss,

I don’t want to complain or make a fuss

But your Twitter announcement 

Seems unjust.

I was going to write a poem and then I remembered that I'm useless at poetry and don't have the time to sit and agonise over every word.

It's the Long Suffering Husband's birthday and Liz Truss has spoilt it.

There I was scrolling through Twitter, waiting for him to wake up, so I could give him presents he wouldn't like (This year it was a blue polo shirt that was a bit too bright) and she posted on Twitter 

"Delighted we have appointed cricket legend @BeefyBotham as our new trade envoy to Australia 🇦🇺 🇬🇧 

Ian will bat for 🇬🇧 business Down Under and help them seize the opportunities created by our historic trade deal.

He'll to a brilliant job 👇 ."

I checked.  It wasn't a parody account.

I was laughing about it when the LSH woke up.  I managed a 'Happy Birthday' through my chuckles but this is probably not how you want your partner to greet you on the morning of your special day.  I had to confess why I was laughing.

"He's ancient," said the LSH, "He was old when I was a kid and now, well, you know how old I am today?!"

I wasn't sure he was that old, in the grand scheme of elected, or even unelected, officials.  He's probably a baby in the House of Lords.  

"It's not that," I said, "It's just that wasn't he known for being..." I paused, struggling for the right word. "Well....lazy?"

I then fell into a rabbit hole of watching Beefy and Lamby adverts.  I don't know if you remember them but they were cartoon versions of Ian Botham and South African, Alan Lamb talking about meat.  I'm not quite sure why. We thought it was an Oxo advert but apparently it was a quality trade mark, so maybe this is what has made him supremely qualified.  British Beef versus New Zealand Lamb.

The adverts always contained questionable double entendres and sexual references that were supposed to go over the heads of children but obviously didn't because I clearly remembered the one with the streaker being chased off the cricket pitch by a policeman, while Beefy and Lamby continued to eat their meat, which covered the 'meat' of the streaker.  The end line was something about 'two veg'.  As a child, this was not lost on me.  The one where he rubbed an onion on his crotch, or bent over to show his quality mark label on his bum and the joke about the box are all indelibly marked on my memory.  

So, thank you, Liz Truss, for spoiling the LSH's birthday morning with your expert trolling of the internet. I'm sure much will be said about this appointment  but we all know it's just smoke and mirrors. How much more New Zealand lamb can we eat? Oh, wait. It’s Australia not New Zealand. Kangaroo steak anyone?

Sorry, not sorry

 Grouping us is an inherently competitive act and as such necessarily elevates a historical approach ingrained in patriarchal structures.

Huge applause.

What a musical!

That one line summed it up,though didn’t it?

The problems with, not only, patriarchy but the world.

I’ve been reading about INCELS and talking to my children to better understand what is happening with the transgender wars and it seems to me that grouping has been the problem.

If you label a group, it then becomes a comparative act, which places inherent goodness or badness on certain characteristics.

Maybe we should all put away the DYMO machine and just remember that we are people.

I think I might have said this before. Sorry not sorry.

A little kindness

 Yesterday, I wrote about flag gate and some vile comments made by a couple of local councillors about the flying of a rainbow flag on a local building during same sex weddings. Today, I’m feeling just a little bit sorry for one of them.

Can you imagine spending your whole life in public service, barely having anything you say challenged? People hang off your every word. You are the conservative voice of reason, justice and fairness. Then, one day, out of the blue you are persona non grata. You might not have been the only one to express these views but your name has been singled out. How hard would this be?

I know what you are thinking. You think I should make my mind up, that I can’t have it both ways. But I disagree. My mind refuses to settle. It always flip flops between issues like a caught fish on the deck of a boat. I think I can disagree with someone and not want them to die. I know! Radical, right?

In debates where people are asked to challenge long held beliefs, a lack of compassion will only cause them to dig their heels in. 

On one of the social media posts about the flag there were a lot of comments calling for the man’s resignation. I’ve never liked a knee jerk resignation. Scapegoating one person for a collective decision is wrong. Much better to re-debate the issue, knowing the views of your constituents. It’s one thing to hold a personal belief but if that goes against the wishes of the people you should represent it might be time to think again. 

Some people had said that they had contacted this councillor to demand his resignation. To be on the local council your details are published and easily accessible. Home address, telephone number, companies you work for, clubs you join, allotment plots you work. They are all there for anyone to find at the click of a button. In this permanently angry world, it makes these people very vulnerable. 

I’m imagining a man and his wife, in their eighties being bombarded with telephone calls for saying the same things he has said for the last thirty years and it makes me a bit itchy. I hate to imagine the things that might be pushed through his letter box. 

Yes, it was right to write the letter. Fantastic to allow public opinion to rally and show that times have changed and that all people are accepted in our town (I hope). Yes, it was correct to call out his offensive statements. However, what is needed now is a little kindness for those we disagree with. Not too much, mind. Remember you don’t want to vote for him next time round.

A shocked looking tank just because it made me smile

They represent us?

 I have been concerned with the idea that ‘they represent us’ in politics for a long time.

Let’s face it, they don’t, do they? Mostly. People who go into politics are a breed of their own; not like us in any way. It’s a sort of club. A group of people who think the same way, protecting their own interests. If you, as an outsider, tried to join then you would feel so uncomfortable then you would probably leave or adjust your views.

When I have been researching the cases tried at the Moot Hall in Victorian times,  the same names come up time and again. Sadd, Binnie, Ward, Fitch. The rich, with businesses, who employed the poor and didn’t pay them enough were the very people who decided on prison with 7 days of hard labour (chained to a wall) for stealing a loaf of bread. Never once did they have to confront their part in it. They joined the board of the Poor Law Guardians, not always to help but often to make sure that not too much money was spent. 

The theory now, though, is that because we elect them (and we all have a chance to do that) then they have to be careful not to upset us or they will lose their seat. If you feel passionately about something you can email your MP and the page you do it from is called ‘they work for you.’

If this is true then why do we feel as though we have to fight so hard to be heard by them? 

Local councils are also very strange places. 

Maldon Nub News is doing a blinding job providing very local news. I admire their bravery to try to fill the gap that has started to widen since large corporations took over local newspapers. They send a reporter to the council meetings, which is something that has been cut from local papers because they just don’t have enough staff. It’s a shame. I certainly think my daughter learnt how to tell a story from the council offices of Windsor council. And the stories are sometimes wild, eye popping and unbelievable but most often they aren’t and there’s nothing to write. However, Maldon Nub News were there when the friends of the Moot Hall applied for permission to fly a rainbow flag. The building also does very small weddings. They wanted to be able to fly the flag for people who wanted it at their wedding and for Pride week. 

They agreed to the purchase of the flag and allowed it for Pride week but refused it for weddings. A councillor said, “I think we are setting a precedent if we fly the flag at weddings because then why aren’t we flying a flag for other people?” Another said,  “I’m not very keen on calling same sex weddings weddings. When you are talking about same sex weddings you are not talking about weddings.” Then he disappeared up his own arsehole in a puff of smoke, having spun his words round in circles so fast there was no stopping the centrifugal force that has built up (not really - this is why I couldn’t be a journalist). It’s just wishful thinking but having sat next to to this man at a dinner I think it was probably the least offensive thing he has ever said.

Luckily, local shop owners are enraged and are calling on the council to reverse their decision in an open letter.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CStbOIrKDgP/?utm_medium=copy_link

This makes me proud. They are so right too. Who wouldn’t want a rainbow flag at their wedding? A rainbow is symbol of inclusivity. It means that it’s for everyone. And it’s pretty.

I very much doubt that anything will change soon. The council voted, those who opposed are unlikely to change their mind. The councillors who opposed it will be very certain that they speak for the majority. Everyone they know will agree with them but it’s ok because the represent us.

Apologies

 You may argue that it’s not my fault. You may say that I’m not responsible for everything that happens in the world but I won’t believe you. I used to be the kind of person that just took every day as it comes and then I got a bit anxious and thought that planning stuff and having a tidy sock drawer would help. We used to love to go to the theatre but were the ultimate ‘last minute dot com’ couple. We hardly ever made plans beyond, “Shall we go to London next Saturday and see what we can get tickets for?’ There was a short period where I couldn’t go anywhere and then we started to book things in advance. We had tickets for Six, Hello Dolly and some comedy. The world was confused. It didn’t seem right. “Here, have a global pandemic complete with unnecessary tautology.” Everything we had booked in advance was cancelled.

Life started to get back to normal and events were rescheduled. Except our comedy event because the venue went bust and closed down and Hello Dolly because it was a limited run. To be on the safe side, I went for a refund for the Six tickets.The Sun had shone consistently and so we purchased an awning to make our outside dining a more pleasurable experience. I really do apologise for that because no one has seen any sun since, except for the two days were it was too hot to leave the house and an awning wasn’t going to help.

Events were planned in our local park. Katherine Jenkins and Tony Hadley (not together) didn’t appeal so they went ahead and were enjoyed by all. We, instead, bought early bird tickets for the comedy festival. They said Frankie Boyle was to be there but we were happy to watch Brad from down the road practise his stand up or Karen, the doctor’s receptionist tell us about the patients that had sworn at her. We paid £28 for two tickets: a bargain.

As the date got closer I noticed that they were promoting the event even harder. The set list started to look like a who’s who of comedy. I had suspicions. The Long Suffering Husband had suspicions. 

“I don’t know,” I said in response, “Maybe they need the work. It’s been a very odd time. Outdoor events might be the guaranteed gigs they need.”

None of the artists were mentioning the gig on their Twitter pages. It was odd. Most had been to Edinburgh and started new tours. 

The LSH raised his suspicions again. I started to worry but said nothing, thinking that all the big names would pull out and we would be in a field watching my daughter’s boyfriend hastily doing a set about the perils of dating in case you ended up with a crazy mother-in-law. 

“It won’t matter. It will just be nice to get out,” he decided. “It was only £28.”

Then, yesterday, the council announced that the festival was cancelled. They claimed that the organisers had repeatedly failed to provide the correct paperwork. Now, I know that our council can be difficult. They can suddenly insist that you need £5 million public liability insurance for 30 children to sing on the prom or demand a first aider in an ambulance is present for a production of Shakespeare by amateurs but this is the first time I’ve ever known anything to be cancelled. Once organisers are committed and people are coming they usually jump through whatever hoops they are given.

The organisers put out a statement that said the event wasn’t cancelled. How dare the council say so. It’s just that they had refused the alcohol licence so they were going somewhere else. This was followed by a vague suggestion of Colchester Road and later a promise that the announcement would be made at 6pm. Obviously, the Colchester Road venue either had to have its own alcohol and entertainment licence or be in a different town with a council who wouldn’t back ours up. I was fairly certain that it would be cancelled. 

Emails started to come through at about 8pm from ticket agents stating that the event had been postponed to a future date and they had given the organisers until early September to set a date. The organisers put a statement on their Facebook page saying that it was an opportunity to make next year’s event huge (bigger than Frankie Boyle, Milton Jones, Shappi Khorsandi, Sara Pascoe and Glenn Wool?) and that as it had been a difficult time for the industry and the artists we should continue to support them.

“Oh,” I told the LSH, “We’ve all been scammed. How could we have been so stupid? Obviously all those big names weren’t going to do a set in our tiny backwater of a salty town. None of them have it listed on their websites.”

He reminded me that it was £28 and we hadn’t cared who we saw but still, there is a sense of shame. I feel sorry for the council, who probably should have done better checks and the local newspapers who are just reporting what is said without any investigation. If they are con artists then they will probably get away with it because of our collective shame of not wanting to be seen as naive country bumpkins, who should have known better.

Again, I would like to apologise, as I think this might be my fault and warn you all that we have got someone coming round to assess us for solar panel suitability. If the world goes dark, you’ll know it was me.

Two camels

How old were you when you realised your worth?

I was about eight. I don’t know where we were or why it happened but my dad made a joke about selling me for two camels. I’d never seen a camel, although I had learnt about dromedaries in school, which were supposedly like camels but with one hump. We didn’t learn that two humped camels were called bactrians. 

It was a shock on so many levels.

I’d grown up in a feminist household. My parents believed in equal rights for women however, it was the Seventies and there was a general distrust and suspicion of foreigners. My mother remained convinced, until the end of her life, that if you went camping in France then you would certainly be murdered in your beds and you would have no one to blame but yourself. 

I clearly remember wondering why he thought he could sell me at all. Was I like an old car that had outgrown its usefulness? I also wondered why anyone would buy me. I was, luckily, quite naive and had no idea what use a grown man would have with an eight year old girl. Never mind one that spent her whole life asking questions. I remember that I was definitely to be sold to a man and a man dressed in a long white dress. 

I didn’t even know my parents wanted one camel, let alone two and I didn’t think our garden was big enough.

The biggest shock was that everyone laughed. I couldn’t understand how this topic was a joke. I tried to barter my way out of it. Couldn’t they sell my sister instead? Or my Mum? Everyone laughed. Mum joked that she wouldn’t even fetch a half-dead flea bitten camel and my sister was too young. 

Somehow, this conversation made me feel less safe, even though I didn’t know why but I certainly knew it was only happening because I was a girl.

Today, I have an overwhelming feeling of hopelessness. Afghanistan, Plymouth incel (that’s a new word for me) and men on the internet who think the simple solution would be to give every young man a girl or think that women only have themselves to blame for taking hope away from young men.  Has anything improved for women at all, or has it actually got worse? When did they stop having to pay in camels?

Reframing Trauma

 I probably need to delete Twitter. For me, it is the most effective distraction tool. There is so much on it, so many arguments, questions and confusions. But if I did that then I would miss out on all the funny things and made up swear words.

Currently, there is an argument about women.

There’s always an argument about women. It’s hard to believe that just over half the population can cause so much controversy but we do. 

I’m not talking about the outrage that we should be all feeling about the poor women of Afghanistan, who were encouraged by us to get educated, break free of their chains and then abandoned to be killed by the Taliban for doing the very things we encouraged. If there is something everyone should be getting angry about, it’s that.

This current Twitter spat is about some words (again, it’s always words. Women and words!)

If you just read the tweets then you would have believed that a man said that women who are raped just need to reframe their trauma and everything will be ok. Cue, huge righteous outrage. 

Looking a bit  deeper it seemed as though some of the outrage was because this ‘man’ was pretending to be a woman. For some people, this is still seen as the ultimate crime. How dare people not want to live in the way that society thinks they should based upon the genitals they were born with?  No, there are no links to the Taliban here. It is absolutely not the same thing. It’s fine to tell someone they can’t wear a dress and make up and love a man if they were born with a penis but it is definitely not ok to tell someone they can’t study if they have a womb. 

Before I get lost down a rabbit hole of sarcasm I need to get back to how I tried to understand #ReframeYourTraumaGate.

I was also, initially, outraged by the suggestion. It smacked of ‘suck it up girl’ and there was a sense of women being told to be quiet about what had happened to them. This is something I do not approve of. Keep quiet if it helps you but shout it from the roof tops if that’s best. Society should never keep quiet. Rapists should never be allowed to continue because they know society will hush up their crime.

Because I’m a curious sort of person I decided to look up this ‘man’, who had said such a heinous thing.

Mridul Wadhwa is the CEO of the Edinburgh rape crisis centre. The pictures of this person show a thoughtful and tired-looking small (about the same height at 5’3” Nicola Sturgeon) Indian woman in a Sari. I was confused. This person certainly didn’t look like a man.

There has been a lot of anger from women about the bill to allow trans people to self identify. I am sure some of this comes from a fear of losing hard-won women’s rights. If the word women can be obliterated from the English language then all of the rights of half the population could go with it. Most people with a womb and vagina are all too aware of how fragile our position in society is. We only have to look at Afghanistan. We have a collective memory of witch trials, burning at the stake and women turning on each other to secure their own protection and safety. Not much seems to have changed.

Even with the knowledge that this might be related to Mridul’s gender status I was not happy about the idea that she had said that bigots coming to therapy would be challenged to reframe their trauma. I was confused how someone with those views could have risen so high through these therapy ranks. So, I found the original interview and listened.

It was on a podcast called The Guilty Feminist. This is not something I would have normally listened to because I hate the giggling ‘I’m a feminist but I really like pink’ trope. Do you want equal rights and pay for all people regardless of their biological sex? If the answer is yes then you are a feminist. No questions, no caveats, no trivialising the statement with flippancies about a colour. 

In this podcast Mridul came across as a person who was very good at her job. She cared passionately about rape and the trauma people suffered from it. She cared about giving people safe spaces to deal with their trauma. They talked about reframing trauma because that is what everyone does all the time. It’s how we cope with trauma. Hopefully, after some time of reframing people can get to a place where they can start to prosecute the perpetrator (it’s why it took so long for concentration camp personnel to be tried).

During the interview they talked about self identification of trans people and discussed how unsafe trans women are in this world. This is something I’ve been thinking about for a while, since there was an incident in a public toilet when I visited the National Gallery a few years ago. I was just coming out of the cubical when someone came in. This person was just how you might have described a cross-dresser in the Eighties; a little older than me, not dressed very attractively and with bad make up and not quite passing as a woman. The women in the toilet were quite nasty.

“You can’t come in here,” they said. “It’s not safe for us.”

I whispered (because I’m not very brave), “It’s probably not safe for him in the men’s. Why can’t we just be kind?”

Whether anyone heard me, I’ll never know but the person in the tweed skirt shuffled into a cubicle and no more was said.

So, in the interview they were talking about these issues and how some women are very concerned that men could just identify as women to gain access to women’s spaces and make them less safe. Mridul laughed (fatal) and said that men enter these spaces anyway (true) and questioned whether placing so much emphasis on this was helpful. She felt that all it was doing was adding to the trauma and making women who have been raped feel even less safe.

She probably shouldn’t  have laughed, or used the word bigot but she really didn’t say what has been reported on Twitter. 

It worries me that the anger is mis-placed. While we are busy hating a trans woman who is helping lots of rape victims we are letting the rapists off. While our attention is directed at whether people with certain sexual organs are in the right public spaces, we are failing to police all spaces adequately, so that all people feel safe. While we are worrying about words like women (meaning human with a womb) we are failing to protect over half the population.

As I said, I should probably delete Twitter, to save us all from ranting blogs but if I did I would have missed this picture of a poster, clearly made by a 50-something year old with the kind of eyesight that stops you being able to distinguish between emojis.

@TheRealPalMal tweeted this picture with the caption, ‘So it’s called “coughing” now.’

A hero for our time

 There has been some controversy over a book. 

At first, the controversy surprised me. It’s a book where an English teacher discusses some of the things she has learnt from pupils. Personally, I didn’t think it was going to set the world on fire, however any book that wins an Orwell Prize for political thinking is going to cause debate. 

What I couldn’t know and probably what the author couldn’t know, as white middle aged women, was how much light it shed on unconscious racism. The book was universally hated by minority groups and they felt that it was a racist book. Not only did it show how education fails children of colour it also made the author appear racist.

They pointed out the language she used to describe students and somehow her racism became undeniable.

She had used descriptions like, almond-shaped eyes, Ashkenazi nose and chocolate-coloured skin. 

Someone posted a very good review of the problems with the book on Goodreads and the author became defensive, spitting and hissing threats like a feral cat. She wanted the review removed and the reviewer strung up for pointing out these things. 

I can only imagine how upsetting it must have been for everyone. The author thought she was writing a nice book about her favourite students and the reviewer was pointing out the author’s bias. How can anyone back down from such lofty positions without falling and cracking their head open on the tarmac. 

However, after a few days and a few other authors pointing out her bias, Kate Clanchy has taken a careful step from the top rung of the ladder. Of course she had no intention of racism (or classism - which is also there) but she has gracefully seen that she could have been wrong. 

This morning she tweeted, “I have been given the chance to do some re-writing on Some Kids. I’m grateful: I know I got many things wrong, and welcome the chance to write better, more lovingly. To people saying I shouldn’t centre myself in the kids lives: I agree. I’ve been worrying about this for years. I hope you will be able to see them better, now I am knocked off my pedestal. And I apologise too for over reacting to the Goodreads reviews. It was wrong. I don’t really have an excuse, except that I am bereaved and it takes people in different ways. I am not a good person. I do not try to say that in my book. Not a pure person, not a patient person, no one’s saviour.”

For this, I think she is a hero. How many of us could truly do that? How many of us would roll our eyes and say, “Oh god, you can’t say anything these days? How many of us are completely open to learning from criticism?  In a world where people are encouraged to pick sides and double down on their beliefs, I think it takes real strength not to do that. I just hope that people allow her continued growth. 

Long see, no time

 For someone that hates hugs and BBQs I had a very good time. 

The day started out with everyone saying, “long time, no see,” and ended with time having done the weird twisty-turney thing it does, so that no one could believe thirty years had passed. It was a pearl wedding anniversary party for my lovely college friends and they decided to invite the whole crowd to get back together.  The crowd that were thrown together in a cardboard box with no privacy at 18 to grow up (and study?). The crowd that punished our livers together. The crowd that shared a car. The crowd that went to each other’s weddings over a period of 15 years. The crowd that still shares a collective formative memory. 

We discussed memories and talked about all things from Dominic Cummings (arse) to the Azures (not as blue as you’d imagine but the best place to see shooting stars). 

There was some chat about how we could have all been so remiss. A disconnect between how important we were to each other in our heads (massively) compared to how often we see each other (rarely).  Then we promised not to leave it so long next time and were the sad hangers-on at the end of the evening; slightly scared to leave just in case it was another 15 years before we were together again.

Hugs flowed faster than the wine, which is quite something when the hosts have an outdoor bar with a 8 year old barman who took his job seriously enough to sweep up between customers and thought all measures should fill the glass. It started with a cautious checking. Covid? Do you? Can we? Never liked hugs but for you!

And with each hug you realised that these people have a small part of your heart. 

After the cake cutting there were speeches (it was like a proper wedding but with actual cheese) and my friend was his usual profound self. He said that over the years he’s learnt a lot about love and he’s noticed that it’s boundless. There’s always room for more. 

These people may have a little bit of my heart but it wouldn’t have its capacity for love without them. 

I had such a nice time I took no photos to illustrate this blog but a friendship cardigan sums up how the evening felt. Warm and cosy. I love a cardi

Discombobulating and heartening in equal measure

 You might have seen Twitter’s latest wheeze. 

A man called James Melville who lives in Fife and has opinions about Brexit that you either have to be angry about or be angry that other people might not agree with him, has written a humblebrag tweet. A humblebrag tweet is one where you pretend you don’t know how fabulous you think you are but write something that you think makes you look amazing. The trouble with these tweets is that they make people who don’t think they are amazing a bit jealous. They are also funny and faintly ridiculous and often leave the reader asking the question, “Did that really happen?” There is a special acronym for this on Twitter: #DHOTYA (which is an award given by a self appointed Twitter arbiter of the truth account. The problem is that truth is stranger than fiction, so it’s often impossible to tell whether the humblebrag actually happened.

This tweet read: 

Just popped into a local butcher’s shop in Fife. And the butcher said, “are you James Melville from Twitter? I love your feed. What you are doing is amazing. Keep going.”

This sort of thing is happening a lot now. It’s both discombobulating and heartening in equal measure.

As you can see, it ticks all the boxes.  Most of Twitter thought it was hilarious and responded with their own parody tweets. I can highly recommend reading through thousands of them if you need to avoid writing some words.  

The national and local press picked up on this phenomenon and rang all the butcher's shops in Fife.  They all denied it and a vegetarian who had chosen the twitter handle ButcherOfFife was in his element, refuting everything.

I stumbled upon it when I noticed the number of people using the word discombobulating on Twitter.  It is one of my favourite words.  Mainly because it describes my usual state of being but also because, like most young children, it was the first big word that I found that I wanted to use in my writing all the time. Everyone I wrote about, when I was 9, was discombobulated.  It made teachers write 'good word' in red pen on my stories and that was all the validation I needed in life to believe I was a good person.  It's also a funny, made up word and I love those.   It derives from America in the early 1800s and was meant to be an imitation of some high-faulting Latin speaker. So, it has the benefit of not only showing how language evolves but also giving a nod to a language that doesn't.

I've often wondered why you can't be combobulated.  There are lots of people who seem to have everything completely together and it would be nice to describe them that way.  

Mr James Melville walked into the butchers shop to order the steak that he would later eat bloody with a nice bottle of Beaujolais from his cellar.  He was certain that the butcher would recognise him from his witty banter about the greatness of Brexit on Twitter because James has the kind of life that most of us can only dream of.  His shirts perfectly pressed and kept by colour in his wardrobe, and everything in his life is perfectly combobulated.

There are lots of words like that.  Cooth is another one. If you are not uncooth then surely you can be cooth. There are more words with negative prefixes that can't be used alone. (indelible, disgruntled, disgusted, disheveled, debunk, nonplussed, ungainly, unruly, unkempt, unwiedly - I'm sure there are more.)

I managed to waste nearly half a day on all of this until I found something equally heartening.  It was an example of how language has evolved to make something that those of us who find travel upsets their sense of togetherness even more than normal. 

Milwaukee airport has this sign.  I wonder if it's worth taking a trip as I could do with being recombobulated. 

The finer tools of procrastination

 I’m helping the Long Suffering Husband build his workshop (finally) and so we are both in the WIP (work in progress) phase of our long term procrastination project. It’s something we have been thinking about for ages and now we have to get up every day and do it. 

He is much better than me at just getting on with it every day and enlisting help to keep him on track. I prefer the excuse of an easy distraction and a forced panic to write my 500 words before he gets up.

This routine is not without its own distractions. I get up and do my yoga, play candy crush, complete my day’s DuoLingo lesson and make myself breakfast before procrastinating a little more with a blog.

For a person who has never been interested in labels or designer stuff or having the latest whatever I have discovered that I am soothed by some of the finer things in life. When the LSH bought me cake forks for Christmas one year I was thrilled and I keep them in a box for cake night (Thursday). Who knew that cutlery could make a person so happy? My breakfast consists of toast and marmalade, which is easy to eat when typing and only makes the keys sticky if you drop it.

It can’t just be any old marmalade though. It has to be Tiptree and so a visit to their shop is also an essential procrastination exercise.

“Ooh, look at these spoons,” I said to my daughter who was less than interested and busy checking out the flavoured gins. They are small, perfect, silver and heart shaped and stop you dipping butter into the pot. It is the thing my life was obviously missing.

Having a proper spoon for my latest pot of marmalade (lime - no it doesn’t taste like washing up liquid) has made my morning procrastination so much more civilised. I can’t help thinking that the teenager in me that thought I would always drink Earl Grey tea from a bone China cup and saucer, poured from a warmed pot when she grew up would be proud. 

Anyway, enough procrastination. I have 500 words to write before I hold planks of wood in place.

Linguists *WARNING - contains language*

 I see that linguists are back in the news.

The government has decided that all children* should study Latin and a random Lord has taken exception to the lovely Alex Scott’s Olympic presenting because she doesn’t pronounce the ends of her words^

Stephen Fry, beautifully and eloquently destroyed the Digby and Scott, herself was perfect in her riposte. Not only did she reply by saying that it was her South London accent and she was proud of it, she then opened the evening’s coverage by saying, “So far we’ve been runnin, ridin, shootin, scorin, swimmin and puttin,” with a perfect twinkle in her eye. The former minister has been interviewed this morning to say that it’s not an accent, it’s just wrong. In his opinion because the words end in g they should be pronounced. If I was the presenter I would have asked him how he says Ghislane, Beauchamps or Magdalen College.

The point about language, that any linguist will tell you is that it is a living, evolving creature and if enough people say swimmin, rather than swim-ing then that’s what it becomes. When the French invaded Leicestershire they didn’t insist that the people prnonouced their description of the place with a beautiful view correctly. The everyday Leicestershire folk had a go at copying and came up with Beaver (or Beeveh) and those of us that want to say Belle-vwah are confused. 

Wouldn't it be better if we all used a language that can't change? Why don't we all speak Latin? 

I don't have anything against Latin.  I would have loved to have been able to study it at school.  I went to a normal comprehensive school and there were only 8 people in the German O level class.  I'm guessing that would mean in most schools today that class wouldn't run because of the way schools are funded.  

It is understandable that the Education Secretary is looking to private schools to see how things could be improved for the hoi polloi. It's what they've always done. 

 Let's put them in little suits and boater hats. Makes no difference.

Let's give them lots of tests. Makes no difference.

Let's make them learn Latin.  It won't make any difference.

I have some suggestions of things that might make a difference.

Let's fund the state schools to the level of private schools. 

Let's make sure all children have their basic needs met and they have adults in their lives that love them.

Let's offer a broad range of subjects and encourage children to find their own strengths, rather than cutting the subject because no one else wants to learn the same thing. 

Latin is a great language.  It's good to have a dead language for naming things that you don't want people with different languages and accents to confuse.  Medicine, plants, scientific things, or things that are considered too rude to name in English.

This reminds me of being a teenager in the 6th form common room.  My friend (the only person in the school to take A level German) announced that she was going to be a linguist.  

"I've got in!  I've got a place.  I'm going York to study German and Linguistics.  I'm going to be a linguist."

One of the boys, that we suspected of stuffing a sock down his trousers, sniggered.  

"Ha, ha.  Are you going to be a cunning linguist?"

It was humiliating.  He brought her down from her well deserved excitement.

This was just after we had all learnt about the word from Not the Nine O' Clock News.  In their final episode they had a song called Kinda Lingers.  It was a terrible final song but all kudos to the team for getting such a taboo message around the censors.  I'm not sure how, as the image of Pamela Stephenson singing and wiggling her tongue around was fairly obvious. We all heard the latin word, looked it up and made it something we laughed about because it was far too rude to have watched with your parents. 

"It's Latin!"  My friend had recovered her composure.  Latin because the idea of pleasuring a woman is so disgusting to you men, best to use a dead language to avoid upsetting you. Lingus is tongue and Cunni is......well, I think that's obvious."

Oh, she was sassy.  I wonder what happened to her? 

I love language.  I love the way it evolves.  It's a shame that the Education Secretary has to be such a stultus about how to improve education.

Es stultior asino

*Except the 60% of private school pupils that opt out.  And not forgetting that many state schools already offer the subject.

^ most people suspect that it might be her skin colour or femaleness that he objects to but let’s go with the lack of final consonants.